He leaned back, to shake his hands and pass them across his forehead, theatrically. Another bubble had broken in his consciousness. "Oliver Payson!"—the name came sharply to his inner ear like a voice in a telephone. Oliver Payson—he recalled now where he had seen the name—upon the newspaper cut pinned to the door of Madam Grant's bedroom. Like two drops of quicksilver combining, this thought fused with that suggested by the mole on the girl's cheek. "Clytie Payson"—this name came to him, springing unconjured to his mind. He determined to hazard a test of the inspiration. He simulated the typical symptoms of obsession, trembled, shuddered and writhed in the professional manner. Then he said:
"Would you like a clairvoyant reading? I think I might get something interesting, for I feel your magnetism very strongly."
She assented with an alacrity she had not shown before. Her eyes opened wider, she threw off her lassitude, awakening to a mild excitement.
"Let me take your hands again—both of them. This is something I don't often do, but I'll see what I can get."
He shut his eyes and spoke monotonously:
"I see a name—C, l, y—"
The girl's hands gave an involuntary convulsion.
"—t, i, e. Is that it? Clytie! Wait—I get the name—"
Beneath slightly trembling lids, a fine, sharp glance shot out at her and was withdrawn again. It was as if he had stolen something from her.
"Payson!"