Alwyn deigned no reply—­the ironical bluntness of the question annoyed him.

“You have formed a very unjust opinion of me, Mr. Alwyn,” continued Heliobas, “an opinion which neither honors your courtesy nor your intellect—­pardon me for saying so.  You ask me to ‘mock’ and ‘delude’ you as if it were my custom and delight to make dupes of my suffering fellow-creatures!  You come to me as though I were a mesmerist or magnetizer such as you can hire for a few guineas in any civilized city in Europe—­nay, I doubt not but that you consider me that kind of so-called ‘spiritualist’ whose enlightened intelligence and heaven-aspiring aims are demonstrated in the turning of tables and general furniture-gyration.  I am, however, hopelessly deficient in such knowledge.  I should make a most unsatisfactory conjurer!  Moreover, whatever you may have heard concerning me in Paris, you must remember I am in Paris no longer.  I am a monk, as you see, devoted to my vocation; I am completely severed from the world, and my duties and occupations in the present are widely different to those which employed me in the past.  Then I gave what aid I could to those who honestly needed it and sought it without prejudice or personal distrust; but now my work among men is finished, and I practice my science, such as it is, on others no more, except in very rare and special cases.”

Alwyn heard, and the lines of his face hardened into an expression of frigid hauteur.

“I suppose I am to understand by this that you will do nothing for me?” he said stiffly.

“Why, what can I do?” returned Heliobas, smiling a little.  “All you want—­so you say—­is a brief forgetfulness of your troubles.  Well, that is easily obtainable through certain narcotics, if you choose to employ them and take the risk of their injurious action on your bodily system.  You can drug your brain and thereby fill it with drowsy suggestions of ideas—­of course they would only he suggestions, and very vague and indefinite ones too, still they might be pleasant enough to absorb and repress bitter memories for a time.  As for me, my poor skill would scarcely avail you, as I could promise you neither self-oblivion nor visionary joy.  I have a certain internal force, it is true—­a spiritual force which when strongly exercised overpowers and subdues the material—­and by exerting this I could, if I thought it well to do so, release your soul—­that is, the Inner Intelligent Spirit which is the actual You—­from its house of clay, and allow it an interval of freedom.  But what its experience might be in that unfettered condition, whether glad or sorrowful, I am totally unable to predict.”

Alwyn looked at him steadfastly.

“You believe in the Soul?” he asked.

“Most certainly!”

“As a separate Personality that continues to live on when the body perishes?”

“Assuredly.”

“And you profess to be able to liberate it for a time from its mortal habitation—­”