omehow conveyed an impression of transparency, almost of light, so
delicately were the features refined away. On the fine forehead was that
indefinable touch of peace that comes from identifying the mind with
what is permanent in the soul, and letting the impermanent slip by
without power to wound or distress; while, from his manner,--so gentle,
quiet, sympathetic,--few could have guessed the strength of purpose that
burned within like a great flame.

"I think I should describe it as a psychical case," continued the
Swedish lady, obviously trying to explain herself very intelligently,
"and just the kind you like. I mean a case where the cause is hidden
deep down in some spiritual distress, and--"

"But the symptoms first, please, my dear Svenska," he interrupted, with
a strangely compelling seriousness of manner, "and your deductions
afterwards."

She turned round sharply on the edge of her chair and looked him in the
face, lowering her voice to prevent her emotion betraying itself too
obviously.

"In my opinion there's only one symptom," she half whispered, as though
telling something disagreeable--"fear--simply fear."

"Physical fear?"

"I think not; though how can I say? I think it's a horror in the
psychical region. It's no ordinary delusion; the man is quite sane; but
he lives in mortal terror of something--"

"I don't know what you mean by his 'psychical region,'" said the doctor,
with a smile; "though I suppose you wish me to understand that his
spiritual, and not his mental, processes are affected. Anyhow, try and
tell me briefly and pointedly what you know about the man, his symptoms,
his need for help, _my_ peculiar help, that is, and all that seems vital
in the case. I promise to listen devotedly."

"I am trying," she continued earnestly, "but must do so in my own words
and trust to your intelligence to disentangle as I go along. He is a
young author, and lives in a tiny house off Putney Heath somewhere. He
writes humorous stories--quite a genre of his own: Pender--you must have
heard the name--Felix Pender? Oh, the man had a great gift, and married
on the strength of it; his future seemed assured. I say 'had,' for quite
suddenly his talent utterly failed him. Worse, it became transformed
into its opposite. He can no longer write a line in the old way that was
bringing him success--"

Dr. Silence opened his eyes for a second and looked at her.

"He still writes, then? The force has not gone?" he a