I instantly brought one.  He handed it to Sir Charles.  “Oblige me,” he said, “by writing your name there.”  And he indicated a place in the centre of the card, which had an embossed edge, with a small middle square of a different colour.

Sir Charles has a natural disinclination to signing his name without knowing why.  “What do you want with it?” he asked. (A millionaire’s signature has so many uses.)

“I want you to put the card in an envelope,” the Seer replied, “and then to burn it.  After that, I shall show you your own name written in letters of blood on my arm, in your own handwriting.”

Sir Charles took the pen.  If the signature was to be burned as soon as finished, he didn’t mind giving it.  He wrote his name in his usual firm clear style—­the writing of a man who knows his worth and is not afraid of drawing a cheque for five thousand.

“Look at it long,” the Seer said, from the other side of the room.  He had not watched him write it.

Sir Charles stared at it fixedly.  The Seer was really beginning to produce an impression.

“Now, put it in that envelope,” the Seer exclaimed.

Sir Charles, like a lamb, placed it as directed.

The Seer strode forward.  “Give me the envelope,” he said.  He took it in his hand, walked over towards the fireplace, and solemnly burnt it.  “See—­it crumbles into ashes,” he cried.  Then he came back to the middle of the room, close to the green light, rolled up his sleeve, and held his arm before Sir Charles.  There, in blood-red letters, my brother-in-law read the name, “Charles Vandrift,” in his own handwriting!

“I see how that’s done,” Sir Charles murmured, drawing back.  “It’s a clever delusion; but still, I see through it.  It’s like that ghost-book.  Your ink was deep green; your light was green; you made me look at it long; and then I saw the same thing written on the skin of your arm in complementary colours.”

“You think so?” the Seer replied, with a curious curl of the lip.

“I’m sure of it,” Sir Charles answered.

Quick as lightning the Seer again rolled up his sleeve.  “That’s your name,” he cried, in a very clear voice, “but not your whole name.  What do you say, then, to my right?  Is this one also a complementary colour?” He held his other arm out.  There, in sea-green letters, I read the name, “Charles O’Sullivan Vandrift.”  It is my brother-in-law’s full baptismal designation; but he has dropped the O’Sullivan for many years past, and, to say the truth, doesn’t like it.  He is a little bit ashamed of his mother’s family.

Charles glanced at it hurriedly.  “Quite right,” he said, “quite right!” But his voice was hollow.  I could guess he didn’t care to continue the séance.  He could see through the man, of course; but it was clear the fellow knew too much about us to be entirely pleasant.

“Turn up the lights,” I said, and a servant turned them.  “Shall I say coffee and benedictine?” I whispered to Vandrift.