Phrenologist, hypnotist, conjurer--all
these things the great Professor Franklin had called himself.
Often, from the rude stage where he had given his performance, he
had terrified to death the women and children of his audience.
It flashed upon him at that moment that never, even in the days
of her childhood, had he seen fear in Elizabeth's face.
"You should have been a man, Elizabeth," he muttered.
She shook her head, smiling as though not ill-pleased at the
compliment.
"The power of a man is so limited," she declared. "A woman has
more weapons."
"More weapons indeed," the professor agreed, as his eyes traveled
over the slim yet wonderful perfection of her form, lingered for
a moment at the little knot of lace at her throat, wrestled with
the delicate sweetness of her features, struggling hard to think
from whom among his ancestors could have come a creature so
physically attractive.
"More weapons, indeed," he repeated. "Elizabeth, what a gift--
what a gift!"
"You speak," she replied, "as though it were an evil one."
"I was only thinking," he said, "that it seems a pity. You are
so wonderful, we might have found an easier and a less dangerous
way to fortune."
She smiled.
"The Bohemian blood in me, I suppose," she remarked. "The
crooked ways attract, you know, when one has been brought up as I
was."
"Your poor mother had no love for them," he reminded her.
"Beatrice has inherited everything that belonged to my mother.
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