act. Again he would stand, with fearless eyes, at the portal of the vaulted past.
At eight o'clock that night he once more rang the third bell. He had feared that the Countess Casanova might have returned to European triumphs, but the solicitations of the scientific world were still prevailing.
He stood in the little parlour and again the Countess appeared from behind the heavy curtains, a plump white hand at the throat of her scarlet gown.
He was obliged to recall himself to her, for the Countess began to tell him that his aura was clouded with evil curnts.
"You told me what I was—last time, don't you remember? You know, you said, it was written on the slate what I was" He could not bring himself to utter the name. But the Countess remembered.
"Sure; perfectly! And what was you wishing to know now?"
She surveyed him with heavy-lidded eyes, a figure of mystery, of secret knowledge.
"I want you to tell me who I was before that—before—him."
The Countess blinked her eyes rapidly, as if it hurried calculation.
"And I don't mean just before. I want to go 'way back, thousands of years—what I was first." He looked helplessly around the room, then glanced appealingly at the Countess. The flushed and friendly face was troubled.
