"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.
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