lling here. What is there in your
face? What is there in your life you are not telling me of? Is it a
woman?"

"There are many women in my life," he answered. "You know that."

"I do," she answered. "Poor fools! Play with them all you will, but
remember--the one whom you choose must have gold!"

He nodded.

"I am not likely to forget," he said.

She left the room with a farewell caress. There was something almost
tigress-like about the way in which her arms wound themselves around
him--some gleam of the terrified victim in his eyes, as he felt her
touch. Then she left the room. Saton sank back into an easy-chair, and
gazed steadfastly into the fire through half-closed eyes.

CHAPTER XII

A CALL ON LADY MARRABEL

Saton, after the reading of his paper before the members of the London
Psychical Society, established a certain vogue of which he was not
slow to avail himself. His picture appeared in several illustrated
papers. His name was freely mentioned as being one of the most
brilliant apostles of the younger school of occultism. He subscribed
to a newspaper cutting agency, and he read every word that was written
about himself. Whenever he got a chance, he made friends with the
press. Everything that he could possibly do to obtain a certain
position in a certain place, he sedulously attempted. He was always
carefully dressed, and he was quite conscious of the fact that his
clothes were of correct pattern and cut. His ties were properly
subdued in tone. His gloves and hat were immaculate.

Yet all the time he lacked confidence in himself. The word charlatan
clung to him like a pestilential memory. His hair was cropped close
to his head. He had shaved off his moustache. He imitated almost
slavishly the attire and bearing of those young men of fashion with
whom he was brought into contact. Yet he was somehow conscious of a
difference. The women seemed never to notice it--the men always.
Was it jealousy, he wondered, which made them, even the most
unintelligent, treat him with a certain tolerance, as though he were
a person not quite of themselves, whom they scarcely understood, but
were willing to make the best of?

With women it was different always. His encounter with Pauline
Marrabel at the conversazione had given him the keenest pleasure. He
had at once fixed a day sometime ahead upon which he would take to her
the books he had spoken of. The day had arrived at last, but he had
first another engage