“You do not understand,” he declared. “Merriwell has a strange power over me. I don’t know what it is, but he can make me do anything he likes.”
“Hypnotism,” declared Packard.
“No!” cried the French youth. “I do not believe in hypnotism!”
“That doesn’t make any difference. Hypnotism is an actuality, whether you believe in it or not. I have known for some time that Merriwell possessed some sort of hypnotic power, else how does he always succeed in turning his enemies into friends?”
“He does not always succeed. He has not succeeded in your case—or in mine.”
“He’s come near it as far as you are concerned.”
“No! It’s not true!” panted Bertrand hotly. “Here, here,” beating on his chest, “I feel the same hatred for him slumbering! But he can read my secrets! I have to avoid him! I am afraid of a man who can read my mind, for sometimes I think of things I would not have any one but myself know.”
“Haven’t a doubt of that. We all do. I wouldn’t like to have all my thoughts published in the Lit.”
“That’s it. Besides, he holds me under his thumb.”
“That’s bad,” said Packard, with a sneering laugh. “No man can hold me there.”