Charismo dabbed a lace kerchief near his right eye. “Perceptive and mannerly. You have no doubt noticed my various masks and yet made no comment.” Tibor Charismo tapped the smooth plaster of the mask molded to the left side of his face. “This particular model is a Japanese Noh mask representing the devil.” He giggled. “I wear it for séances. A little melodramatic, I know, but it gives the ladies such a naughty thrill.” He paused, his mouth drooping in long-suffering sadness. “I know what they say, those so-called gentlemen of the press. Charismo hides his warts. Or Tibor Charismo cultivates mystery because he is a sham. But the truth is, I wear these masks to hide a terrible disfigurement. A birthmark that was the subject of so much childhood ridicule that I cannot bear to expose it now. Even at night I wear a silken veil.” Tibor banged his fist on the desk. “Why must Tibor endure this curse?” he shouted to the heavens, and then, “Oh, look. Tea!”

Barnum, the enormous driver, was also a butler. He now entered, squashed into a uniform and pushing a trolley heaped with cakes and hot drinks.

“I know how you young scamps enjoy your treats,” said Tibor, filling a plate for Riley.

“Oh, no, sir,” objected Riley, his stomach already full to bursting after a glutton’s breakfast. “I’m not used to such rich food.”

“Nonsense,” proclaimed Charismo. “You must sample les macarons. My chef is French, and they are his speciality. Though I have been credited with inventing the different flavors. A tip from the spirits.”

“Perhaps just one,” said Riley, selecting a small cake.

Charismo filled his own china plate and ate for several minutes with concentration and enjoyment, growling low in his throat with each mouthful. Eventually he sat back and belched into his handkerchief with such force that the material fluttered.

“Now, what was our topic? Ah, yes, the trials of Tibor, but enough of that. You will think me a terrible boor. We are here to talk about you. The spirits assure me that you have had a fascinating life. Let us start with those unusual eyes.” Charismo placed a finger to his temple. “The spirits inform me that this condition is known as anisocoria, and it is usually the result of trauma, but it can also be inherited.” Tibor leaned forward, suddenly paying very close attention. “Can you remember, my dear boy?” he asked, flecks of sugar on his lips. “Can you remember your parents? Did they have anisocoria?”

Riley sipped his tea. “I do not know for certain, sir. Sometimes I have dreams, or visions. I was young when my parents died... were murdered, actually. By a man named Garrick. Now he’s on my trail.”

Charismo stuffed his kerchief in his mouth. “Quelle horreur! Murdered, you say. But this is terrible, awful.” He patted Riley’s knee. “You are safe here, my boy.”