"It is he."

With a suppressed cry of triumph Unorna lifted her head and stood
upright. Then she started violently and grew very pale.

"You have probably killed him and spoiled everything," said a rich bass
voice at her elbow--the very sub-bass of all possible voices.

Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had not
heard him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in the
breaking of their joint convention and in the revelation of her secret.
If Unorna could be said to know the meaning of the word fear in any
degree whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the man who
during the last few years had been her helper and associate in the great
experiment. Of all men she had known in her life, he was the only one
whom she felt to be beyond the influence of her powers, the only one
whom she felt that she could not charm by word, or touch, or look. The
odd shape of his head, she fancied, figured the outline and proportions
of his intelligence, which was, as it were, pyramidal, standing upon a
base so broad and firm as to place the centre of its ponderous gravity
far beyond her reach to disturb. There was certainly no other being of
material reality that could have made Unorna start and turn pale by its
inopportune appearance.

"The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once," said the
little man. "You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so can
I--and shall."

"Forget," said Unorna, once more laying her hand upon the waxen brow.
"Let it be as though I had not spoken with you. Drink, in your sleep,