"Now!" said Rich — and walked back to Vicky.
"Mrs. Fane," he went on, "I want you to put yourself in my hands. I want you to trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"Very well."
The man's voice was already compelling. It had a musical vibration in its soft bass. Again Rich tilted the shade of the lamp, so that its light shone on his own face. From his pocket he took a coin, a new and polished which shone with bright silver.
"Mrs. Fane, I'm going to hold this a little above the level of your eyes. I just want you to look at it. Look at it steadily. That's all. It will be easy. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"The rest of you, please be quiet. It is very quiet."
Afterwards, Frank Sharpless was never quite sure how the thing happened.
The room seemed to be full of a soft voice, almost whispering. It went on interminably. It seemed to be leading them past a barrier, into another world. Sharpless could never recall what it said, except that it dealt with sleep, drugging sleep, sleep within dreams, sleep muffled beyond life. It affected even those who were not looking past that bright-shining coin into Rich's eyes.
The clock did not tick; no breath of air stirred in the trees outside; no sense of time existed.
''Sleep now," murmured the voice. "Sleep softly. Sleep deep. Sleep."
And Rich stepped back.
Frank Sharpless felt a chill as though he had been touched with ice.
Vicky Fane lay back quietly, every limb at rest, in the white easy chair. As Rich shifted the light on her, they saw that her eyes were closed. She did not move except for the slow rise and fall of her breast, where the light made a hollow in the smooth flesh above the bodice of the violet-colored gown.
The face, framed in brown bobbed hair, was serene and untroubled, the eyelids waxy, the mouth faintly wistful.
Sharpless, Arthur, Hubert, Ann Browning were all still trying to shake themselves loose from the spell, as from clinging veils on a threshold. Ann spoke, instinctively, in a whisper.
"Can she hear us?"
"No," said Rich, in his normal voice. The change sounded startling. He mopped his moist forehead with a handkerchief.
"Is she really-"
"Oh, yes. She's gone."
"Now, Mr. Fane. Will you take the revolver and the dagger, and place them on that round table I put in the middle of the room?"
Arthur hesitated. For the first time he seemed uneasy. Removing the articles from the cardboard box, he examined them. He bent the rubber dagger back and forth. Suddenly he broke open the magazine of the revolver, drew out and scrutinized each dummy bullet before shutting up the magazine again.
Then, as though sneering at himself, he walked across and put the revolver and dagger on the little table.
He was returning to the group by the easy chair, his footfalls clacking loudly, when they suffered an interruption. The door to the hall opened. Daisy the maid, put her head in.
"Please, sir—" she began.
Arthur turned on her.
"What the devil do you mean by coining in here?" he demanded. His normal voice sounded loud, hard, and harsh against the still-clinging quiet. "I told you—"
Daisy shied back, but stuck it out. "I couldn't help it, sir! There's a man outside, asking for Mr. Hubert, and he won't go away. He says his name's Donald Mac-Donald. He says—"
Arthur turned to Hubert.
"Is that…" Arthur swallowed, but was compelled to complete the sentence. "Is that your bookmaker again?"
"I regret, my dear boy," Hubert conceded, "that such appears to be the fact. Doubtless Mr. MacDonald will be forgiven his sins in a better world (including, let us hope, his avarice), but at the moment I fear he is vulgar enough to want money. A slight miscalculation on my part, despite information straight from the stable-"
"Then go and pay him off. I won't have such people seen at my house, do you hear?"
"Unfortunately, my boy, I have just remembered that I failed to go to the bank today. The sum is trifling: five pounds. If you would be kind enough to advance it to me until tomorrow morning?"
Arthur breathed through his nostrils, heavily. After a pause he reached into his pocket, drew out a notecase, counted out five pound notes, and handed them to Hubert.
"Until tomorrow, my boy," promised Hubert. "I shall be back in a moment. Pray continue the experiment."
The door closed after him.
The spell, which should have been broken, was not broken at all. It may be doubted whether anybody except Arthur had even noticed this byplay. Sharpless, Ann Browning, even Rich himself were gathered round Vicky, regarding her with emotions which need not be described. Arthur Fane spoke quietly.
"And now what?"
"Now," said Rich, mopping his forehead again before putting away the handkerchief, "comes the most difficult part. You have had your breather. Now sit down again, and don't move or speak again until I give you leave. It may be dangerous. Is that clear?"
"But-"
"Please do as I ask."
Two chairs were drawn up on either side of Vicky, ahead and a little in front of her. Sharpless and Ann Browning sat at one side. Arthur sat at the other side, near the empty chair which had been Hubert's. Dr. Rich stood in the midst of this semi-circle, facing Vicky. He allowed the silence to lengthen again before he spoke.
"Victoria Fane," he said softly. The same eerie voice froze them again. "You hear me. You hear me, but you will not yet awake." He paused.
"Victoria Fane, I am your master. My will is your law. Now speak. Repeat after me: 'You are my master, and your will is my law.' "
It was as though the voice had. to travel a long way. After perhaps three seconds, the dummy figure in the chair stirred. A shiver went through Vicky's body. Her head rolled a little to one side. Her lips moved.
" 'You are—' " Everyone jumped when she spoke. It was a whisper; it was not even Vicky's voice; it was like a grotesque echo of the voice which had begun to cut away her soul. " 'You are my master,' " it whispered, " 'and your will is my law.' "
" 'Whatever I am asked to do, that I will do without question. For this is for my own good.' "
The figure in the chair struggled, and became limp.
" 'Whatever I am asked to do,' " it replied colorlessly, " 'that I will do. For this is for my own good.' "
" 'Without question!' "
" 'Without-question.' "
Rich drew a deep breath.
"Now you will awaken," he said. "Open your eyes. Sit up. Gently now."
"God!" cried Sharpless involuntarily.
Rich's fierce gesture silenced him; the brief glance Rich gave over his shoulder kept him silent.
The person looking back at them from the chair was not Vicky Fane. At least, it was not any Vicky Fane they had ever known. From her eyes, even from her whole face, all those qualities which render a face recognizable as human — intelligence, will, character — had all been drained away. It breathed, and it was warm; but it remained clay. In that utter lack of intelligence, even her good looks seemed to have disappeared.
Vicky sat up quietly, without curiosity. She did not blink in the light.
"I warned you," muttered Rich, moistening his lips. "Now watch."
He spoke to his victim.
"On the floor over there by the window, where I put them when I moved the telephone table," he said, "you will find a cigarette box and a box of matches. Bring me a cigarette and a match."
Arthur Fane began, "There's no match b—" But again Rich's glance imposed silence.
The animal in the chair got to her feet.
She walked straight ahead of her. Without looking at it, she passed the little round table which held the revolver and the dagger.