attracted me."

"But I have no iris about me. I have none now," she simply replied. He
faced her.

"No iris? What--?"

"I _thought_ iris," she added triumphantly, as she guided him into one
of the side streets off Madison Avenue. He was astounded. She must be a
hypnotist, he said to himself. No suggestion of iris clung to her now.
And he remembered that the odour disappeared after they left the church.
He held his peace until they arrived before a brown-stone house of the
ordinary kind with an English basement. She took a key from her pocket
and, going down several steps, beckoned to him. Baldur followed. His
interest in this modern Cassandra and her bizarre words was too great
for him to hesitate or to realize that he would get himself into some
dangerous scrape. And was this truly the Mrs. Whistler whose tricks of
telepathy and other extraordinary antics had puzzled and angered the
wise men of two continents? He did not have much time for reflection. A
grilled door opened, and presently he was in a room furnished very much
like a physician's office. Electric bulbs, an open grate, and two
bookcases gave the apartment a familiar, cheerful appearance. Baldur sat
down on a low chair, and Mrs. Whistler removed her commonplace headgear.
In the bright light she was younger than he had imagined, and her head a
beautifully modelled one--broad brows, very full at the back, and the
mask that of an emotional actress. Her smoke-coloured eyes were most
remarkable and her helmet of hair blue black.

"And now that you are my guest at last, Mr. Baldur, let me apologize for
the exercise of my art upon your responsive nerves;" she made this