“Yes; most thoroughly.”

“Very well.  All other explanations, if you desire them, shall be given you in due time.  In the power I possess over you and some others, there is neither mesmerism nor magnetism—­nothing but a purely scientific fact which can be clearly and reasonably proved and demonstrated.  But till you are thoroughly restored to health, we will defer all discussion.  And now, mademoiselle, permit me to escort you to the door.  I shall expect you to-morrow.”

Together we left the beautiful room in which this interview had taken place, and crossed the hall.  As we approached the entrance, Heliobas turned towards me and said with a smile: 

“Did not the manoeuvres of my street-door astonish you?”

“A little,” I confessed.

“It is very simple.  The button you touch outside is electric; it opens the door and at the same time rings the bell in my study, thus informing me of a visitor.  When the visitor steps across the threshold he treads, whether he will or no, on another apparatus, which closes the door behind him and rings another bell in my page’s room, who immediately comes to me for orders.  You see how easy?  And from within it is managed in almost the same manner.”

And he touched a handle similar to the one outside, and the door opened instantly.  Heliobas held out his hand—­that hand which a few minutes previously had exercised such strange authority over me.

“Good-bye, mademoiselle.  You are not afraid of me now?”

I laughed.  “I do not think I was ever really afraid of you,” I said.  “If I was, I am not so any longer.  You have promised me health, and that promise is sufficient to give me entire courage.”

“That is well,” said Heliobas.  “Courage and hope in themselves are the precursors of physical and mental energy.  Remember to-morrow at five, and do not keep late hours to-night.  I should advise you to be in bed by ten at the latest.”

I agreed to this, and we shook hands and parted.  I walked blithely along, back to the Avenue du Midi, where, on my arrival indoors, I found a letter from Mrs. Everard.  She wrote “in haste” to give me the names of some friends of hers whom she had discovered, through the “American Register,” to be staying at the Grand Hotel.  She begged me to call upon them, and enclosed two letters of introduction for the purpose.  She concluded her epistle by saying: 

“Raffaello Cellini has been invisible ever since your departure, but our inimitable waiter, Alphonse, says he is very busy finishing a picture for the Salon—­something that we have never seen.  I shall intrude myself into his studio soon on some pretence or other, and will then let you know all about it.  In the meantime, believe me,

“Your ever devoted friend, Amy.”