Title:      The Land Of Mist
Author:     Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Title:      The Land Of Mist
Author:     Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




 1. In Which Our Special Commissioners Make A Start
 2. Which Describes an Evening in Strange Company
 3. In Which Professor Challenger Gives His Opinion
 4. Which Describes Some Strange Doings In Hammersmith
 5. Where Our Commissioners Have A Remarkable Experience
 6. In Which The Reader Is Shown The Habits Of A Notorious Criminal
 7. In Which The Notorious Criminal Gets What The British Law
    Considers To Be His Deserts
 8. In Which Three Investigators Come Across A Dark Soul
 9. Which Introduces Some Very Physical Phenomena
10. De Profundis
11. Where Silas Linden Comes Into His Own
12. There Are Heights And There Are Depths
13. In Which Professor Challenger Goes Forth To Battle
14. In Which Challenger Meets A Strange Colleague
15. In Which Traps Are Laid For A Great Quarry
16. In Which Challenger Has The Experience Of His Life
17. Where The Mists Clear Away
    Appendices



1. In Which Our Special Commissioners Make A Start

THE great Professor Challenger has been--very improperly and
imperfectly--used in fiction. A daring author placed him in
impossible and romantic situations in order to see how he would react
to them. He reacted to the extent of a libel action, an abortive
appeal for suppression, a riot in Sloane Street, two personal
assaults, and the loss of his position as lecturer upon Physiology at
the London School of Sub-Tropical Hygiene. Otherwise, the matter
passed more peaceably than might have been expected.

But he was losing something of his fire. Those huge shoulders were a
little bowed. The spade-shaped Assyrian beard showed tangles of grey
amid the black, his eyes were a trifle less aggressive, his smile less
self-complacent, his voice as monstrous as ever but less ready to roar
down all opposition. Yet he was dangerous, as all around him were
painfully aware. The volcano was not extinct, and constant rumblings
threatened some new explosion. Life had much yet to teach him, but he
was a little less intolerant in learning.

There was a definite date for the change which had been wrought in
him. It was the death of his wife. That little bird of a woman had
made her nest in the big man's heart. He had all the tenderness and
chivalry which the strong can have for the weak. By yielding
everything she had won everything, as a sweet-natured, tactful woman
can. And when she died suddenly from virulent pneumonia following
influenza, the man staggered and went down. He came up again, smiling
ruefully like the stricken boxer, and ready to carry on for many a
round with Fate. But he was not the same man, and if it had not been
for the help and comradeship of his daughter Enid, he might have never
rallied from the blow. She it was who, with clever craft, lured him
into every subject which would excite his combative nature and
infuriate his mind, until he lived once more in the present and not
the past. It was only when she saw him turbulent in controversy,
violent to pressmen, and generally offensive to those around him, that
she felt he was really in a fair way to recovery.

Enid Challenger was a remarkable girl and should have a paragraph to
herself. With the raven-black hair of her father, and the blue eyes
and fresh colour of her mother, she was striking, if not beautiful, in
appearance. She was quiet, but she was very strong. From her infancy
she had either to take her own part against her father, or else to
consent to be crushed and to become a mere automaton worked by his
strong fingers. She was strong enough to hold her own in a gentle,
elastic fashion, which bent to his moods and reasserted itself when
they were past. Lately she had felt the constant pressure too
oppressive and she had relieved it by feeling out for a career of her
own. She did occasional odd jobs for the London press, and did them in
such fashion that her name was beginning to be known in Fleet Street.
In finding this opening she had been greatly helped by an old friend
of her father--and possibly of the reader--Mr. Edward Malone of
the Daily Gazette.

Malone was still the same athletic Irishman who had once won his
international cap at Rugby, but life had toned him down also, and made
him a more subdued and thoughtful man. He had put away a good deal
when last his football-boots had been packed away for good. His
muscles may have wilted and his joints stiffened, but his mind was
deeper and more active. The boy was dead and the man was born. In
person he had altered little, but his moustache was heavier, his back
a little rounded, and some lines of thought were tracing themselves
upon his brow. Post-war conditions and new world problems had left
their mark. For the rest he had made his name in journalism and even
to a small degree in literature. He was still a bachelor, though there
were some who thought that his hold on that condition was precarious
and that Miss Enid Challenger's little white fingers could disengage
it. Certainly they were very good chums.

It was a Sunday evening in October, and the lights were just beginning
to twinkle out through the fog which had shrouded London from early
morning. Professor Challenger's flat at Victoria West Gardens was upon
the third floor, and the mist lay thick upon the windows, while the
low hum of the attenuated Sunday traffic rose up from an invisible
highway beneath, which was outlined only by scattered patches of dull
radiance. Professor Challenger sat with his thick, bandy legs
outstretched to the fire, and his hands thrust deeply into trouser
pockets. His dress had a little of the eccentricity of genius, for he
wore a loose-collared shirt, a large knotted maroon-coloured silk
tie, and a black velvet smoking-jacket, which, with his flowing beard,
gave him the appearance of an elderly and Bohemian artist. On one side
of him ready for an excursion, with bowl hat, short-skirted dress of
black, and all the other fashionable devices with which women contrive
to deform the beauties of nature, there sat his daughter, while
Malone, hat in hand, waited by the window.

"I think we should get off, Enid. It is nearly seven," said he.

They were writing joint articles upon the religious denominations of
London, and on each Sunday evening they sallied out together to sample
some new one and get copy for the next week's issue of the Gazette.

"It's not till eight, Ted. We have lots of time."

"Sit down, sir! Sit down!" boomed Challenger, tugging at his beard as
was his habit if his temper was rising, "there is nothing annoys me
more than having anyone standing behind me. A relic of atavism and the
fear of a dagger, but still persistent. That's right. For heaven's
sake put your hat down! You have a perpetual air of catching a train."

"That's the journalistic life," said Malone. "If we don't catch the
perpetual train we get left. Even Enid is beginning to understand
that. But still, as you say, there is time enough."

"How far have you got?" asked Challenger.

Enid consulted a business-like little reporter's notebook. "We have
done seven. There was Westminster Abbey for the Church in its most
picturesque form, and Saint Agatha for the High Church, and Tudor
Place for the Low. Then there was the Westminster Cathedral for
Catholics, Endell Street for Presbyterians, and Gloucester Square for
Unitarians. But to-night we are trying to introduce some variety. We
are doing the Spiritualists."

Challenger snorted like an angry buffalo.

"Next week the lunatic asylums, I presume," said he. "You don't mean
to tell me, Malone, that these ghost people have got churches of their
own."

"I've been looking into that," said Malone. "I always look up cold
facts and figures before I tackle a job. They have over four hundred
registered churches in Great Britain."

Challenger's snorts now sounded like a whole herd of
buffaloes.

"There seems to me to be absolutely no limit to the inanity and
credulity of the human race. Homo Sapiens! Homo idioticus! Who do
they pray to--the ghosts?"

"Well, that's what we want to find out. We should get some copy out of
them. I need not say that I share your view entirely, but I've seen
something of Atkinson of St. Mary's Hospital lately. He is a rising
surgeon, you know."

"I've heard of him--cerebro-spinal."

"That's the man. He is level-headed and is looked on as an authority
on psychic research, as they call the new science which deals with
these matters."

"Science, indeed!"

"Well, that is what they call it. He seems to take these people
seriously. I consult him when I want a reference, for he has the
literature at his fingers' end. 'Pioneers of the Human Race'--that
was his description."

"Pioneering them to Bedlam," growled Challenger. "And literature!
What literature have they?"

"Well, that was another surprise. Atkinson has five hundred volumes,
but complains that his psychic library is very imperfect. You see,
there is French, German, Italian, as well as our own."

"Well, thank God all the folly is not confined to poor old England.
Pestilential nonsense!"

"Have you read it up at all, Father?" asked Enid.

"Read it up! I, with all my interests and no time for one-half of
them! Enid, you are too absurd."

"Sorry, Father. You spoke with such assurance, I thought you knew
something about it."

Challenger's huge head swung round and his lion's glare rested upon
his daughter.

"Do you conceive that a logical brain, a brain of the first order,
needs to read and to study before it can detect a manifest absurdity?
Am I to study mathematics in order to confute the man who tells me
that two and two are five? Must I study physics once more and take
down my Principia because some rogue or fool insists that a table can
rise in the air against the law of gravity? Does it take five hundred
volume to inform us of a thing which is proved in every police-court
when an impostor is exposed? Enid, I am ashamed of you!"

His daughter laughed merrily.

"Well, Dad, you need not roar at me any more. I give in. In fact, I
have the same feeling that you have."

"None the less," said Malone, "some good men support them. I don't see
that you can laugh at Lodge and Crookes and the others."

"Don't be absurd, Malone. Every great mind has its weaker side. It is
a sort of reaction against all the good sense. You come suddenly upon
a vein of positive nonsense. That is what is the matter with these
fellows. No, Enid, I haven't read their reasons, and I don't mean to,
either; some things are beyond the pale. If we re-open all the old
questions, how can we ever get ahead with the new ones? This matter is
settled by common sense, the law of England, and by the universal
assent of every sane European."

"So that's that!" said Enid.

"However," he continued, "I can admit that there are occasional
excuses for misunderstandings upon the point." He sank his voice, and
his great grey eyes looked sadly up into vacancy. "I have known cases
where the coldest intellect--even my own intellect--might, for a
moment have been shaken."

Malone scented copy.

"Yes, sir?"

Challenger hesitated. He seemed to be struggling with himself. He
wished to speak, and yet speech was painful. Then, with an abrupt,
impatient gesture, he plunged into his story:

"I never told you, Enid. It was tootoo intimate. Perhaps too
absurd. I was ashamed to have been so shaken. But it shows how even
the best balanced may be caught unawares."

"Yes, sir?"

"It was after my wife's death. You knew her, Malone You can guess what
it meant to me. It was the night after the cremationhorrible,
Malone, horrible! I saw the dear little body slide down, down...and
then the glare of flame and the door clanged to." His great body
shook and he passed his big, hairy hand over his eyes.

"I don't know why I tell you this; the talk seemed to lead up to it.
It may be a warning to you. That night--the night after the
cremation--I sat up in the hall. She was there," he nodded at Enid.
"She had fallen asleep in a chair, poor girl. You know the house at
Rotherfield, Malone. It was in the big hall. I sat by the fireplace,
the room all draped in shadow, and my mind draped In shadow also. I
should have sent her to bed, but she was lying back in her chair and I
did not wish to wake her. It may have been one in the morning--I
remember the moon shining through the stained-glass window. I sat and
I brooded. Then suddenly there came a noise."

"Yes, sir?"

"It was low at first just a ticking. Then it grew louder and more
distinct--it was a clear rat-tat-tat. Now comes the queer
coincidence, the sort of thing out of which legends grow when
credulous folk have the shaping of them. You must know that my wife
had a peculiar way of knocking at a door. It was really a little tune
which she played with her fingers. I got into the some way so that we
could each know when the other knocked. Well, it seemed to me--of
course my mind was strained and abnormal--that the taps shaped
themselves into the well-known rhythm of her knock. I couldn't
localize it. You can think how eagerly I tried. It was above me,
somewhere on the woodwork. I lost sense of time. I daresay it was
repeated a dozen times at least."

"Oh, Dad, you never told me!"

"No, but I woke you up. I asked you to sit quiet with me for a
little."

"Yes, I remember that!"

"Well, we sat, but nothing happened. Not a sound more. Of course it
was a delusion. Some insect in the wood; the ivy on the outer wall. My
own brain furnished the rhythm. Thus do we make fools and children of
ourselves. But it gave me an insight. I saw how even a clever man
could be deceived by his own emotions."

"But how do you know, sir, that it was not your wife."

"Absurd, Malone! Absurd, I say! I tell you I saw her in the flames.
What was there left?"

"Her soul, her spirit."

Challenger shook his head sadly.

"When that dear body dissolved into its elements--when its gases
went into the air and its residue of solids sank into a grey dust--
it was the end. There was no more. She had played her part, played it
beautifully, nobly. It was done. Death ends all, Malone. This soul
talk is the Animism of savages. It is a superstition, a myth. As a
physiologist I will undertake to produce crime or virtue by vascular
control or cerebral stimulation. I will turn a Jekyll into a Hyde by a
surgical operation. Another can do it by a psychological suggestion.
Alcohol will do it. Drugs will do it. Absurd, Malone, absurd! As the
tree falls, so does it lie. There is no next morningnight--
eternal nightand long rest for the weary worker."

"Well, it's a sad philosophy."

"Better a sad than a false one."

"Perhaps so. There is something virile and manly in facing the worst.
I would not contradict. My reason is with you."

"But my instincts are against!" cried Enid. "No, no, never can I
believe it." She threw her arms round the great bull neck. "Don't
tell me, Daddy, that you with all your complex brain and wonderful
self are a thing with no more life hereafter than a broken clock!"

"Four buckets of water and a bagful of salts," said Challenger as he
smilingly detached his daughter's grip. "That's your daddy, my lass,
and you may as well reconcile your mind to it. Well, it's twenty to
eight.--Come back, if you can, Malone, and let me hear your
adventures among the insane."



2: Which Describes an Evening in Strange Company

THE love-affair of Enid Challenger and Edward Malone is not of the
slightest interest to the reader, for the simple reason that it is not
of the slightest interest to the writer. The unseen, unnoticed lure of
the unborn babe is common to all youthful humanity. We deal in this
chronicle with matters which are less common and of higher interest.
It is only mentioned in order to explain those terms of frank and
intimate comradeship which the narrative discloses. If the human race
has obviously improved in anything--in Anglo-Celtic countries, at
least--it is that the prim affectations and sly deceits of the past
are lessened, and that young men and women can meet in an equality of
clean and honest comradeship.

A taxi took the adventurers down Edgware Road and into the side-street
called "Helbeck Terrace." Halfway down, the dull line of brick houses
was broken by one glowing gap, where an open arch threw a flood of
light into the street. The cab pulled up and the man opened the door.

"This is the Spiritualist Church, sir," said he. Then, as he saluted
to acknowledge his tip, he added in the wheezy voice of the man of all
weathers: "Tommy-rot, I call it, sir." Having eased his conscience
thus, he climbed into his seat and a moment later his red rear-lamp
was a waning circle in the gloom. Malone laughed.

"Vox populi, Enid. That is as far as the public has got at present."

"Well, it is as far as we have got, for that matter."

"Yes, but we are prepared to give them a show. I don't suppose Cabby
is. By Jove, it will be hard luck if we can't get in!"

There was a crowd at the door and a man was facing them from the top
of the step, waving his arms to keep them back.

"It's no good, friends. I am very sorry, but we can't help it. We've
been threatened twice with prosecution for over-crowding." He turned
facetious. "Never heard of an Orthodox Church getting into trouble
for that. No, sir, no."

"I've come all the way from 'Ammersmith," wailed a voice. The light
beat upon the eager, anxious face of the speaker, a little woman in
black with a baby in her arms.

"You've come for clairvoyance, Mam," said the usher, with
intelligence. "See here, give me the name and address and I will write
you, and Mrs. Debbs will give you a sitting gratis. That's better than
taking your chance in the crowd when, with all the will in the world,
you can't all get a turn. You'll have her to yourself. No, sir,
there's no use shovin'. What's that? Press?"

He had caught Malone by the elbow.

"Did you say Press? The Press boycott us, sir. Look at the weekly
list of services in a Saturday's Times if you doubt it. You wouldn't
know there was such a thing as Spiritualism...What paper, sir?...'The
Daily Gazette.' Well, well, we are getting on. And the lady,
too?...Special article--my word! Stick to me, sir, and I'll see
what I can do. Shut the doors, Joe. No use, friends. When the building
fund gets on a bit we'll have more room for you. Now, Miss, this way,
if you please."

This way proved to be down the street and round a side-alley which
brought them to a small door with a red lamp shining above it.

"I'll have to put you on the platform--there's no standing room in
the body of the hall."

"Good gracious!" cried Enid.

"You'll have a fine view, Miss, and maybe get a readin' for yourself
if your lucky. It often happens that those nearest the medium get the
best chance. Now, sir, in here!"

Here was a frowsy little room with some hats and top-coats draping the
dirty, white-washed walls. A thin, austere woman, with eyes which
gleamed from behind her glasses, was warming her gaunt hands over a
small fire. With his back to the fire in the traditional British
attitude was a large, fat man with a bloodless face, a ginger
moustache and curious, light-blue eyes--the eyes of a deep-sea
mariner. A little bald-headed man with huge horn-rimmed spectacles,
and a very handsome and athletic youth in a blue lounge-suit completed
the group.

"The others have gone on the platform, Mr. Peeble. There's only five
seats left for ourselves." It was the fat man talking.

"I know, I know," said the man who had been addressed as Peeble, a
nervous, stringy, dried-up person as he now appeared in the light.
"But this is the Press, Mr. Bolsover. Daily Gazette special article...
Malone, the name, and Challenger. This is Mr. Bolsover, our President.
This is Mrs. Debbs of Liverpool, the famous clairvoyante. Here is Mr.
James, and this tall young gentleman is Mr. Hardy Williams, our
energetic secretary. Mr. Williams is a nailer for the buildin' fund.
Keep your eye on your pockets if Mr. Williams is around."

They all laughed.

"Collection comes later," said Mr. Williams, smiling.

"A good, rousing article is our best collection," said the stout
president. "Ever been to a meeting before, sir?"

"No," said Malone.

"Don't know much about it, I expect."

"No, I don't."

"Well, well, we must expect a slating. They get it from the humorous
angle at first. We'll have you writing a very comic account. I never
could see anything very funny in the spirit of one's dead wife, but
it's a matter of taste and of knowledge also. If they don't know, how
can they take it seriously? I don't blame them. We were mostly like
that ourselves once. I was one of Bradlaugh's men, and sat under
Joseph MacCabe until my old Dad came and pulled me out."

"Good for him!" said the Liverpool medium.

"It was the first time I found I had powers of my own. I saw him like
I see you now."

"Was he one of us in the body?"

"Knew no more than I did. But they come on amazin' at the other side
if the right folk get hold of them."

"Time's up!" said Mr. Peeble, snapping his watch. "You are on the
right of the chair, Mrs. Debbs. Will you go first? Then you, Mr.
Chairman. Then you two and myself. Get on the left, Mr. Hardy
Williams, and lead the singin'. They want warmin' up and you can do
it. Now then, if you please!"

The platform was already crowded, but the newcomers threaded their way
to the front amid a decorous murmur of welcome. Mr. Peeble shoved and
exhorted and two end seats emerged upon which Enid and Malone perched
themselves. The arrangement suited them well, for they could use
their notebooks freely behind the shelter of the folk in front.

"What is your reaction?" whispered Enid.

"Not impressed as yet."

"No, nor I," said Enid, "but it's very interesting all the same."

People who are in earnest are always interesting, whether you agree
with them or not, and it was impossible to doubt that these people
were extremely earnest. The hall was crammed, and as one looked down
one saw line after line of upturned faces, curiously alike in type,
women predominating, but men running them close. That type was not
distinguished nor intellectual, but it was undeniably healthy, honest
and sane. Small trades-folk, male and female shopwalkers, better class
artisans, lower middle-class women worn with household cares,
occasional young folk in search of a sensation--these were the
impressions which the audience conveyed to the trained observation of
Malone.

The fat president rose and raised his hand.

"My friends," said he, "we have had once more to exclude a great
number of people who desired to be with us to-night. It's all a
question of the building fund, and Mr. Williams on my left will be
glad to hear from any of you I was in a hotel last week and they had a
notice hung up in the reception bureau: 'No cheques accepted'.
That's not the way Brother Williams talks. You just try him."

The audience laughed. The atmosphere was clearly that of the
lecture-hall rather than of the Church.

"There's just one more thing I want to say before I sit down. I'm not
here to talk. I'm here to hold this chair down and I mean to do it.
It's a hard thing I ask. I want Spiritualists to keep away on Sunday
nights. They take up the room that inquirers should have. You can have
the morning service. But its better for the cause that there should be
room for the stranger. You've had it. Thank God for it. Give the other
man a chance." The president plumped back into his chair.

Mr. Peeble sprang to his feet. He was clearly the general utility man
who emerges in every society and probably becomes its autocrat. With
his thin, eager face and darting hands he was more than a live wire--
he was a whole bundle of live wires. Electricity seemed to crackle
from his fingertips.

"Hymn One!" he shrieked.

A harmonium droned and the audience rose. It was a fine hymn and
lustily sung:

 "The world hath felt a quickening breath
   From Heaven's eternal shore,
  And souls triumphant over death
   Return to earth once more."

There was a ring of exultation in the voices as the refrain rolled
out:

 "For this we hold our Jubilee
   For this with joy we sing,
  Oh Grave, where is thy victory
   Oh Death, where is thy sting?"

Yes, they were in earnest, these people. And they did not appear to be
mentally weaker than their fellows. And yet both Enid and Malone felt
a sensation of great pity as they looked at them. How sad to be
deceived upon so intimate a matter as this, to be duped by impostors
who used their most sacred feelings and their beloved dead as counters
with which to cheat them. What did they know of the laws of evidence,
of the cold, immutable decrees of scientific law? Poor earnest,
honest, deluded people!

"Now!" screamed Mr. Peeble. "We shall ask Mr. Munro from Australia to
give us the invocation."

A wild-looking old man with a shaggy beard and slumbering fire in his
eyes rose up and stood for a few seconds with his gaze cast down. Then
he began a prayer, very simple, very unpremeditated. Malone jotted
down the first sentence: "Oh, Father, we are very ignorant folk and
do not well know how to approach you, but we will pray to you the best
we know how." It was all cast in that humble key. Enid and Malone
exchanged a swift glance of appreciation.

There was another hymn, less successful than the first, and the
chairman then announced that Mr. James Jones of North Wales would now
deliver a trance address which would embody the views of his
well-known control, Alasha the Atlantean.

Mr. James Jones, a brisk and decided little man in a faded check suit,
came to the front and, after standing a minute or so as if in deep
thought, gave a violent shudder and began to talk. It must be admitted
that save for a certain fixed stare and vacuous glazing of the eye
there was nothing to show that anything save Mr. James Jones of North
Wales was the orator. It has also to be stated that if Mr. Jones
shuddered at the beginning it was the turn of his audience to shudder
afterwards. Granting his own claim, he had proved clearly that an
Atlantean spirit might be a portentous bore. He droned on with
platitudes and ineptitudes while Malone whispered to Enid that if
Alasha was a fair specimen of the population it was just as well that
his native land was safely engulfed in the Atlantic Ocean. When, with
another rather melodramatic shudder, he emerged from his trance, the
chairman sprang to his feet with an alacrity which showed that he was
taking no risks lest the Atlantean should return.

"We have present with us to-night," he cried, "Mrs. Debbs, the
well-known clairvoyante of Liverpool. Mrs. Debbs is, as many of you
know, richly endowed with several of those gifts of the spirit of
which Saint Paul speaks, and the discerning of spirits is among them.
These things depend upon laws which are beyond our control, but a
sympathetic atmosphere is essential, and Mrs. Debbs will ask for your
good wishes and your prayers while she endeavours to get into touch
with some of those shining ones on the other side who may honour us
with their presence to-night."

The president sat down and Mrs. Debbs rose amid discreet applause.
Very tall, very pale, very thin, with an aquiline face and eyes
shining brightly from behind her gold-rimmed glasses, she stood facing
her expectant audience. Her head was bent. She seemed to be listening.

"Vibrations!" she cried at last. "I want helpful vibrations. Give me
a verse on the harmonium, please."

The instrument droned out "Jesu, Lover of my soul."

The audience sat in silence, expectant and a little awed.

The hall was not too well lit and dark shadows lurked in the corners.
The medium still bent her head as if her ears were straining. Then she
raised her hand and the music stopped.

"Presently! Presently! All in good time," said the woman, addressing
some invisible companion. Then to the audience, "I don't feel that
the conditions are very good to-night. I will do my best and so will
they. But I must talk to you first."

And she talked. What she said seemed to the two strangers to be
absolute gabble. There was no consecutive sense in it, though now and
again a phrase or sentence caught the attention. Malone put his stylo
in his pocket. There was no use reporting a lunatic. A Spiritualist
next him saw his bewildered disgust and leaned towards him.

"She's tuning in. She's getting her wave length," he whispered. "It's
all a matter of vibration. Ah, there you are!"

She had stopped in the very middle of a sentence. Her long arm and
quivering forefinger shot out. She was pointing at an elderly woman
in the second row.

"You! Yes, you, with the red feather. No, not you. The stout lady in
front. Yes, you! There is a spirit building up behind you. It is a
man. He is a tall man--six foot maybe. High forehead, eyes grey or
blue, a long chin brown moustache, lines on his face. Do you recognize
him, friend?"

The stout woman looked alarmed, but shook her head.

"Well, see if I can help you. He is holding up a book--brown book
with a clasp. It's a ledger same as they have in offices. I get the
words 'Caledonian Insurance'. Is that any help?"

The stout woman pursed her lips and shook her head.

"Well, I can give you a little more. He died after a long illness. I
get chest trouble--asthma."

The stout woman was still obdurate, but a small, angry, red-faced
person, two places away from her, sprang to her feet.

"It's my 'usband, ma'm. Tell 'im I don't want to 'ave any more
dealin's with him." She sat down with decision.

"Yes, that's right. He moves to you now. He was nearer the other. He
wants to say he's sorry. It doesn't do, you know, to have hard
feelings to the dead. Forgive and forget. It's all over. I get a
message for you. It is: 'Do it and my blessing go with you'! Does
that mean anything to you?"

The angry woman looked pleased and nodded.

"Very good." The clairvoyante suddenly darted out her finger towards
the crowd at the door "It's for the soldier."

A soldier in khaki, looking very much amazed, was in the front of the
knot of people.

"Wot's for me?" he asked.

"It's a soldier. He has a corporal's stripes. He is a big man with
grizzled hair. He has a yellow tab on his shoulders. I get the
initials J. H. Do you know him?"

"Yes--but he's dead," said the soldier.

He had not understood that it was a Spiritualistic Church, and the
whole proceedings had been a mystery to him. They were rapidly
explained by his neighbours. "My Gawd!" cried the soldier, and
vanished amid a general titter. In the pause Malone could hear the
constant mutter of the medium as she spoke to someone unseen.

"Yes, yes, wait your turn! Speak up, woman! Well, take your place
near him. How should I know? Well, I will if I can." She was like a
janitor at the theatre marshalling a queue.

Her next attempt was a total failure. A solid man with bushy
side-whiskers absolutely refused to have anything to do with an
elderly gentleman who claimed kinship. The medium worked with
admirable patience, coming back again and again with some fresh
detail, but no progress could be made.

"Are you a Spiritualist, friend?"

"Yes, for ten years."

"Well, you know there are difficulties."

"Yes, I know that."

"Think it over. It may come to you later. We must just leave it at
that. I am only sorry for your friend."

There was a pause during which Enid and Malone exchanged whispered
confidences.

"What do you make of it, Enid?"

"I don't know. It confuses me."

"I believe it is half guess-work and the other half a case of
confederates. These people are all of the same church, and naturally
they know each other's affairs. If they don't know they can inquire."

"Someone said it was Mrs. Debbs' first visit."

"Yes but they could easily coach her up. It is all clever quackery and
bluff. It must be, for just think what is implied if it is not."

"Telepathy, perhaps."

"Yes, some element of that also. Listen! She is off again."

Her next attempt was more fortunate. A lugubrious man at the back of
the hall readily recognized the description and claims of his deceased
wife.

"I get the name Walter."

"Yes, that's me."

"She called you Wat?"

"No."

"Well, she calls you Wat now. 'Tell Wat to give my love to the
children'. That's how I get it. She is worrying about the children."

"She always did."

"Well, they don't change. Furniture. Something about furniture. She
says you gave it away. Is that right?"

"Well, I might as well."

The audience tittered. It was strange how the most solemn and comic
were eternally blended--strange and yet very natural and human.

"She has a message: 'The man will pay up and all will be well. Be a
good man, Wat, and we will be happier here then ever we were on
earth'."

The man put his hand over his eyes. As the seeress stood irresolute
the tall young secretary half rose and whispered something in her ear.
The woman shot a swift glance over her left shoulder in the direction
of the visitors.

"I'll come back to it," said she.

She gave two more descriptions to the audience, both of them rather
vague, and both recognized with some reservations. It was a curious
fact that her details were such as she could not possibly see at the
distance. Thus, dealing with a form which she claimed had built up at
the far end of the hall, she could none the less give the colour of
the eyes and small points of the face. Malone noted the point as one
which he could use for destructive criticism. He was just jotting it
down when the woman's voice sounded louder and, looking up, he found
that she had turned her head and her spectacles were flashing in his
direction.

"It is not often I give a reading from the platform," said she, her
face rotating between him and the audience, "but we have friends here
to-night, and it may interest them to come in contact with the spirit
people. There is a presence building up behind the gentleman with a
moustache--the gentleman who sits next to the young lady. Yes, sir,
behind you. He is a man of middle size, rather inclined to shortness.
He is old, over sixty, with white hair, curved nose and a white, small
beard of the variety that is called goatee. He is no relation, I
gather, but a friend. Does that suggest anyone to you, sir?"

Malone shook his head with some contempt. "It would nearly fit any old
man," he whispered to Enid.

"We will try to get a little closer. He has deep lines on his face. I
should say he was an irritable man in his lifetime. He was quick and
nervous in his ways. Does that help you?"

Again Malone shook his head.

"Rot! Perfect rot," he muttered.

"Well, he seems very anxious, so we must do what we can for him. He
holds up a book. It is a learned book. He opens it and I see diagrams
in it. Perhaps he wrote it--or perhaps he taught from it. Yes, he
nods. He taught from it. He was a teacher."

Malone remained unresponsive.

"I don't know that I can help him any more. Ah! there is one thing.
He has a mole over his right eyebrow."

Malone started as if he had been stung.

"One mole?" he cried.

The spectacles flashed round again.

"Two moles--one large, one small."

"My God!" gasped Malone. "It's Professor Summerlee!"

"Ah, you've got it. There's a message: 'Greetings to old--' It's a
long name and begins with a C. I can't get it. Does it mean anything?"

"Yes."

In an instant she had turned and was describing something or someone
else. But she had left a badly-shaken man upon the platform behind
her.

It was at this point that the orderly service had a remarkable
interruption which surprised the audience as much as it did the two
visitors. This was the sudden appearance beside the chairman of a
tall, pale-faced bearded man dressed like a superior artisan, who held
up his hand with a quietly impressive gesture as one who was
accustomed to exert authority. He then half-turned and said a word to
Mr. Bolsover.

"This is Mr. Miromar of Dalston," said the chairman. "Mr. Miromar has
a message to deliver. We are always glad to hear from Mr. Miromar."

The reporters could only get a half-view of the newcomer's face, but
both of them were struck by his noble bearing and by the massive
outline of his head which promised very unusual intellectual power.
His voice when he spoke rang clearly and pleasantly through the hall.

"I have been ordered to give the message wherever I think that there
are ears to hear it. There are some here who are ready for it, and
that is why I have come. They wish that the human race should
gradually understand the situation so that there shall be the less
shock or panic. I am one of several who are chosen to carry the news."

"A lunatic, I'm afraid!" whispered Malone, scribbling hard upon his
knee. There was a general inclination to smile among the audience. And
yet there was something in the man's manner and voice which made them
hang on every word.

"Things have now reached a climax. The very idea of progress has been
made material. It is progress to go swiftly, to send swift messages,
to build new machinery. All this is a diversion of real ambition.
There is only one real progress--spiritual progress. Mankind gives
it a lip tribute but presses on upon its false road of material
science.

"The Central Intelligence recognized that amid all the apathy there
was also much honest doubt which had out-grown old creeds and had a
right to fresh evidence. Therefore fresh evidence was sent--evidence
which made the life after death as clear as the sun in the heavens. It
was laughed at by scientists, condemned by the churches, became the
butt of the newspapers, and was discarded with contempt. That was the
last and greatest blunder of humanity."

The audience had their chins up now. General speculations were beyond
their mental horizon. But this was very clear to their comprehension.
There was a murmur of sympathy and applause.

"The thing was now hopeless. It had got beyond all control. Therefore
something sterner was needed since Heaven's gift had been disregarded.
The blow fell. Ten million young men were laid dead upon the ground.
Twice as many were mutilated. That was God's first warning to mankind.
But it was vain. The same dull materialism prevailed as before. Years
of grace were given, and save the stirrings of the spirit seen in such
churches as these, no change was anywhere to be seen. The nations
heaped up fresh loads of sin, and sin must ever be atoned for. Russia
became a cesspool. Germany was unrepentant of her terrible materialism
which had been the prime cause of the war. Spain and Italy were sunk
in alternate atheism and superstition. France had no religious ideal.
Britain was confused and distracted, full of wooden sects which had
nothing of life in them. America had abused her glorious opportunities
and, instead of being the loving younger brother to a stricken Europe,
she held up all economic reconstruction by her money claims; she
dishonoured the signature of her own president, and she refused to
join that League of Peace which was the one hope of the future. All
have sinned, but some more than others, and their punishment will be
in exact proportion.

"And that punishment soon comes. These are the exact words I have been
asked to give you. I read them lest I should in any way garble them."

He took a slip of paper from his pocket and read:

"'What we want is, not that folk should be frightened, but that they
should begin to change themselves--to develop themselves on more
spiritual lines. We are not trying to make people nervous, but to
prepare while there is yet time. The world cannot go on as it has
done. It would destroy itself if it did. Above all we must sweep away
the dark cloud of theology which has come between mankind and God'."

He folded up the paper and replaced it in his pocket. "That is what I
have been asked to tell you. Spread the news where there seems to be a
window in the soul. Say to them, 'Repent! Reform! the Time is at
hand'."

He had paused and seemed about to turn. The spell was broken. The
audience rustled and leaned back in its seats. Then a voice from the
back:

"Is this the end of the world, mister?"

"No," said the stranger, curtly.

"Is it the Second Coming?" asked another voice.

"Yes."

With quick light steps he threaded his way among the chairs on the
platform and stood near the door. When Malone next looked round he was
gone.

"He is one of these Second-coming fanatics," he whispered to Enid.
"There are a lot of them--Christadelphians, Russellites, Bible
Students and what-not. But he was impressive."

"Very," said Enid.

"We have, I am sure, been very interested in what our friend has told
us," said the chairman. "Mr. Miromar is in hearty sympathy with our
movement even though he cannot be said actually to belong to it. I am
sure he is always welcome upon our platforms. As to his prophecy, it
seems to me the world has had enough trouble without our anticipating
any more. If it is as our friend says, we can't do much to mend the
matter. We can only go about our daily jobs, do them as well as we
can, and await the event in full confidence of help from above. If
it's the Day of Judgment to-morrow," he added, smiling, "I mean to
look after my provision store at Hammersmith to-day. We shall now
continue with the service."

There was a vigorous appeal for money and a great deal about the
building-fund from the young secretary. "It's a shame to think that
there are more left in the street than in the building on a Sunday
night. We all give our services. No one takes a penny. Mrs. Debbs is
here for her bare expenses. But we want another thousand pounds before
we can start. There is one brother here who mortgaged his house to
help us. That's the spirit that wins. Now let us see what you can do
for us to-night."

A dozen soup-plates circulated, and a hymn was sung to the
accompaniment of much chinking of coin. Enid and Malone conversed in
undertones.

"Professor Summerlee died, you know, at Naples last year."

"Yes, I remember him well."

"And 'old C' was, of course, your father."

"It was really remarkable."

"Poor old Summerlee. He thought survival was an absurdity. And here he
is--or here he seems to be."

The soup-plates returned--it was mostly brown soup, unhappily, and
they were deposited on the table where the eager eye of the secretary
appraised their value. Then the little shaggy man from Australia gave
a benediction in the same simple fashion as the opening prayer. It
needed no Apostolic succession or laying-on of hands to make one feel
that his words were from a human heart and might well go straight to a
Divine one. Then the audience rose and sang their final farewell hymn
--a hymn with a haunting tune and a sad, sweet refrain of "God keep
you safely till we meet once more." Enid was surprised to feel the
tears running down her cheeks. These earnest, simple folks with their
direct methods had wrought upon her more than all the gorgeous service
and rolling music of the cathedral.

Mr. Bolsover, the stout president, was in the waiting-room and so was
Mrs. Debbs.

"Well, I expect you are going to let us have it," he laughed. "We are
used to it Mr. Malone. We don't mind. But you will see the turn some
day. These articles may rise up in judgement."

"I will treat it fairly, I assure you."

"Well, we ask no more." The medium was leaning with her elbow on the
mantel piece, austere and aloof.

"I am afraid you are tired," said Enid.

"No, young lady, I am never tired in doing the work of the spirit
people. They see to that."

"May I ask," Malone ventured, "whether you ever knew Professor
Summerlee?"

The medium shook her head. "No, sir, no. They always think I know
them. I know none of them. They come and I describe them."

"How do you get the message?"

"Clairaudient. I hear it. I hear them all the time. The poor things
all want to come through and they pluck at me and pull me and pester
me on the platform. 'Me next--me--me'! That's what I hear. I do my
best, but I can't handle them all."

"Can you tell me anything of that prophetic person?" asked Malone of
the chairman. Mr. Bolsover shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating
smile.

"He is an Independent. We see him now and again as a sort of comet
passing across us. By the way, it comes back to me that he prophesied
the war. I'm a practical man myself. Sufficient for the day is the
evil thereof. We get plenty in ready cash without any bills for the
future. Well, good night! Treat us as well as you can."

"Good night," said Enid.

"Good night," said Mrs. Debbs. "By the way, young lady, you are a
medium yourself. Good night!"

And so they found themselves in the street once more inhaling long
draughts of the night air. It was sweet after that crowded hall. A
minute later they were in the rush of the Edgware Road and Malone had
hailed a cab to carry them back to Victoria Gardens.



3. In Which Professor Challenger Gives His Opinion

ENID had stepped into the cab and Malone was following when his name
was called and a man came running down the street. He was tall,
middle-aged, handsome and well-dressed, with the clean-shaven,
self-confident face of the successful surgeon.

"Hullo, Malone! Stop!"

"Why, it's Atkinson! Enid, let me introduce you. This is Mr. Atkinson
of St. Mary's about whom I spoke to your father. Can we give you a
lift? We are going towards Victoria."

"Capital!" The surgeon followed them into the cab. "I was amazed to
see you at a Spiritualist meeting."

"We were only there professionally. Miss Challenger and I are both on
the Press."

"Oh, really! The Daily Gazette, I suppose, as before. Well, you will
have one more subscriber, for I shall want to see what you made of
to-night's show."

"You'll have to wait till next Sunday. It is one of a series."

"Oh, I say, I can't wait as long as that. What did you make of it?"

"I really don't know. I shall have to read my notes carefully
to-morrow and think it over, and compare impressions with my colleague
here. She has the intuition, you see, which goes for so much in
religious matters."

"And what is your intuition, Miss Challenger?"

"Good--oh yes, good! But, dear me, what an extraordinary mixture!"

"Yes, indeed. I have been several times and it always leaves the same
mixed impression upon my own mind. Some of it is ludicrous, and some
of it might be dishonest, and yet again some of it is clearly
wonderful."

"But you are not on the Press. Why were you there?"

"Because I am deeply interested. You see, I am a student of psychic
matters and have been for some years am not a convinced one but I am
sympathetic, and I have sufficient sense of proportion to realize that
while I seem to be sitting in judgment upon the subject it may in
truth be the subject which is sitting in judgment upon me."

Malone nodded appreciation.

"It is enormous. You will realize that as you get to close grips with
it. It is half a dozen great subjects in one. And it is all in the
hands of these good humble folk who, in the face of every
discouragement and personal loss, have carried it on for more than
seventy years. It is really very like the rise of Christianity. It was
run by slaves and underlings until it gradually extended upwards.
There were three hundred years between Caesar's slave and Caesar
getting the light."

"But the preacher!" cried Enid in protest.

Mr. Atkinson laughed.

"You mean our friend from Atlantis. What a terrible bore the fellow
was! I confess I don't know what to make of performances like that.
Self-deception, I think, and the temporary emergence of some fresh
strand of personality which dramatizes itself in this way. The only
thing I am quite sure of is that it is not really an inhabitant of
Atlantis who arrives from his long voyage with this awful cargo of
platitudes. Well, here we are!"

"I have to deliver this young lady safe and sound to her father," said
Malone. "Look here, Atkinson, don't leave us. The Professor would
really like to see you."

"What at this hour! Why, he would throw me down the stairs."

"You've been hearing stories," said Enid. "Really it is not so bad as
that. Some people annoy him, but I am sure you are not one of them.
Won't you chance it?"

"With that encouragement, certainly." And the three walked down the
bright outer corridor to the lift. Challenger, clad now in a brilliant
blue dressing-gown, was eagerly awaiting them. He eyed Atkinson as a
fighting bulldog eyes some canine stranger. The inspection seemed to
satisfy him, however, for he growled that he was glad to meet him.

"I've heard of your name, sir, and of your rising reputation. Your
resection of the cord last year made some stir, I understand. But have
you been down among the lunatics also?"

"Well, if you call them so," said Atkinson with a laugh.

"Good Heavens, what else could I call them? I remember now that my
young friend here" (Challenger had a way of alluding to Malone as if
he were a promising boy of ten) "told me you were studying the
subject." He roared with offensive laughter. "'The proper study of
mankind is spooks', eh, Mr. Atkinson?"

"Dad really knows nothing about it, so don't be offended with him,"
said Enid. "But I assure you, Dad, you would have been interested."
She proceeded to give a sketch of their adventures, though interrupted
by a running commentary of groans, grunts and derisive jeers. It was
only when the Summerlee episode was reached that Challenger's
indignation and contempt could no longer be restrained. The old
volcano blew his head off and a torrent of red-hot invective descended
upon his listeners.

"The blasphemous rascals!" he shouted. "To think that they can't let
poor old Summerlee rest in his grave. We had our differences in his
time and I will admit that I was compelled to take a moderate view of
his intelligence" but if he came back from the grave he would
certainly have something worth hearing to say to us. It is an
absurdity--a wicked, indecent absurdity upon the face of it. I
object to any friend of mine being made a puppet for the laughter of
an audience of fools. They didn't laugh! They must have laughed when
they heard an educated man, a man whom I have met upon equal terms,
talking such nonsense. I say it was nonsense. Don't contradict me,
Malone. I won't have it! His message might have been the postscript
of a schoolgirl's letter. Isn't that nonsense, coming from such a
source? Are you not in agreement, Mr. Atkinson? No! I had hoped
better things from you."

"But the description?"

"Good Heavens, where are your brains? Have not the names of Summerlee
and Malone been associated with my own in some peculiarly feeble
fiction which attained some notoriety? Is it not also known that you
two innocents were doing the Churches week by week? Was it not patent
that sooner or later you would come to a Spiritualist gathering? Here
was a chance for a convert! They set a bait and poor old gudgeon
Malone came along and swallowed it. Here he is with the hook still
stuck in his silly mouth. Oh, yes, Malone, plain speaking is needed
and you shall have it." The Professor's black mane was bristling and
his eyes glaring from one member of the company to another.

"Well, we want every view expressed," said Atkinson.

"You seem very qualified, sir, to express the negative one. At the
same time I would repeat in my own person the words of Thackeray. He
said to some objector: 'What you say is natural, but if you had seen
what I have seen you might alter your opinion'. Perhaps sometime you
will be able to look into the matter, for your high position in the
scientific world would give your opinion great weight."

"If I have a high place in the scientific world as you say, it is
because I have concentrated upon what is useful and discarded what is
nebulous or absurd. My brain, sir, does not pare the edges. It cuts
right through. It has cut right through this and has found fraud and
folly."

"Both are there at times," said Atkinson, "and yetand yet! Ah,
well, Malone, I'm some way from home and it is late. You will excuse
me, Professor. I am honoured to have met you."

Malone was leaving also and the two friends had a few minutes' chat
before they went their separate ways, Atkinson to Wimpole Street and
Malone to South Norwood, where he was now living.

"Grand old fellow!" said Malone, chuckling. "You must never get
offended with him. He means no harm. He is splendid."

"Of course he is. But if anything could make me a real out-and-out
Spiritualist it is that sort of intolerance. It is very common, though
it is generally cast rather in the tone of the quiet sneer than of the
noisy roar. I like the latter best. By the way, Malone, if you care to
go deeper into this subject I may be able to help you. You've heard of
Linden?"

"Linden, the professional medium. Yes, I've been told he is the
greatest blackguard unhung."

"Ah, well, they usually talk of them like that. You must judge for
yourself. He put his knee-cap out last winter and I put it in again,
and that has made a friendly bond between us. It's not always easy to
get him, and of course a small fee, a guinea I think, is usual, but if
you wanted a sitting I could work it."

"You think him genuine?"

Atkinson shrugged his shoulders.

"I daresay they all take the line of least resistance. I can only say
that I have never detected him in fraud. You must judge for yourself."

"I will," said Malone. "I am getting hot on this trail. And there is
copy in it, too. When things are more easy I'll write to you,
Atkinson, and we can go more deeply into the matter."



4. Which Describes Some Strange Doings in Hammersmith

THE article by the Joint Commissioners (such was their glorious title)
aroused interest and contention. It had been accompanied by a
depreciating leaderette from the sub-editor which was meant to calm
the susceptibilities of his orthodox readers, as who should say:
"These things have to be noticed and seem to be true, but of course
you and I recognize how pestilential it all is." Malone found himself
at once plunged into a huge correspondence, for and against, which in
itself was enough to show how vitally the question was in the minds of
men. All the previous articles had only elicited a growl here or there
from a hide-bound Catholic or from an iron-clad Evangelical, but now
his post-bag was full. Most of them were ridiculing the idea that
psychic forces existed and many were from writers who, whatever they
might know of psychic forces, had obviously not yet learned to spell.
The Spiritualists were in many cases not more pleased than the others,
for Malone had--even while his account was true--exercised a
journalist's privilege of laying an accent on the more humorous sides
of it.

One morning in the succeeding week Mr. Malone was aware of a large
presence in the small room wherein he did his work at the office. A
page-boy, who preceded the stout visitor, had laid a card on the
corner of the table which bore the legend 'James Bolsover, Provision
Merchant, High Street, Hammersmith.' It was none other than the genial
president of last Sunday's congregation. He wagged a paper accusingly
at Malone, but his good-humoured face was wreathed in smiles.

"Well, well," said he. "I told you that the funny side would get you."

"Don't you think it a fair account?"

"Well, yes, Mr. Malone, I think you and the young woman have done
your best for us. But, of course, you know nothing and it all seems
queer to you. Come to think of it, it would be a deal queerer if all
the clever men who leave this earth could not among them find some way
of getting a word back to us."

"But it's such a stupid word sometimes."

"Well, there are a lot of stupid people leave the world. They don't
change. And then, you know, one never knows what sort of message is
needed. We had a clergyman in to see Mrs. Debbs yesterday. He was
broken-hearted because he had lost his daughter. Mrs. Debbs got
several messages through that she was happy and that only his grief
hurt her. 'That's no use', said he. 'Anyone could say that. That's
not my girl'. And then suddenly she said: 'But I wish to goodness
you would not wear a Roman collar with a coloured shirt'. That
sounded a trivial message, but the man began to cry. 'That's her',
he sobbed. 'She was always chipping me about my collars'. It's the
little things that count in this life--just the homely, intimate
things, Mr. Malone."

Malone shook his head.

"Anyone would remark on a coloured shirt and a clerical collar."

Mr. Bolsover laughed. "You're a hard proposition. So was I once, so I
can't blame you. But I called here with a purpose. I expect you are a
busy man and I know that I am, so I'll get down to the brass tacks.
First, I wanted to say that all our people that have any sense are
pleased with the article. Mr. Algernon Mailey wrote me that it would
do good, and if he is pleased we are all pleased."

"Mailey the barrister?"

"Mailey, the religious reformer. That's how he will be known."

"Well, what else?"

"Only that we would help you if you and the young lady wanted to go
further in the matter. Not for publicity, mind you, but just for your
own good--though we don't shrink from publicity, either. I have
psychical phenomena seances at my own home without a professional
medium, and if you would like..."

"There's nothing I would like so much."

"Then you shall come--both of you. I don't have many outsiders. I
wouldn't have one of those psychic research people inside my doors.
Why should I go out of my way to be insulted by all their suspicions
and their traps? They seem to think that folk have no feelings. But
you have some ordinary common sense. That's all we ask."

"But I don't believe. Would that not stand in the way?"

"Not in the least. So long as you are fair-minded and don't disturb
the conditions, all is well. Spirits out of the body don't like
disagreeable people any more than spirits in the body do. Be gentle
and civil, same as you would to any other company."

"Well, I can promise that."

"They are funny sometimes," said Mr. Bolsover, in reminiscent vein.
"It is as well to keep on the right side of them. They are not allowed
to hurt humans, but we all do things we're not allowed to do, and they
are very human themselves. You remember how The Times correspondent
got his head cut open with the tambourine in one of the Davenport
Brothers' seances. Very wrong, of course, but it happened. No friend
ever got his head cut open. There was another case down Stepney way. A
money lender went to a seance. Some victim that he had driven to
suicide got into the medium. He got the moneylender by the throat and
it was a close thing for his life. But I'm off, Mr. Malone. We sit
once a week and have done for four years without a break. Eight
o'clock Thursdays. Give us a day's notice and I'll get Mr. Mailey to
meet you. He can answer questions better than I. Next Thursday! Very
good." And Mr. Bolsover lurched out of the room.

Both Malone and Enid Challenger had, perhaps, been more shaken by
their short experience than they had admitted, but both were sensible
people who agreed that every possible natural cause should be
exhausted--and very thoroughly exhausted--before the bounds of
what is possible should be enlarged. Both of them had the utmost
respect for the ponderous intellect of Challenger and were affected by
his strong views, though Malone was compelled to admit in the frequent
arguments in which he was plunged that the opinion of a clever man who
has had no experience is really of less value than that of the man in
the street who has actually been there.

These arguments, as often as not, were with Mervin, editor of the
psychic paper Dawn, which dealt with every phase of the occult, from
the lore of the Rosicrucians to the strange regions of the students of
the Great Pyramid, or of those who uphold the Jewish origin of our
blonde Anglo-Saxons. Mervin was a small, eager man with a brain of a
high order, which might have carried him to the most lucrative heights
of his profession had he not determined to sacrifice worldly prospects
in order to help what seemed to him to be a great truth. As Malone was
eager for knowledge and Mervin was equally keen to impart it, the
waiters at the Literary Club found it no easy matter to get them away
from the corner-table in the window at which they were wont to lunch.
Looking down at the long, grey curve of the Embankment and the noble
river with its vista of bridges, the pair would linger over their
coffee, smoking cigarettes and discussing various sides of this most
gigantic and absorbing subject, which seemed already to have disclosed
new horizons to the mind of Malone.

There was one warning given by Mervin which aroused impatience
amounting almost to anger in Malone's mind. He had the hereditary
Irish objection to coercion and it seemed to him to be appearing once
more in an insidious and particularly objectionable form.

"You are going to one of Bolsover's family seances," said Mervin.
"They are, of course, well known among our people, though few have been
actually admitted, so you may consider yourself privileged. He has
clearly taken a fancy to you."

"He thought I wrote fairly about them."

"Well, it wasn't much of an article, but still among the dreary,
purblind nonsense that assails us it did show some traces of dignity
and balance and sense of proportion."

Malone waved a deprecating cigarette.

"Bolsover's seances and others like them are, or course, things of no
moment to the real psychic. They are like the rude foundations of a
building which certainly help to sustain the edifice, but are
forgotten when once you come to inhabit it. It is the higher
superstructure with which we have to do. You would think that the
physical phenomena were the whole subject--those and a fringe of
ghosts and haunted houses--if you were to believe the cheap papers who
cater for the sensationalist. Of course, these physical phenomena have
a use of their own. They rivet the attention of the inquirer and
encourage him to go further. Personally, having seen them all, I would
not go across the road to see them again. But I would go across many
roads to get high messages from the beyond."

"Yes, I quite appreciate the distinction, looking at it from your
point of view. Personally, of course, I am equally agnostic as to the
messages and the phenomena."

"Quite so. St. Paul was a good psychic. He makes the point so neatly
that even his ignorant translators were unable to disguise the real
occult meanings as they have succeeded in doing in so many cases."

"Can you quote it?"

"I know my New Testament pretty well, but I am not letter-perfect. It
is the passage where he says that the gift of tongues, which was an
obvious sensational thing, was for the uninstructed, but that
prophecies, that is real spiritual messages, were for the elect. In
other words that an experienced Spiritualist has no need of
phenomena."

"I'll look that passage up."

"You will find it in Corinthians, I think. By the way, there must
have been a pretty high average of intelligence among those old
congregations if Paul's letters could have been read aloud to them and
thoroughly comprehended."

"That is generally admitted, is it not?"

"Well, it is a concrete example of it. However, I am down a
side-track. What I wanted to say to you is that you must not take
Bolsover's little spirit circus too seriously. It is honest as far as
it goes, but it goes a mighty short way. It's a disease, this
phenomena hunting. I know some of our people, women mostly, who buzz
around seance rooms continually, seeing the same thing over and over,
sometimes real, sometimes, I fear, imitation. What better are they for
that as souls or as citizens or in any other way? No, when your foot
is firm on the bottom rung don't mark time on it, but step up to the
next rung and get firm upon that."

"I quite get your point. But I'm still on the solid ground."

"Solid!" cried Mervin. "Good Lord! But the paper goes to press
to-day and I must get down to the printer. With a circulation of ten
thousand or so we do things modestly, you know--not like you
plutocrats of the daily press. I am practically the staff."

"You said you had a warning."

"Yes, yes, I wanted to give you a warning." Mervin's thin, eager face
became intensely serious. "If you have any ingrained religious or
other prejudices which may cause you to turn down this subject after
you have investigated it, then don't investigate at all--for it is
dangerous."

"What do you mean--dangerous?"

"They don't mind honest doubt, or honest criticism, but if they are
badly treated they are dangerous."

"Who are 'they'?"

"Ah, who are they? I wonder. Guides, controls, psychic entities of
some kind. Who the agents of vengeance--or I should say justice--are,
is really not essential. The point is that they exist."

"Oh, rot, Mervin!"

"Don't be too sure of that."

"Pernicious rot! These are the old theological bogies of the Middle
Ages coming up again. I am surprised at a sensible man like you!"

Mervin smiled--he had a whimsical smile--but his eyes, looking out
from under bushy yellow brows, were as serious as ever.

"You may come to change your opinion. There are some queer sides to
this question. As a friend I put you wise to this one."

"Well, put me wise, then."

Thus encouraged, Mervin went into the matter. He rapidly sketched the
career and fate of a number of men who had, in his opinion, played an
unfair game with these forces, become an obstruction, and suffered for
it. He spoke of judges who had given prejudiced decisions against the
cause, of journalists who had worked up stunt cases for sensational
purposes and to throw discredit on the movement; of others who had
interviewed mediums to make game of them, or who, having started to
investigate, had drawn back alarmed, and given a negative decision
when their inner soul knew that the facts were true. It was a
formidable list, for it was long and precise, but Malone was not to be
driven.

"If you pick your cases I have no doubt one could make such a list
about any subject. Mr. Jones said that Raphael was a bungler, and Mr.
Jones died of angina pectoris. Therefore it is dangerous to criticize
Raphael. That seems to be the argument."

"Well, if you like to think so."

"Take the other side. Look at Morgate. He has always been an enemy,
for he is a convinced materialist. But he prospers--look at his
professorship."

"Ah, an honest doubter. Certainly. Why not?"

"And Morgan who at one time exposed mediums."

"If they were really false he did good service."

"And Falconer who has written so bitterly about you?"

"Ah, Falconer! Do you know anything of Falconer's private life? No.
Well, take it from me he has got his dues. He doesn't know why. Some
day these gentlemen will begin to compare notes and then it may dawn
on them. But they get it."

He went on to tell a horrible story of one who had devoted his
considerable talents to picking Spiritualism to pieces, though really
convinced of its truth, because his worldly ends were served thereby.
The end was ghastly--too ghastly for Malone.

"Oh, cut it out, Mervin!" he cried impatiently. "I'll say what I
think, no more and no less, and I won't be cared by you or your spooks
into altering my opinions."

"I never asked you to."

"You got a bit near it. What you have said strikes me as pure
superstition. If what you say is true you should have the police after
you."

"Yes, if we did it. But it is out of our hands. However, Malone, for
what it's worth I have given you the warning and you can now go your
way. Bye-bye! You can always ring me up at the office of Dawn."

If you want to know if a man is of the true Irish blood there is one
infallible test. Put him in front of a swing-door with "Push" or
"Pull" printed upon it. The Englishman will obey like a sensible man.
The Irishman, with less sense but more individuality, will at once and
with vehemence do the opposite. So it was with Malone. Mervin's
well-meant warning simply raised a rebellious spirit within him, and
when he called for Enid to take her to the Bolsover seance he had gone
back several degrees in his dawning sympathy for the subject.
Challenger bade them farewell with many gibes, his beard projecting
forward and his eyes closed with upraised eyebrows, as was his wont
when inclined to be facetious.

"You have your powder-bag, my dear Enid. If you see a particularly
good specimen of ectoplasm in the course of the evening don't forget
your father. I have a microscope, chemical reagents and everything
ready. Perhaps even a small poltergeist might come your way. Any
trifle would be welcome."

His bull's bellow of laughter followed them into the lift.

The provision merchant's establishment of Mr. Bolsover proved to be a
euphemism for an old-fashioned grocer's shop in the most crowded part
of Hammersmith. The neighbouring church was chiming out the
three-quarters as the taxi drove up, and the shop was full of people.
So Enid and Malone walked up and down outside. As they were so engaged
another taxi drove up and a large, untidy-looking, ungainly bearded
man in a suit of Harris tweed stepped out of it. He glanced at his
watch and then began to pace the pavement. Presently he noted the
others and came up to them.

"May I ask if you are the journalists who are going to attend the
seance? I thought so. Old Bolsover is terribly busy so you were
wise to wait. Bless him, he is one of God's saints in his way."

"You are Mr. Algernon Mailey, I presume?"

"Yes. I am the gentleman whose credulity is giving rise to
considerable anxiety upon the part of my friends, as one of the rags
remarked the other day." His laugh was so infectious that the others
were-bound to laugh also. Certainly, with his athletic proportions,
which had run a little to seed but were still notable, and with his
virile voice and strong if homely face, he gave no impression of
instability.

"We are all labelled with some stigma by our opponents" said he. "I
wonder what yours will be."

"We must not sail under false colours, Mr. Mailey," said Enid. "We
are not yet among the believers."

"Quite right. You should take your time over it. It is infinitely the
most important thing in the world, so it is worth taking time over. I
took many years myself. Folk can be blamed for neglecting it, but no
one can be blamed for being cautious in examination. Now I am all out
for it, as you are aware, because I know it is true. There is such a
difference between believing and knowing. I lecture a good deal. But I
never want to convert my audience. I don't believe in sudden
conversions. They are shallow, superficial things. All I want is to
put the thing before the people as clearly as I can. I just tell them
the truth and why we know it is the truth. Then my job is done. They
can take it or leave it. If they are wise they will explore along the
paths that I indicate. If they are unwise they miss their chance. I
don't want to press them or to proselytize. It's their affair, not
mine."

"Well, that seems a reasonable view," said Enid, who was attracted by
the frank manner of their new acquaintance. They were standing now in
the full flood of light cast by Bolsover's big plate-glass window. She
had a good look at him, his broad forehead, his curious grey eyes,
thoughtful and yet eager, his straw-coloured beard which indicated the
outline of an aggressive chin. He was solidity personified--the very
opposite of the fanatic whom she had imagined. His name had been a
good deal in the papers lately as a protagonist in the long battle,
and she remembered that it had never been mentioned without an
answering snort from her father.

"I wonder," she said to Malone, "what would happen if Mr. Mailey
were locked up in a room with Dad!"

Malone laughed. "There used to be a schoolboy question as to what
would occur if an irresistible force were to strike an invincible
obstacle."

"Oh, you are the daughter of Professor Challenger," said Mailey with
interest. "He is a big figure in the scientific world. What a grand
world it would be if it would only realize its own limitations."

"I don't quite follow you."

"It is this scientific world which is at the bottom of much of our
materialism. It has helped us in comfort--if comfort is any use to us.
Otherwise it has usually been a curse to us, for it has called itself
progress and given us a false impression that we are making progress,
whereas we are really drifting very steadily backwards."

"Really, I can't quite agree with you there, Mr. Mailey," said
Malone, who was getting restive under what seemed to him dogmatic
assertion. "Look at wireless. Look at the S.O.S. call at sea. Is that
not a benefit to mankind?"

"Oh, it works out all right sometimes. I value my electric
reading-lamp, and that is a product of science. It gives us, as I said
before, comfort and occasionally safety."

"Why, then, do you depreciate it?"

"Because it obscures the vital thing--the object of life. We were not
put into this planet in order that we should go fifty miles an hour in
a motor-car, or cross the Atlantic in an airship, or send messages
either with or without wires. These are the mere trimmings and fringes
of life. But these men of science have so riveted our attention on
these fringes that we forget the central object."

"I don't follow you."

"It is not how fast you go that matters, it is the object of your
journey. It is not how you send a message, it is what the value of the
message may be. At every stage this so-called progress may be a curse,
and yet as long as we use the word we confuse it with real progress
and imagine that we are doing that for which God sent us into the
world."

"Which is?"

"To prepare ourselves for the next phase of life. There is mental
preparation and spiritual preparation, and we are neglecting both. To
be in an old age better men and women, more unselfish, more
broadminded, more genial and tolerant, that is what we are for. It is
a soul factory, and it is turning out a bad article. But Hullo!" he
burst into his infectious laugh. "Here I am delivering my lecture in
the street. Force of habit, you see. My son says that if you press the
third button of my waistcoat I automatically deliver a lecture. But
here is the good Bolsover to your rescue."

The worthy grocer had caught sight of them through the window and came
bustling out, untying his white apron.

"Good evening, all! I won't have you waiting in the cold. Besides,
there's the clock, and time's up. It does not do to keep them waiting.
Punctuality for all that's my motto and theirs. My lads will shut up
the shop. This way, and mind the sugar-barrel."

They threaded their way amid boxes of dried fruits and piles of
cheese, finally passing between two great casks which hardly left room
for the grocer's portly form. A narrow door beyond opened into the
residential part of the establishment. Ascending the narrow stair,
Bolsover threw open a door and the visitors found themselves in a
considerable room in which a number of people were seated round a
large table. There was Mrs. Bolsover herself, large, cheerful and
buxom like her husband. Three daughters were all of the same pleasing
type. There was an elderly woman who seemed to be some relation, and
two other colourless females who were described as neighbours and
Spiritualists. The only other man was a little grey-headed fellow with
a pleasant face and quick, twinkling eyes, who sat at a harmonium in
the corner.

"Mr. Smiley, our musician," said Bolsover. "I don't know what we
could do without Mr. Smiley. It's vibrations, you know. Mr. Mailey
could tell you about that. Ladies, you know Mr. Mailey, our very good
friend. And these are the two inquirers--Miss Challenger and Mr.
Malone." The Bolsover family all smiled genially, but the nondescript
elderly person rose to her feet and surveyed them with an austere
face.

"You're very welcome here, you two strangers," she said. "But we
would say to you that we want outward reverence. We respect the
shining ones and we will not have them insulted."

"I assure you we are very earnest and fairminded," said Malone.

"We've had our lesson. We haven't forgotten the Meadows' affair, Mr.
Bolsover."

"No, no, Mrs. Seldon. That won't happen again. We were rather upset
over that," Bolsover added, turning to the visitors. "That man came
here as our guest, and when the lights were out he poked the other
sitters with his finger so as to make them think it was a spirit hand.
Then he wrote the whole thing up as an exposure in the public Press,
when the only fraudulent thing present had been himself."

Malone was honestly shocked. "I can assure you we are incapable of
such conduct."

The old lady sat down, but still regarded them with a suspicious eye.
Bolsover bustled about and got things ready.

"You sit here Mr. Mailey. Mr. Malone, will you sit between my wife
and my daughter? Where would the young lady like to sit?"

Enid was feeling rather nervous. "I think," said she, "that I would
like to sit next to Mr. Malone."

Bolsover chuckled and winked at his wife.

"Quite so. Most natural, I am sure." They all settled into their
places. Mr. Bolsover had switched off the electric light, but a candle
burned in the middle of the table. Malone thought what a picture it
would have made for a Rembrandt. Deep shadows draped it in, but the
yellow light flickered upon the circle of faces--the strong, homely,
heavy features of Bolsover, the solid line of his family circle, the
sharp, austere countenance of Mrs. Seldon, the earnest eyes and yellow
beard of Mailey, the worn, tired faces of the two Spiritualist women,
and finally the firm, noble profile of the girl who sat beside him.
The whole world had suddenly narrowed down to that one little group,
so intensely concentrated upon its own purpose.

On the table there was scattered a curious collection of objects,
which had all the same appearance of tools which had long been used.
There was a battered brass speaking-trumpet, very discoloured, a
tambourine, a musical-box, and a number of smaller objects. "We never
know what they may want," said Bolsover, waving his hand over them.
"If Wee One calls for a thing and it isn't there she lets us know all
about it--oh, yes, something shocking!"

"She has a temper of her own has Wee One," remarked Mrs. Bolsover.

"Why not, the pretty dear?" said the austere lady. "I expect she
has enough to try it with researchers and what-not. I often wonder she
troubles to come at all."

"Wee One is our little girl guide," said Bolsover. "You'll hear her
presently."

"I do hope she will come," said Enid.

"Well, she never failed us yet, except when that man Meadows clawed
hold of the trumpet and put it outside the circle."

"Who is the medium?" asked Malone.

"Well, we don't know ourselves. We all help, I think. Maybe, I give
as much as anyone. And mother, she is a help."

"Our family is a co-operative store," said his wife, and everyone
laughed.

"I thought one medium was necessary."

"It is usual but not necessary," said Mailey in his deep,
authoritative voice. "Crawford showed that pretty clearly in the
Gallagher seances when he proved, by weighing chairs, that everyone in
the circle lost from half to two pounds at a sitting, though the
medium, Miss Kathleen, lost as many as ten or twelve. Here the long
series of sittings--How long, Mr. Bolsover?"

"Four years unbroken."

"The long series has developed everyone to some extent, so that there
is a high average output from each, instead of an extraordinary amount
from one."

"Output of what?"

"Animal magnetism, ectoplasm--in fact, power. That is the most
comprehensive word. The Christ used that word. 'Much power has gone
out of me'. It is 'dunamis' in the Greek, but the translators
missed the point and translated it 'virtue'. If a good Greek scholar
who was also a profound occult student was to re-translate the New
Testament we should get some eye-openers. Dear old Ellis Powell did a
little in that direction. His death was a loss to the world."

"Aye, indeed," said Bolsover in a reverent voice. "But now, before
we get to work, Mr. Malone, I want you just to note one or two things.
You see the white spots on the trumpet and the tambourine? Those are
luminous points so that we can see where they are. The table is just
our dining-table, good British oak. You can examine it if you like.
But you'll see things that won't depend upon the table. Now, Mr.
Smiley, out goes the light and we'll ask you for 'The Rock of Ages'."

The harmonium droned in the darkness and the circle sang. They sang
very tunefully, too, for the girls had fresh voices and true ears. Low
and vibrant, the solemn rhythm became most impressive when no sense
but that of hearing was free to act. Their hands, according to
instructions, were laid lightly upon the table, and they were warned
not to cross their legs. Malone, with his hand touching Enid's, could
feel the little quiverings which showed that her nerves were highly
strung. The homely, jovial voice of Bolsover relieved the tension.

"That should do it," he said. "I feel as if the conditions were good
to-night. Just a touch of frost in the air, too. I'll ask you now to
join with me in prayer."

It was effective, that simple, earnest prayer in the darkness--an
inky darkness which was only broken by the last red glow of a dying
fire.

"Oh, great Father of us all," said the voice. "You who are beyond our
thoughts and who yet pervade our lives, grant that all evil may be
kept from us this night and that we may be privileged to get in touch,
if only for an hour, with those who dwell upon a higher plane than
ours. You are our Father as well as theirs. Permit us, for a short
space, to meet in brotherhood, that we may have an added knowledge of
that eternal life which awaits us, and so be helped during our years
of waiting in this lower world." He ended with the "Our Father", in
which we all joined. Then they all sat in expectant silence Outside
was the dull roar of traffic and the occasional ill-tempered squawk of
a passing car. Inside there was absolute stillness. Enid and Malone
felt every sense upon the alert and every nerve on edge as they gazed
out into the gloom.

"Nothing doing, mother," said Bolsover at last. "It's the strange
company. New vibrations. They have to tune them in to get harmony.
Give us another tune, Mr. Smiley." Again the harmonium droned. It was
still playing when a woman's voice cried: "Stop! Stop! They are
here!"

Again they waited without result.

"Yes! Yes! I heard Wee One. She is here, right enough. I'm sure of
it."

Silence again, and then it came--such a marvel to the visitors, such
a matter of course to the circle.

"Gooda evenin'!" cried a voice.

There was a burst of greeting and of welcoming laughter from the
circle. They were all speaking at once. "Good evening, Wee One!"
"There you are, dear!" "I knew you would come!" "Well done, little
girl guide!"

"Gooda evenin', all!" replied the voice. "Wee One so glad see Daddy
and Mummy and the rest. Oh, what big man with beard! Mailey, Mister
Mailey, I meet him before. He big Mailey, I little femaley. Glad to
see you, Mr. Big Man."

Enid and Malone listened with amazement, but it was impossible to be
nervous in face of the perfectly natural way in which the company
accepted it. The voice was very thin and high--more so than any
artificial falsetto could produce. It was the voice of a female child.
That was certain. Also that there was no female child in the room
unless one had been smuggled in after the light went out. That was
possible. But the voice seemed to be in the middle of the table. How
could a child get there?

"Easy get there, Mr. Gentleman," said the voice, answering his
unspoken thought. "Daddy strong man. Daddy lift Wee One on to table.
Now I show what Daddy not able to do."

"The trumpet's up!" cried Bolsover.

The little circle of luminous paint rose noiselessly into the air. Now
it was swaying above their heads.

"Go up and hit the ceiling!" cried Bolsover. Up it went and they
heard the metallic tapping above them. Then the high voice came from
above:

"Clever Daddy! Daddy got fishing-rod and put trumpet up to ceiling.
But how Daddy make the voice, eh? What you say, pretty English Missy?
Here is a present from Wee One."

Something soft dropped on Enid's lap. She put her hand down and felt
it.

"It's a flower--a chrysanthemum. Thank you, Wee One!"

"An apport?" asked Mailey.

"No, no, Mr. Mailey," said Bolsover. "They were in the vase on the
harmonium. Speak to her, Miss Challenger. Keep the vibrations going."

"Who are you, Wee One?" asked Enid, looking up at the moving spot
above her.

"I am little black girl. Eight-year-old little black girl."

"Oh, come, dear," said mother in her rich, coaxing voice. "You were
eight when you came to us first, and that was years ago."

"Years ago to you. All one time to me. I to do my job as eight-year
child. When job done then Wee One become Big One all in one day. No
time here, same as you have. I always eight-year-old."

"In the ordinary way they grow up exactly as we do here," said Mailey.
"But if they have a special bit of work for which a child is needed,
then as a child they remain It's a sort of arrested development."

"That's me. 'Rested envelopment'," said the voice proudly. "I learn
good England when big man here."

They all laughed. It was the most genial, free-and-easy association
possible. Malone heard Enid's voice whispering in his ear.

"Pinch me from time to time, Edward--just to make me sure that I am
not in a dream."

"I have to pinch myself, too."

"What about your song, Wee One?" asked Bolsover.

"Oh, yes, indeeda! Wee One sing to you." She began some simple song,
but faded away in a squeak, while the trumpet clattered on to the
table.

"Ah, power run down!" said Mailey. "I think a little more music will
set us right. 'Lead, Kindly Light'"

They sang the beautiful hymn together. As the verse closed an amazing
thing happened--amazing, at least, to the novices, though it called
for no remark from the circle. The trumpet still shone upon the table,
but two voices, those apparently of a man and a woman, broke out in
the air above them and joined very tunefully in the singing. The hymn
died away and all was silence and tense expectancy once more.

It was broken by a deep male voice from the darkness. It was an
educated English voice, well modulated, a voice which spoke in a
fashion to which the good Bolsover could never attain.

"Good evening, friends. The power seems good tonight."

"Good evening, Luke. Good evening!" cried everyone.

"It is our teaching guide," Bolsover explained. "He is a high spirit
from the sixth sphere who gives us instruction."

"I may seem high to you," said the voice. "But what am I to those in
turn who instruct me! It is not my wisdom. Give me no credit. I do
but pass it on."

"Always like that," said Bolsover. "No swank. It's a sign of his
height."

"I see you have two inquirers present. Good evening, young lady! You
know nothing of your own powers or destiny. You will find them out.
Good evening, sir, you are on the threshold of great knowledge. Is
there any subject upon which you would wish me to say a few words? I
see that you are making notes."

Malone had, as a fact, disengaged his hand in the darkness and was
jotting down in shorthand the sequence of events.

"What shall I speak of?"

"Of love and marriage," suggested Mrs. Bolsover, nudging her husband.

"Well, I will say a few words on that. I will not take long, for
others are waiting. The room is crowded with spirit people. I wish you
to understand that there is one man, and only one, for each woman, and
one woman only for each man. When those two meet they fly together and
are one through all the endless chain of existence. Until they meet
all unions are mere accidents which have no meaning. Sooner or later
each couple becomes complete. It may not be here. It may be in the
next sphere where the sexes meet as they do on earth. Or it may be
further delayed. But every man and every woman has his or her
affinity, and will find it. Of earthly marriages perhaps one in five
is permanent. The others are accidental. Real marriage is of the soul
and spirit. Sex actions are a mere external symbol which mean nothing
and are foolish, or even pernicious, when the thing which they should
symbolize is wanting. Am I clear?"

"Very clear," said Mailey.

"Some have the wrong mate here. Some have no mate, which is more
fortunate. But all will sooner or later get the right mate. That is
certain. Do not think that you will not necessarily have your present
husband when you pass over."

"Gawd be praised! Gawd be thanked!" cried a voice.

"No. Mrs. Melder, it is love--real love--which unites us here. He
goes his way. You go yours. You are on separate planes, perhaps. Some
day you will each find your own, when your youth has come back as it
will over here."

"You speak of love. Do you mean sexual love?" asked Mailey.

"Where are we gettin' to?" murmured Mrs. Bolsover.

"Children are not born here. That is only on the earth plane. It was
this aspect of marriage to which the great Teacher referred when he
said: 'There will be neither marriage nor giving in marriage'. No!
It is purer, deeper, more wonderful, a unity of souls, a complete
merging of interests and knowledge without a loss of individuality.
The nearest you ever get to it is the first high passion, too
beautiful for physical expression when two high-souled lovers meet
upon your plane. They find lower expression afterwards, but they will
always in their hearts know that the first delicate, exquisite
soul-union was the more lovely. So it is with us. Any question?"

"If a woman loves two men equally, what then?" asked Malone.

"It seldom happens. She nearly always knows which is really nearest
to her. If she really did so, then it would be a proof that neither
was the real affinity, for he is bound to stand high above all. Of
course, if she..."

The voice trailed off and the trumpet fell.

"Sing 'Angels are hoverin' around'!" cried Bolsover. "Smiley, hit
that old harmonium. The vibrations are at zero."

Another bout of music, another silence, and then a most dismal voice.
Never had Enid heard so sad a voice. It was like clods on a coffin. At
first it was a deep mutter. Then it was a prayer--a Latin prayer
apparently--for twice the word Domine sounded and once the word
peccavimus. There was an indescribable air of depression and
desolation in the room. "For God's sake what is it?" cried Malone.

The circle was equally puzzled.

"Some poor chap out of the lower spheres, I think," said Bolsover.
"Orthodox folk say we should avoid them. I say we should hurry up and
help them."

"Right, Bolsover!" said Mailey, with hearty approval. "Get on with
it, quick!"

"Can we do anything for you, friend?"

There was silence.

"He doesn't know. He doesn't understand the conditions. Where is Luke?
He'll know what to do."

"What is it, friend?" asked the pleasant voice of the guide.

"There is some poor fellow here. We want to help him."

"Ah! yes, yes, he has come from the outer darkness," said Luke in a
sympathetic voice. "He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. They come
over here with a fixed idea, and when they find the real thing is
quite different from anything they have been taught by the Churches,
they are helpless. Some adapt themselves and they go on. Others don't,
and they just wander on unchanging, like this man. He was a cleric,
and a very narrow, bigoted one. This is the growth of his own mental
seed sown upon earth--sown in ignorance and reaped in misery."

"What is amiss with him?"

"He does not know he is dead. He walks in the mist. It is all an evil
dream to him. He has been years so. To him it seems an eternity."

"Why do you not tell him--instruct him?"

"We cannot. We--"

The trumpet crashed.

"Music, Smiley, music! Now the vibrations should be better."

"The higher spirits cannot reach earth-bound folk," said Mailey.
"They are in very different zones of vibration. It is we who are near
them and can help them."

"Yes, you! you!" cried the voice of Luke.

"Mr. Mailey, speak to him. You know him!" The low mutter had broken
out again in the same weary monotone.

"Friend, I would have a word with you," said Mailey in a firm, loud
voice. The mutter ceased and one felt that the invisible presence was
straining its attention. "Friend, we are sorry at your condition. You
have passed on. You see us and you wonder why we do not see you. You
are in the other world. But you do not know it, because it is not as
you expected. You have not been received as you imagined. It is
because you imagined wrong. Understand that all is well, and that God
is good, and that all happiness is awaiting you if you will but raise
your mind and pray for help, and above all think less of your own
condition and more of those other poor souls who are round you."

There was a silence and Luke spoke again.

"He has heard you. He wants to thank you. He has some glimmer now of
his condition. It will grow within him. He wants to know if he may
come again."

"Yes! yes!" cried Bolsover. "We have quite a number who report
progress from time to time. God bless you, friend. Come as often as
you can." The mutter had ceased and there seemed to be a new feeling
of peace in the air. The high voice of Wee One was heard.

"Plenty power still left. Red Cloud here. Show what he can do, if
Daddy likes."

"Red Cloud is our Indian control. He is usually busy when any purely
physical phenomena have to be done. You there, Red Cloud?"

Three loud thuds, like a hammer on wood, sounded from the darkness.

"Good evening, Red Cloud!"

A new voice, slow, staccato, laboured, sounded above them.

"Good day, Chief! How the squaw? How the papooses? Strange faces in
wigwam to-night."

"Seeking knowledge, Red Cloud. Can you show what you can do?"

"I try. Wait a little. Do all I can."

Again there was a long hush of expectancy. Then the novices were faced
once more with the miraculous.

There came a dull glow in the darkness. It was apparently a wisp of
luminous vapour. It whisked across from one side to the other and then
circled in the air. By degrees it condensed into a circular disc of
radiance about the size of a bull's-eye lantern. It cast no reflection
round it and was simply a clean-cut circle in the gloom. Once it
approached Enid's face and Malone saw it clearly from the side.

"Why, there is a hand holding it!" he cried, with sudden suspicion.

"Yes, there is a materialized hand," said Mailey. "I can see it
clearly."

"Would you like it to touch you" Mr. Malone?"

"Yes, if it will."

The light vanished and an instant afterwards Malone felt pressure upon
his own hand. He turned it palm upwards and clearly felt three fingers
laid across it, smooth, warm fingers of adult size. He closed his own
fingers and the hand seemed to melt away in his grasp.

"It has gone!" he gasped.

"Yes! Red Cloud is not very good at materializations. Perhaps we
don't give him the proper sort of power. But his lights are
excellent."

Several more had broken out. They were of different types, slow-moving
clouds and little dancing sparks like glow-worms. At the same time
both visitors were conscious of a cold wind which blew upon their
faces. It was no delusion, for Enid felt her hair stream across her
forehead.

"You fed the rushing wind," said Mailey. "Some of these lights would
pass for tongues of fire, would they not? Pentecost does not seem
such a very remote or impossible thing, does it?"

The tambourine had risen in the air, and the dot of luminous paint
showed that it was circling round. Presently it descended and touched
their heads each in turn. Then with a jingle it quivered down upon the
table.

"Why a tambourine? It seems always to be a tambourine," remarked
Malone.

"It is a convenient little instrument," Mailey explained.

"The only one which shows automatically by its noise where it is
flying. I don't know what other I could suggest except a musical-box."

"Our box here flies round somethin' amazin'," said Mrs. Bolsover.
"It thinks nothing of winding itself up in the air as it flies. It's a
heavy box too."

"Nine pounds," said Bolsover. "Well, we seem to have got to the end
of things. I don't think we shall get much more to-night. It has not
been a bad sitting--what I should call a fair average sitting. We must
wait a little before we turn on the light. Well, Mr. Malone, what do
you think of it? Let's have any objections now before we part. That's
the worst of you inquirers, you know. You often bottle things up in
your own minds and let them loose afterwards, when it would have been
easy to settle it at the time. Very nice and polite to our faces, and
then we are a gang of swindlers in the report."

Malone's head was throbbing and he passed his hand over his heated
brow.

"I am confused," he said, "but impressed. Oh, yes, certainly
impressed. I've read of these things, but it is very different when
you see them. What weighs most with me is the obvious sincerity and
sanity of all you people. No one could doubt that."

"Come. We're gettin' on." said Bolsover.

"I try to think the objections which would be raised by others who
were not present. I'll have to answer them. First, there is the oddity
of it all. It is so different to our preconceptions of spirit people."

"We must fit our theories to the facts," said Mailey. "Up to now we
have fitted the facts to our theories. You must remember that we have
been dealing to-night--with all respect to our dear good hosts--
with a simple, primitive, earthly type of spirit, who has his very
definite uses, but is not to be taken as an average type. You might as
well take the stevedore whom you see on the quay as being a
representative Englishman."

"There's Luke" said Bolsover.

"Ah, yes, he is, of course, very much higher. You heard him and could
judge. What else, Mr. Malone?"

"Well, the darkness! Everything done in darkness. Why should all
mediumship be associated with gloom?"

"You mean all physical mediumship. That is the only branch of the
subject which needs darkness. It is purely chemical, like the darkness
of the photographic room. It preserves the delicate physical substance
which, drawn from the human body, is the basis of these phenomena. A
cabinet is used for the purpose of condensing this same vaporous
substance and helping it to solidify. Am I clear?"

"Yes, but it is a pity all the same. It gives a horrible air of
deceit to the whole business."

"We get it now and again in the light, Mr. Malone," said Bolsover.
"I don't know if Wee One is gone yet. Wait a bit! Where are the
matches?" He lit the candle, which set them all blinking after their
long darkness, "Now let us see what we can do."

There was a round wood platter or circle of wood lying among the
miscellaneous objects littered over the table to serve as playthings
for the strange forces. Bolsover stared at it. They all stared at it.
They had risen but no one was within three feet of it.

"Please, Wee One, please!" cried Mrs. Bolsover. Malone could hardly
believe his eyes. The disc began to move. It quivered and then rattled
upon the table, exactly as the lid of a boiling pot might do.

"Up with it, Wee One!" They were all clapping their hands.

The circle of wood, in the full light of the candle, rose upon edge
and stood there shaking, as if trying to keep its balance.

"Give three tilts, Wee One."

The disc inclined forward three times. Then it fell flat and remained
so.

"I am so glad you have seen that," said Mailey. "There is
Telekenesis in its simplest and most decisive form."

"I could not have believed it!" cried Enid.

"Nor I," said Malone. "I have extended my knowledge of what is
possible. Mr. Bolsover, you have enlarged my views."

"Good, Mr. Malone!"

"As to the power at the back of these things I am still ignorant. As
to the thing themselves I have now and henceforward not the slightest
doubt in the world. I know that they are true. I wish you all good
night. It is not likely that Miss Challenger or I will ever forget the
evening that we have spent under your roof"

It was like another world when they came out into the frosty air, and
saw the taxis bearing back the pleasure-seekers from the theatre or
cinema palace. Mailey stood beside them while they waited for a cab.

"I know exactly how you feel," he said, smiling. "You look at all
these bustling, complacent people, and you marvel to think how little
they know of the possibilities of life. Don't you want to stop them?
Don't you want to tell them? And yet they would only think you a liar
or a lunatic. Funny situation, is it not?"

"I've lost all my bearings for the moment."

"They will come back to-morrow morning. It is curious how fleeting
these impressions are. You will persuade yourselves that you have been
dreaming. Well, good-bye--and let me know if I can help your studies
in the future." The friends--one could hardly yet call them lovers
--were absorbed in thought during their drive home. When he reached
Victoria Gardens Malone escorted Enid to the door of the flat, but he
did not go in with her. Somehow the jeers of Challenger which usually
rather woke sympathy within him would now get upon his nerves. As it
was he heard his greeting in the hall.

"Well, Enid. Where's your spook? Spill him out of the bag on the
floor and let us have a look at him." His evening's adventure ended as
it had begun, with a bellow of laughter which pursued him down the
lift.



5. Where Our Commissioners Have a Remarkable Experience

MALONE sat at the side table of the smoking-room of the Literary Club.
He had Enid's impressions of the seance before him--very subtle and
observant they were--and he was endeavouring to merge them in his own
experience. A group of men were smoking and chatting round the fire.
This did not disturb the journalist, who found, as many do, that his
brain and his pen worked best sometimes when they were stimulated by
the knowledge that he was part of a busy world. Presently, however,
somebody who observed his presence brought the talk round to psychic
subjects, and then it was more difficult for him to remain aloof. He
leaned back in his chair and listened.

Polter, the famous novelist, was there, a brilliant man with a subtle
mind, which he used too often to avoid obvious truth and to defend
some impossible position for the sake of the empty dialectic exercise.
He was holding forth now to an admiring, but not entirely a
subservient audience.

"Science," said he, "is gradually sweeping the world clear of all
these old cobwebs of superstition. The world was like some old, dusty
attic, and the sun of science is bursting in, flooding it with light,
while the dust settles gradually to the floor."

"By science," said someone maliciously, "you mean, of course, men
like Sir William Crookes, Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir William Barrett,
Lombroso, Richet, and so forth."

Polter was not accustomed to be countered, and usually became rude.

"No, sir, I mean nothing so preposterous," he answered, with a glare.
"No name, however eminent, can claim to stand for science so long as
he is a member of an insignificant minority of scientific men."

"He is, then, a crank," said Pollifex, the artist, who usually played
jackal to Polter.

The objector, one Millworthy, a free-lance of journalism, was not to
be so easily silenced.

"Then Galileo was a crank in his day," said he. "And Harvey was a
crank when he was laughed at over the circulation of the blood."

"It's the circulation of the Daily Gazette which is at stake," said
Marrible, the humorist of the club. "If they get off their stunt I
don't suppose they care a tinker's curse what is truth or what is
not."

"Why such things should be examined at all, except in a police court,
I can't imagine," said Polter. "It is a dispersal of energy, a
misdirection of human thought into channels which lead nowhere. We
have plenty of obvious, material things to examine. Let us get on with
our job."

Atkinson, the surgeon, was one of the circle, and had sat silently
listening. Now he spoke.

"I think the learned bodies should find more time for the
consideration of psychic matters."

"Less," said Polter.

"You can't have less than nothing. They ignore them altogether. Some
time ago I had a series of cases of telepathic rapport which I wished
to lay before the Royal Society. My colleague Wilson, the zoologist,
also had a paper which he proposed to read. They went in together. His
was accepted and mine rejected. The title of his paper was 'The
Reproductive System of the Dung-Beetle'."

There was a general laugh.

"Quite right, too," said Polter. "The humble dung-beetle was at least
a fact. All this psychic stuff is not."

"No doubt you have good grounds for your views," chirped the
mischievous Millworthy, a mild youth with a velvety manner. "I have
little time for solid reading, so I should like to ask you which of
Dr. Crawford's three books you consider the best?"

"I never heard of the fellow."

Millworthy simulated intense surprise.

"Good Heavens, man! Why, he is the authority. If you want pure
laboratory experiments those are the books. You might as well lay down
the law about zoology and confess that you had never heard of Darwin."

"This is not science," said Polter, emphatically.

"What is really not science," said Atkinson, with some heat, "is the
laying down of the law on matters which you have not studied. It is
talk of that sort which has brought me to the edge of Spiritualism,
when I compare this dogmatic ignorance with the earnest search for
truth conducted by the great Spiritualists. Many of them took twenty
years of work before they formed their conclusions."

"But their conclusions are worthless because they are upholding a
formed opinion."

"But each of them fought a long fight before he formed that opinion. I
know a few of them, and there is not one who did not take a lot of
convincing." Polter shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, they can have their spooks if it makes them happier so long as
they let me keep my feet firm on the ground."

"Or stuck in the mud," said Atkinson.

"I would rather be in the mud with sane people thin in the air with
lunatics," said Polter. "I know some of these Spiritualists people
and I believe that you can divide them equally into fools and rogues."

Malone had listened with interest and then with a growing indignation.
Now he suddenly took fire.

"Look here, Polter," he said, turning his chair towards the company,
"it is fools and dolts like you which are holding back the world's
progress. You admit that you have read nothing of this, and I'll swear
you have seen nothing. Yet you use the position and the name which you
have won in other matters in order to discredit a number of people
who, whatever they may be, are certainly very earnest and very
thoughtful."

"Oh," said Polter, "I had no idea you had got so far. You don't dare
to say so in your articles. You are a Spiritualist then. That rather
discounts your views, does it not?"

"I am not a Spiritualist, but I am an honest inquirer, and that is
more than you have ever been. You call them rogues and fools, but,
little as I know, I am sure that some of them are men and women whose
boots you are not worthy to clean."

"Oh, come, Malone!" cried one or two voices, but the insulted Polter
was on his feet. "It's men like you who empty this club," he cried, as
he swept out. "I shall certainly never come here again to be
insulted."

"I say, you've done it, Malone!"

"I felt inclined to help him out with a kick. Why should he ride
roughshod over other people's feelings and beliefs? He has got on and
most of us haven't, so he thinks it's a condescension to come among
us."

"Dear old Irishman!" said Atkinson, patting his shoulder. "Rest,
perturbed spirit, rest! But I wanted to have a word with you. Indeed,
I was waiting here because I did not want to interrupt you."

"I've had interruptions enough!" cried Malone. "How could I work
with that damned donkey braying in my ear?"

"Well, I've only a word to say. I've got a sitting with Linden, the
famous medium of whom I spoke to you, at the Psychic College to-night.
I have an extra ticket. Would you care to come?"

"Come? I should think so!"

"I have another ticket. I should have asked Polter if he had not been
so offensive. Linden does not mind sceptics, but objects to scoffers.
Who should I ask?"

"Let Miss Enid Challenger come. We work together, you know."

"Why, of course I will. Will you let her know?"

"Certainly."

"It's at seven o'clock to-night. The Psychic College. You know the
place down at Holland Park."

"Yes, I have the address. Very well, Miss Challenger and I will
certainly be there."

Behold the pair, then, upon a fresh psychic adventure. They picked
Atkinson up at Wimpole Street, and then traversed that long, roaring
rushing, driving belt of the great city which extends through Oxford
Street and Bayswater to Notting Hill and the stately Victorian houses
of Holland Park. It was at one of these that the taxi drew up, a
large, imposing building, standing back a little from the road. A
smart maid admitted them, and the subdued light of the tinted
hall-lamp fell upon shining linoleum and polished woodwork with the
gleam of white marble statuary in the corner. Enid's female
perceptions told her of a well-run, well-appointed establishment, with
a capable direction at the head. This direction took the shape of a
kindly Scottish lady who met them in the hall and greeted Mr. Atkinson
as an old friend. She was, in turn, introduced to the journalists as
Mrs. Ogilvy. Malone had already heard how her husband and she had
founded and run this remarkable institute, which is the centre of
psychic experiment in London, at a very great cost, both in labour and
in money, to themselves.

"Linden and his wife have gone up," said Mrs. Ogilvy. "He seems to
think that the conditions are favourable. The rest are in the
drawing-room. Won't you join them for a few minutes?"

Quite a number of people had gathered for the seance, some of them old
psychic students who were mildly interested, others, beginners who
looked about them with rather startled eyes, wondering what was going
to happen next. A tall man was standing near the door who turned and
disclosed the tawny beard and open face of Algernon Mailey. He shook
hands with the newcomers.

"Another experience, Mr. Malone? Well, I thought you gave a very fair
account of the last. You are still a neophyte, but you are well within
the gates of the temple. Are you alarmed, Miss Challenger?"

"I don't think I could be while you were around," she answered.

He laughed.

"Of course, a materialization seance is a little different to any
other--more impressive, in a way. You'll find it very instructive,
Malone, as bearing upon psychic photography and other matters. By the
way, you should try for a psychic picture. The famous Hope works
upstairs."

"I always thought that that at least was fraud."

"On the contrary, I should say it was the best established of all
phenomena, the one which leaves the most permanent proof. I've been a
dozen times under every possible test conditions. The real trouble is,
not that it lends itself to fraud, but that it lends itself to
exploitation by that villainous journalism which cares only for a
sensation. Do you know anyone here?"

"No, we don't."

"The tall, handsome lady is the Duchess of Rossland. Then, there are
Lord and Lady Montnoir, the middle-aged couple near the fire. Real,
good folk and among the very few of the aristocracy who have shown
earnestness and moral courage in this matter. The talkative lady is
Miss Badley, who lives for seances, a jaded Society woman in search of
new sensations--always visible, always audible, and always empty. I
don't know the two men. I heard someone say they were researchers from
the university. The stout man with the lady in black is Sir James
Smith--they lost two boys in the war. The tall, dark person, is a
weird man named Barclay, who lives, I understand, in one room and
seldom comes out save for a seance."

"And the man with the horn glasses?"

"That is a pompous ass named Weatherby. He is one of those who wander
about on the obscure edges of Masonry, talking with whispers and
reverence of mysteries where no mystery is. Spiritualism, with its
very real and awful mysteries, is, to him, a vulgar thing because it
brought consolation to common folk, but he loves to read papers on the
Palladian Cultus, ancient and accepted Scottish rites, and Baphometic
figures. Eliphas Levi is his prophet."

"It sounds very learned." said Enid.

"Or very absurd. But, hullo! Here are mutual friends." The two
Bolsovers had arrived, very hot and frowsy and genial. There is no
such leveller of classes as Spiritualism, and the charwoman with
psychic force is the superior of the millionaire who lacks it. The
Bolsovers and the aristocrats fraternized instantly. The Duchess was
just asking for admission to the grocer's circle, when Mrs. Ogilvy
bustled in.

"I think everyone is here now," she said. "It is time to go
upstairs."

The seance room was a large, comfortable chamber on the first floor,
with a circle of easy chairs, and a curtain-hung divan which served as
a cabinet. The medium and his wife were waiting there. Mr. Linden was
a gentle, large-featured man, stoutish in build, deep-chested,
clean-shaven, with dreamy, blue eyes and flaxen, curly hair which rose
in a pyramid at the apex of his head. He was of middle age. His wife
was rather younger, with the sharp, querulous expression of the tired
housekeeper, and quick, critical eyes, which softened into something
like adoration when she looked at her husband. Her role was to explain
matters, and to guard his interests while he was unconscious.

"The sitters had better just take their own places," said the medium.
"If you can alternate the sexes it is as well. Don't cross your knees,
it breaks the current. If we have a materialization, don't grab at it.
If you do, you are liable to injure me."

The two sleuths of the Research Society looked at each other
knowingly. Mailey observed it.

"Quite right," he said. "I have seen two cases of dangerous
haemorrhage in the medium brought on by that very cause."

"Why?" asked Malone.

"Because the ectoplasm used is drawn from the medium. It recoils upon
him like a snapped elastic band. Where it comes through the skin you
get a bruise. Where it comes from mucous membrane you get bleeding."

"And when it comes from nothing, you get nothing," said the researcher
with a grin.

"I will explain the procedure in a few words," said Mrs. Ogilvy, when
everyone was seated. "Mr. Linden does not enter the cabinet at all.
He sits outside it, and as he tolerates red light you will be able to
satisfy yourselves that he does not leave his seat. Mrs. Linden sits
on the other side. She is there to regulate and explain. In the first
place we would wish you to examine the cabinet. One of you will also
please lock the door on the inside and be responsible for the key."

The cabinet proved to be a mere tent of hangings, detached from the
wall and standing on a solid platform. The researchers ferreted about
inside it and stamped on the boards. All seemed solid.

"What is the use of it?" Malone whispered to Mailey.

"It serves as a reservoir and condensing place for the ectoplasmic
vapour from the medium, which would otherwise diffuse over the room."

"It has been known to serve other purposes also," remarked one of the
researchers, who overheard the conversation.

"That's true enough," said Mailey philosophically. "I am all in
favour of caution and supervision."

"Well, it seems fraud-proof on this occasion, if the medium sits
outside." The two researchers were agreed on this.

The medium was seated on one side of the little tent, his wife on the
other. The light was out, and a small red lamp near the ceiling was
just sufficient to enable outlines to be clearly seen. As the eyes
became accustomed to it some detail could also be observed.

"Mr. Linden will begin by some clairvoyant readings" said Mrs.
Linden. Her whole attitude, seated beside the cabinet with her hands
on her lap and the air of a proprietor, made Enid smile, for she
thought of Mrs. Jarley and her waxworks.

Linden, who was not in a trance, began to give clairvoyance. It was
not very good. Possibly the mixed influence of so many sitters of
various types at close quarters was too disturbing. That was the
excuse which he gave himself when several of his descriptions were
unrecognized. But Malone was more shocked by those which were
recognized, since it was so clear that the word was put into the
medium's mouth. It was the folly of the sitter rather than the fault
of the medium, but it was disconcerting all the same.

"I see a young man with brown eyes and a rather drooping moustache."

"Oh, darling, darling, have you then come back!" cried Miss Badley.
"Oh, has he a message?"

"He sends his love and does not forget."

"Oh, how evidential! It is so exactly what the dear boy would have
said! My first lover, you know," she added, in a simpering voice to
the company. "He never fails to come. Mr. Linden has brought him
again and again."

"There is a young fellow in khaki building up on the left. I see a
symbol over his head. It might be a Greek cross."

"Jim--it is surely Jim!" cried Lady Smith.

"Yes. He nods his head."

"And the Greek cross is probably a propeller," said Sir James. "He
was in the Air Service, you know." Malone and Enid were both rather
shocked. Mailey was also uneasy.

"This is not good," he whispered to Enid. "Wait a bit! You will get
something better."

There were several good recognitions, and then someone resembling
Summerlee was described for Malone. This was wisely discounted by him,
since Linden might have been in the audience on the former occasion.
Mrs. Debbs' exhibition seemed to him far more convincing than that of
Linden.

"Wait a bit!" Mailey repeated.

"The medium will now try for materializations," said Mrs. Linden. "If
the figures appear I would ask you not to touch them, save by request.
Victor will tell you if you may do so. Victor is the medium's
control."

The medium had settled down in his chair and he now began to draw
long, whistling breaths with deep intakes, puffing the air out between
his lips. Finally he steadied down and seemed to sink into a deep
coma, his chin upon his breast. Suddenly he spoke, but it seemed that
his voice was better modulated and more cultivated than before.

"Good evening, all!" said the voice.

There was a general murmur of "Good evening, Victor."

"I am afraid that the vibrations are not very harmonious. The
sceptical element is present, but not, I think, predominant, so that
we may hope for results. Martin Lightfoot is doing what he can."

"That is the Indian control" Mailey whispered.

"I think that if you would start the gramophone it would be helpful. A
hymn is always best, though there is no real objection to secular
music. Give us what you think best, Mrs. Ogilvy."


There was the rasping of a needle which had not yet found its grooves.
Then "Lead, Kindly Light" was churned out. The audience joined in in a
subdued fashion. Mrs. Ogilvy then changed it to "O, God, our help in
ages past".

"They often change the records themselves," said Mrs. Ogilvy, "but
to-night there is not enough power."

"Oh, yes," said the voice. "There is enough power, Mrs. Ogilvy, but
we are anxious to conserve it all for the materializations. Martin
says they are building up very well."

At this moment the curtain in front of the cabinet began to sway. It
bellied out as if a strong wind were behind it. At the same time a
breeze was felt by all who were in the circle, together with a
sensation of cold.

"It is quite chilly," whispered Enid, with a shiver.

"It is not a subjective feeling," Mailey answered. "Mr. Harry Price
has tested it with thermometric readings. So did Professor Crawford."

"My God!" cried a startled voice. It belonged to the pompous dabbler
in mysteries, who was suddenly faced with a real mystery. The curtains
of the cabinet had parted and a human figure had stolen noiselessly
out. There was the medium clearly outlined on one side. There was Mrs.
Linden, who had sprung to her feet, on the other. And, between them,
the little black, hesitating figure, which seemed to be terrified at
its own position. Mrs. Linden soothed and encouraged it.

"Don't be alarmed, dear. It is all quite right. No one will hurt you."

"It is someone who has never been through before," she explained to
the company. "Naturally it seems very strange to her. Just as strange
as if we broke into their world. That's right, dear. You are gaining
strength, I can see. Well done!"

The figure was moving forward. Everyone sat spellbound, with staring
eyes. Miss Badley began to giggle hysterically. Weatherby lay back in
his chair, gasping with horror. Neither Malone nor Enid felt any fear,
but were consumed with curiosity. How marvellous to hear the humdrum
flow of life in the street outside and to be face to face with such a
sight as that.

Slowly the figure moved round. Now it was close to Enid and between
her and the red light. Stooping, she could get the silhouette sharply
outlined. It was that of a little, elderly woman, with sharp,
clear-cut features.

"It's Susan!" cried Mrs. Bolsover. "Oh, Susan, don't you know me?"

The figure turned and nodded her head.

"Yes, yes, dear, it is your sister Susie," cried her husband. "I
never saw her in anything but black. Susan, speak to us!"

The head was shaken.

"They seldom speak the first time they come," said Mrs. Linden, whose
rather blase, business-like air was in contrast to the intense emotion
of the company. "I'm afraid she can't hold together long. Ah, there!
She has gone!"

The figure had disappeared. There had been some backward movement
towards the cabinet, but it seemed to the observers that she sank into
the ground before she reached it. At any rate, she was gone.

"Gramophone, please!" said Mrs. Linden. Everyone relaxed and sat back
with a sigh. The gramophone struck up a lively air. Suddenly the
curtains parted, and a second figure appeared.

It was a young girl, with flowing hair down her back. She came forward
swiftly and with perfect assurance to the centre of the circle.

Mrs. Linden laughed in a satisfied way.

"Now you will get something good," she said. "Here is Lucille."

"Good evening, Lucille!" cried the Duchess. "I met you last month,
you will remember, when your medium came to Maltraver Towers."

"Yes, yes, lady, I remember you. You have a little boy, Tommy, on our
side of life. No, no, not dead, lady! We are far more alive than you
are. All the fun and frolic are with us!" She spoke in a high clear
voice and perfect English.

"Shall I show you what we do over here?" She began a graceful,
gliding dance, while she whistled as melodiously as a bird. "Poor
Susan could not do that. Susan has had no practice. Lucille knows how
to use a built-up body."

"Do you remember me, Lucille?" asked Mailey.

"I remember you, Mr. Mailey. Big man with yellow beard."

For the second time in her life Enid had to pinch herself hard to
satisfy herself that she was not dreaming. Was this graceful creature,
who had now sat down in the centre of the circle, a real
materialization of ectoplasm, used for the moment as a machine for
expression by a soul that had passed, or was it an illusion of the
senses, or was it a fraud? There were the three possibilities. An
illusion was absurd when all had the same impression. Was it a fraud?
But this was certainly not the little old woman. She was inches taller
and fair, not dark. And the cabinet was fraud-proof. It had been
meticulously examined. Then it was true. But if it were true, what a
vista of possibilities opened out. Was it not far the greatest matter
which could claim the attention of the world!

Meanwhile, Lucille had been so natural and the situation was so normal
that even the most nervous had relaxed. The girl answered most
cheerfully to every question, and they rained upon her from every
side.

"Where did you live, Lucille?"

"Perhaps I had better answer that," interposed Mrs. Linden. "It will
save the power. Lucille was bred in South Dakota in the United States,
and passed over at the age of fourteen. We have verified some of her
statements."

"Are you glad you died, Lucille?"

"Glad for my own sake. Sorry for mother."

"Has your mother seen you since?"

"Poor mother is a shut box. Lucille cannot open the lid."

"Are you happy?"

"Oh, yes, so gloriously happy."

"Is it right that you can come back?"

"Would God allow it if it were not right? What a wicked man you must
be to ask!"

"What religion were you?"

"We were Roman Catholics."

"Is that the right religion?"

"All religions are right if they make you better."

"Then it does not matter."

"It is what people do in daily life, not what they believe."

"Tell us more, Lucille."

"Lucille has little time. There are others who wish to come. If
Lucille uses too much power, the others have less. Oh, God is very
good and kind! You poor people on earth do not know how good and kind
He is because it is grey down there. But it is grey for your own good.
It is to give you your chance to earn all the lovely things which wait
for you. But you can only tell how wonderful He is when you get over
here."

"Have you seen him?"

"Seen Him! How could you see God? No, no, He is all round us and in
us and in everything, but we do not see Him. But I have seen the
Christ. Oh, He was glorious, glorious! Now, good-bye--good-bye!" She
backed towards the cabinet and sank into the shadows.

Now came a tremendous experience for Malone. A small, dark, rather
broad figure of a woman appeared slowly from the cabinet. Mrs. Linden
encouraged her, and then came across to the journalist.

"It is for you. You can break the circle. Come up to her."

Malone advanced and peered, awestruck, into the face of the
apparition. There was not a foot between them. Surely that large head,
that solid, square outline was familiar! He