“I see that your father has told you everything, Miss Clifford, and of that I am glad.  As for me, it would have been awkward, who must ask your forgiveness for so much.  But what could I do?  I knew, as I have always known, that it was only possible to find this treasure by your help.  So I gave you something to make you sleep, and then in your sleep I hypnotized you, and—­you know the rest.  I have great experience in this art, but I have never seen or heard of anything like what happened, and I hope I never shall again.”

Hitherto Benita had sat silent, but now her burning indignation and curiosity overcame her shame and hatred.

“Mr. Meyer,” she said, “you have done a shameful and a wicked thing, and I tell you at once that I can never forgive you.”

“Don’t say that.  Please don’t say that,” he interrupted in tones of real grief.  “Make allowances for me.  I had to learn, and there was no other way.  You are a born clairvoyante, one among ten thousand, my art told me so, and you know all that is at stake.”

“By which you mean so many ounces of gold, Mr. Meyer.”

“By which I mean the greatness that gold can give, Miss Clifford.”

“Such greatness, Mr. Meyer, as a week of fever, or a Matabele spear, or God’s will can rob you of.  But the thing is done, and soon or late the sin must be paid for.  Now I want to ask you a question.  You believe in nothing; you have told me so several times.  You say that there is no such thing as a spirit, that when we die, we die, and there’s an end.  Do you not?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then tell me, what was it that spoke out of my lips last night, and how came it that I, who know no Portuguese, talked to you in that tongue?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You have put a difficult question, but one I think that can be answered.  There is no such thing as a spirit, an identity that survives death.  But there is such a thing as the subconscious self, which is part of the animating principle of the universe, and, if only its knowledge can be unsealed, knows all that has passed and all that is passing in that universe.  One day perhaps you will read the works of my compatriot, Hegel, and there you will find it spoken of.”

“You explain nothing.”

“I am about to explain, Miss Clifford.  Last night I gave to your sub-conscious self—­that which knows all—­the strength of liberty, so that it saw the past as it happened in this place.  Already you knew the story of the dead girl, Benita da Ferreira, and that story you re-enacted, talking the tongue she used as you would have talked Greek or any other tongue, had it been hers.  It was not her spirit that animated you, although at the time I called it so for shortness, but your own buried knowledge, tricked out and furnished by the effort of your human imagination.  That her name, Benita, should have been yours also is no doubt a strange coincidence, but no more.  Also we have no proof that it was so; only what you said in your trance.”