audience already expectant of mysteries, prepared for marvels.  Her work was already half done.  But now of all that help she was deprived.  She was no longer a person aloof, a prophetess, a seer of visions; she was simply a smartly-dressed girl of today, trussed up in a ridiculous and painful position—­that was all.  The dignity was gone.  And the more she realised that, the more she was hindered from influencing her audience, the less able she was to concentrate her mind upon them, to will them to favour her.  Mme. Dauvray’s suspicions, she was sure, were still awake.  She could not quell them.  There was a stronger personality than hers at work in the room.  The cord bit through her thin stockings into her ankles.  She dared not complain.  It was savagely tied.  She made no remonstrance.  And then Helene Vauquier raised her up from the chair and lifted her easily off the ground.  For a moment she held her so.  If Celia had felt ridiculous before, she knew that she was ten times more so now.  She could see herself as she hung in Helene Vauquier’s arms, with her delicate frock ludicrously swathed and swaddled about her legs.  But, again, of those who watched her no one smiled.

“We have had no such tests as these,” Mme. Dauvray explained, half in fear, half in hope.

Adele Rossignol looked the girl over and nodded her head with satisfaction.  She had no animosity towards Celia; she had really no feeling of any kind for her or against her.  Fortunately she was unaware at this time that Harry Wethermill had been paying his court to her or it would have gone worse with Mlle. Celie before the night was out.  Mlle. Celie was just a pawn in a very dangerous game which she happened to be playing, and she had succeeded in engineering her pawn into the desired condition of helplessness.  She was content.

“Mademoiselle,” she said, with a smile, “you wish me to believe.  You have now your opportunity.”

Opportunity!  And she was helpless.  She knew very well that she could never free herself from these cords without Helene’s help.  She would fail, miserably and shamefully fail.

“It was madame who wished you to believe,” she stammered.

And Adele Rossignol laughed suddenly—­a short, loud, harsh laugh, which jarred upon the quiet of the room.  It turned Celia’s vague alarm into a definite terror.  Some magnetic current brought her grave messages of fear.  The air about her seemed to tingle with strange menaces.  She looked at Adele.  Did they emanate from her?  And her terror answered her “Yes.”  She made her mistake in that.  The strong personality in the room was not Adele Rossignol, but Helene Vauquier, who held her like a child in her arms.  But she was definitely aware of danger, and too late aware of it.  She struggled vainly.  From her head to her feet she was powerless.  She cried out hysterically to her patron: 

“Madame!  Madame!  There is something—­a presence here—­some one who means harm!  I know it!”