“Those drops you gave me are magical, Santoris!”—­he said—­“I wish you’d let me have a supply!”

Santoris stood looking down upon him kindly.

“It would not be safe for you,”—­he answered—­“The remedy is a sovereign one if used very rarely, and with extreme caution, but in uninstructed hands it is dangerous.  Its work is to stimulate certain cells—­at the same time (like all things taken in excess) it can destroy them.  Moreover, it would not agree with Dr. Brayle’s medicines.”

“You really and truly think Brayle an impostor?”

“Impostor is a strong word!  No!—­I will give him credit for believing in himself up to a certain point.  But of course he knows that the so-called ‘electric’ treatment he is giving to your daughter is perfectly worthless, just as he knows that she is not really ill.”

“Not really ill!”

Mr. Harland almost bounced up in his chair, while I felt a secret thrill of satisfaction.  “Why, she’s been a miserable, querulous invalid for years—­”

“Since she broke off her engagement to a worthless rascal”—­said Santoris, calmly.  “You see, I know all about it.”

I listened, astonished.  How did he know, how could he know, the intimate details of a life like Catherine’s which could scarcely be of interest to a man such as he was?

“Your daughter’s trouble is written on her face”—­he went on—­ “Warped affections, slain desires, disappointed hopes,—­and neither the strength nor the will to turn these troubles to blessings.  Therefore they resemble an army of malarious germs which are eating away her moral fibre.  Brayle knows that what she needs is the belief that someone has an interest not only in her, but in the particularly morbid view she has taught herself to take of life.  He is actively showing that interest.  The rest is easy,—­and will be easier when—­well!—­when you are gone.”

Mr. Harland was silent, drawing slow whiffs from his cigar.  After a long pause, he said—­

“You are prejudiced, and I think you are mistaken.  You only saw the man for a few minutes last night, and you know nothing of him—­”

“Nothing,—­except what he is bound to reveal,”—­answered Santoris.

“What do you mean?”

“You will not believe me if I tell you,”—­and Santoris, drawing a chair close to mine, sat down,—­“Yet I am sure this lady, who is your friend and guest, will corroborate what I say,—­though, of course, you will not believe her!  In fact, my dear Harland, as you have schooled yourself to believe nothing, why urge me to point out a truth you decline to accept?  Had you lived in the time of Galileo you would have been one of his torturers!”

“I ask you to explain,” said Mr. Harland, with a touch of pique—­ “Whether I accept your explanation or not is my own affair.”