As he looked, a sudden draft made one leaf of charcoal glow to a red heat, and the writing showed plain—black on a cherry-colored ground. He stooped curiously to read it, and saw that it was the remains of a card, filled with Fancy Gray's handwriting. He remembered abstracting her notes upon Clytie, made after that first day's reading. He had placed it in the letter-drawer for safe keeping, and had forgotten to remove it.
Only the lower part was legible:
"... intuitive powers (?!) Play her Mysticism.
..... Easy. Sympathetic fool ...."
The glow suddenly faded, the charred paper writhed again, black and impotent. He gave it a vicious jab with the poker, and scattered it to ashes.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BLOODSUCKER
Professor Vixley's place was on Turk Street, the lower flat of three, whose separate doors made a triplet at the top of a tri-divided flight of wooden steps up from the sidewalk. The door had a plate-glass window, behind which was a cheap lace curtain. At the side, nailed over the letter slip, was a card bearing the written inscription,
+--------------------------+
| |
| PROF. P. VIXLEY. |
| |
+--------------------------+
Inside, a narrow hall ran down into the house, doors leading at intervals on the right hand, to small box-like rooms. The first one was the Professor's sitting- and reception-room, the shearing place for his lambs. The small type-writer on a stand and his roll-top desk attempted to give the room a businesslike aspect, while the homelier needs of comfort were satisfied by the machine-carved Morris chair, a padded, quilted couch with "hand-painted" sofa cushions and a macramé fringe along the mantel. Art was represented by the lincrusta-walton dado below the blank white plastered walls, partly covered with "spirit photographs," and a small parlor organ in the corner. A canary in a gilded cage gave a touch of gaiety to the apartment.
Here Professor Vixley sat smoking a terrible cigar. Beside him, upon a small draped table, was a pile of small school slates, a tumbler of water and a sad towel.