my guests to be disappointed. I have
your check written out in my pocket."

"Afterward will do quite well."

"Nine o'clock was the time specified, I believe?"

"I fancy so."

The conversation continued to flag. Faull sprawled in his chair, and
remained apathetic.

"Would you care to hear what arrangements I have made?"

"I am unaware that any are necessary, beyond chairs for your guests."

"I mean the decoration of the seance room, the music, and so forth."

Backhouse stared at his host. "But this is not a theatrical
performance."

"That's correct. Perhaps I ought to explain.... There will be ladies
present, and ladies, you know, are aesthetically inclined."

"In that case I have no objection. I only hope they will enjoy the
performance to the end."

He spoke rather dryly.

"Well, that's all right, then," said Faull. Flicking his cigar into the
fire, he got up and helped himself to whisky.

"Will you come and see the room?"

"Thank you, no. I prefer to have nothing to do with it till the time
arrives."

"Then let's go to see my sister, Mrs. Jameson, who is in the drawing
room. She sometimes does me the kindness to act as my hostess, as I am
unmarried."

"I will be delighted," said Backhouse coldly.

They found the lady alone, sitting by the open pianoforte in a pensive
attitude. She had been playing Scriabin and was overcome. The medium
took in her small, tight, patrician features and porcelain-like hands,
and wondered how Faull came by such a sister. She received him bravely,
with just a shade of quiet emotion. He was used to such receptions at
the hands of the sex, and knew well how to respond to them.

"What amazes me," she half whispered, after ten minutes of graceful,
hollow conversation, "is, if you must know it, not so much the
manifestation itself--though that will surely be wonderful--as
your assurance that it will take place. Tell me the grounds of your
confidence."

"I dream with open eyes," he answered, looking around at the door, "and
others see my dreams. That is all."

"But that's beautiful," responded Mrs. Jameson. She smiled rather
absently, for the first guest had just entered.

It was Kent-Smith, the ex-magistrate, celebrated for his shrewd judicial
humour, which, however, he had the good sense not to attempt to carry
into private life. Although well on the wrong side of seventy, his eyes
were still disconcertingly bright. With the selective skill of an old
man, he immedia