"Does he indeed?" Bubbles spoke with sharp sarcasm.

There rose before her a vision of her host's pale, startled face. In
some ways he had been the most inwardly perturbed of her last night's
sitters, and she, the medium, had been well aware of it.

"I wonder," she said suddenly and inconsequently, "if Lionel has some
enemy--I mean a woman--in his life, of whom his friends know nothing?"

Blanche looked dubiously at the girl. "That's the sort of thing one can
never know about a man," she said slowly.

"The woman I mean"--Bubbles was going on rather quickly and breathlessly
now--"is not a young woman. She's about sixty, I should think. She has a
plain, powerful face, with a lot of grey hair turned off her forehead."

"Have you ever seen such a person with Lionel?" asked Miss Farrow.

"No, not exactly."

"What _do_ you mean, Bubbles?"

"I can't quite explain what I mean. Even before the seance I seemed to
_feel_ her last night. I suppose _you_ would say I saw her in his
mind--in what some people would call his inner consciousness."

Blanche stared at the girl uncomfortably. "D'you mean you can always see
what people are thinking of?" she exclaimed.

Bubbles burst out laughing. "Of course I can't! You needn't feel
nervous." She went up to her aunt, and thrust her hand through the
other's arm. "Don't be worried, old thing"--she spoke very
affectionately. "I've promised Bill that I'll put everything of the kind
he and father disapprove of away--just while I'm here! But still,
Blanche--"

Miss Farrow had never seen the girl in this serious, thoughtful mood
before. "Yes," she said. "Yes, Bubbles?"

"Oh, well, I only just wanted to quote something to you that's rather
hackneyed."

"Hackneyed?" repeated Miss Farrow.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, my dear, than are dreamt of
in _your_ philosophy."

Blanche Farrow felt a little piqued. "I've never doubted that," she said
curtly.

CHAPTER VII

Meanwhile, one of the subjects of their discussion was thoroughly
enjoying her tour of Wyndfell Hall; and as she entered each of the
curious, stately rooms upstairs and down, Helen Brabazon uttered an
exclamation of pleasure and rather naive admiration. Not a corner or a
passage-way but had some fine piece of old furniture, some exquisite
needle-picture or panel of tapestry, in keeping with the general
character of the ancient dwelling place.

Her cicerone would have enjoyed their progress more h