I instantly brought one. He handed it to Sir Charles. "Oblige me,"
he said, "by writing your name there." And he indicated a place in
the centre of the card, which had an embossed edge, with a small
middle square of a different colour.

Sir Charles has a natural disinclination to signing his name without
knowing why. "What do you want with it?" he asked. (A millionaire's
signature has so many uses.)

"I want you to put the card in an envelope," the Seer replied, "and
then to burn it. After that, I shall show you your own name written
in letters of blood on my arm, in your own handwriting."

Sir Charles took the pen. If the signature was to be burned as soon
as finished, he didn't mind giving it. He wrote his name in his
usual firm clear style--the writing of a man who knows his worth
and is not afraid of drawing a cheque for five thousand.

"Look at it long," the Seer said, from the other side of the room.
He had not watched him write it.

Sir Charles stared at it fixedly. The Seer was really beginning to
produce an impression.

"Now, put it in that envelope," the Seer exclaimed.

Sir Charles, like a lamb, placed it as directed.

The Seer strode forward. "Give me the envelope," he said. He took it
in his hand, walked over towards the fireplace, and solemnly burnt