“If you are ready, gentlemen.”
I turned hastily. Standing beside the door that gave access to my friend's dressing-room was a man in a loose robe of dark and curious fabric. Not the habit, but the man, riveted my attention. I saw a colorless face devoid of beard or mustache, a face incontestably perfect as to feature and outline, but the very antithesis of handsome. The mouth was fine and cruel, the forehead serene and broad, with wonderful eyes that burned and glowed with a peculiar lusterless fire as they met mine. The whole effect was distinctly unpleasant. The man was of the kind that one might imagine murdered from love of crime as an art, to whom profit was secondary to pleasure. I instinctively knew that the quality of his mind, though incomparably acute, was debased and diseased far beyond the limits of the rational, yet nothing could be further removed from insanity nor madness.
Rearton said, “This is my friend,” placing his hand on my arm as he spoke.
The man, having advanced to the center of the room, and acknowledged the introduction by an inclination of the head, said, “Let us begin.” I observed the same quality in his speech that had arrested my attention in his face. Soft and sweet as the tones of his voice were, they were entirely divorced from feeling. It was a soulless perfection.
In the center of the room was a table with three chairs drawn about it. Rearton took the one at the head, and in response to his bidding I seated myself at the foot. The man—medium or whatever he might be—dividing the space between us.
For a moment or two I kept my glance fastened upon him, then I turned to Rearton. A marked change had taken place in his appearance. He had sunk down in his chair in a heap like a drunken man or an imbecile in a period of bodily degeneracy corresponding to the mental. The white of his eyes showed through their half opened lids a dull lead color. His skin was splotched and yellow. He seemed scarcely to breathe. It was altogether horrible!
As I gazed, slowly he straightened up, the lids rolled back, and with a convulsive motion—a nervous tremor—he sat erect, staring at the man. The latter began to sway from side to side, and as the needle follows the magnet, so Rearton's body moved in unison. He was dumbly obedient.
All this while I was far from being unaffected. I don't know that I can better describe my sensations than by saying that flashes of cold coursed through my veins. I had an uncomfortable and cowardly desire to turn and see who was behind me. This continued until I was absolutely chilled and shivering. My head began to swim, a sickening nausea lay hold of me, and still those wonderful eyes against my will and reason held me spellbound. I could not draw away my own from them. I followed their search into futurity.
At last, in desperation, placing my hands upon the table, I sought with the aid of the support it gave to rise. It was all folly! I must throw off this influence—it was a cheat—a swindle... strange that I should be powerless to resist.
Suddenly as I struggled to retain the mastery over my senses a cry of pain escaped my lips. I had received a shock as though the base of my brain had been seared with a red-hot iron. I felt my head go down upon my breast, and then another mind than mine swayed me.