"Aye, conscience!" repeated Heliobas firmly. "There is such a
thing. Do you profess to be wholly without it?"

Alwyn deigned no reply--the ironical bluntness of the question
annoyed him.

"You have formed a very unjust opinion of me, Mr. Alwyn,"
continued Heliobas, "an opinion which neither honors your courtesy
nor your intellect--pardon me for saying so. You ask me to 'mock'
and 'delude' you as if it were my custom and delight to make dupes
of my suffering fellow-creatures! You come to me as though I were
a mesmerist or magnetizer such as you can hire for a few guineas
in any civilized city in Europe--nay, I doubt not but that you
consider me that kind of so-called 'spiritualist' whose
enlightened intelligence and heaven-aspiring aims are demonstrated
in the turning of tables and general furniture-gyration. I am,
however, hopelessly deficient in such knowledge. I should make a
most unsatisfactory conjurer! Moreover, whatever you may have
heard concerning me in Paris, you must remember I am in Paris no
longer. I am a monk, as you see, devoted to my vocation; I am
completely severed from the world, and my duties and occupations
in the present are widely different to those which employed me in
the past. Then I gave what aid I could to those who honestly
needed it and sought it without prejudice or personal distrust;
but now my work among men is finished, and I practice my science,
such as it is, on others no more, except in very rare and special
cases."

Alwyn heard, and the lines of his face hardened into an expression