THE LAND OF MIST

                            A. CONAN DOYLE




                           The Land of Mist

                           By A. CONAN DOYLE

                               AUTHOR OF

           “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” “Danger, and
             Other Stories,” “The Lost World,” “Memoirs of
             Sherlock Holmes,” “Tales of Sherlock Holmes,”
                      “The Valley of Fear,” etc.

                       [Illustration: colophon]


                          A. L. BURT COMPANY
                       Publishers      New York

         Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
                          Printed in U. S. A.

                           COPYRIGHT, 1926,
                           BY A. CONAN DOYLE


                           THE LAND OF MIST
                                 --Q--
                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                                TO THE
                       REVEREND GEORGE VALE OWEN
                             AS A TOKEN OF
                 SYMPATHY, ADMIRATION, AND FRIENDSHIP

     JANUARY, 1926




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                                             PAGE

I IN WHICH OUR SPECIAL COMMISSIONERS
MAKE A START                                                          11

II WHICH DESCRIBES AN EVENING IN STRANGE
COMPANY                                                               21

III IN WHICH PROFESSOR CHALLENGER GIVES
HIS OPINION                                                           40

IV WHICH DESCRIBES SOME STRANGE DOINGS IN
HAMMERSMITH                                                           46

V WHERE OUR COMMISSIONERS HAVE A REMARKABLE
EXPERIENCE                                                            77

VI IN WHICH THE READER IS SHOWN THE
HABITS OF A NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL                                        98

VII IN WHICH THE NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL GETS
WHAT THE BRITISH LAW CONSIDERS TO BE
HIS DESERTS                                                          116

VIII IN WHICH THREE INVESTIGATORS COME
UPON A DARK SOUL                                                     131

IX WHICH INTRODUCES SOME VERY PHYSICAL
PHENOMENA                                                            155

X DE PROFUNDIS                                                       166

XI WHERE SILAS LINDEN COMES INTO HIS OWN                             184

XII THERE ARE HEIGHTS AND THERE ARE
DEPTHS                                                               198

XIII IN WHICH PROFESSOR CHALLENGER GOES
FORTH TO BATTLE                                                      212

XIV IN WHICH CHALLENGER MEETS A STRANGE
COLLEAGUE                                                            230

XV IN WHICH TRAPS ARE LAID FOR A GREAT
QUARRY                                                               243

XVI IN WHICH CHALLENGER HAS THE EXPERIENCE
OF HIS LIFETIME                                                      257

XVII WHERE THE MISTS CLEAR AWAY                                      274

APPENDIX                                                             280




THE LAND OF MIST




CHAPTER I

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 never have 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
at 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 his 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!_ Whom 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 volumes 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 too--too 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 cremation ... horrible,
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 same 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 localise 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 the 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 morning ... night--eternal night ... and
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.”




CHAPTER II

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 the
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
you’re 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 the 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 shop-walkers, 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’d 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 it’s 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
finger-tips.

“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 “Jesus, 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 recognise 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 vigorously.

“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’am. 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 blessings 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 enquire.”

“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 recognised the description and claims of his deceased wife.

“I get the name Walter.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“She called you Walt?”

“No.”

“Well, she calls 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 the 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 than 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 recognised 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 fit nearly 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 recognised that amid all the apathy there was
also much honest doubt which had outgrown 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 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 comes soon. 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 came 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 folk 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 judgment.”

“I will treat it fairly, I assure you.”

“Well, we ask no more.”

The medium was leaning with her elbow on the mantelpiece, 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.[A]




CHAPTER III

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. I am not a convinced one but I am
sympathetic, and I have sufficient sense of proportion to realise 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 realise 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 Cæsar’s slave and Cæsar 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 dramatises 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 descriptions?”

“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 some time 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 yet ... and 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.”




CHAPTER IV

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
recognise 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 physical
phenomena séances 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’
séances. 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 séance. Some victim that he had driven to suicide got into the
medium. He got the money-lender 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 séances,” 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 séances and others like them are, of 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 séance rooms continually,
seeing the same thing over and over, sometimes real, sometimes, I fear,
imitation. What the better are they for that as souls or as citizens or
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 criticise 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 scared 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 séance 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
séance?... 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 proselytise. 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 realise 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 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 two enquirers--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 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 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 séances
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 were 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 ‘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 all joined.
Then they 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 a big man with beard! Mailey, Mister
Mailey, I meet him before. He big Mailey, I little femaley. Glad 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 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
English 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,’ Smiley.”

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 to-night.”

“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 who in
turn 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 enquirers 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 symbolise 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 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 questions?”

“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’ round’!” 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 how!” 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 so sorry at your condition. You
see us and you wonder why we do not see you. You have passed on. 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 materialised 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 materialisations. 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 glowworms. 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 feel 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 something 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 mind 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 wooden 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 things 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 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.




CHAPTER V

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 séance 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
jobs.”

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 than in the air with
lunatics,” said Polter. “I know some of these Spiritualist 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 that 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. Whom
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 wood-work 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 séance, 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 materialisation séance 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 condition. 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 séances, 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 séance.”

“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 fraternised 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 séance 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 rôle 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 materialisation, 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 reseachers 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 eye 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 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 unrecognised. But
Malone was more shocked by those which were recognised, 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 upon 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 materialisations,” 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 it not enough power.”

“O, yes,” said the voice. “There _is_ enough power, Mrs. Ogilvy, but we
are anxious to conserve it all for the materialisations. 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 spell bound, 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 blasé, businesslike 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
materialisation 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 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 put his face still nearer--it was almost
touching. He strained his eyes. It seemed to him that the features were
semi-fluid, moulding themselves into a shape, as if some unseen hand
was modelling them in putty.

“Mother!” he cried. “Mother!”

Instantly the figure threw up both her hands in a wild gesture of joy.
The motion seemed to destroy her equilibrium and she vanished.

“She had not been through before. She could not speak,” said Mrs.
Linden, in her businesslike way. “It was your mother.”

Malone went back, half-stunned, to his seat. It is only when these
things come to one’s own address that one understands their full force.
His mother! Ten years in her grave and yet standing before him. Could he
_swear_ it was his mother? No, he could not. Was he morally certain that
it was his mother? Yes, he was morally certain. He was shaken to the
core.

But other wonders diverted his thoughts. A young man had emerged briskly
from the cabinet and had advanced to the front of Mailey, where he had
halted.

“Hullo, Jock! Dear old Jock!” said Mailey. “My nephew,” he explained to
the company. “He always comes when I am with Linden.”

“The power is sinking,” said the lad, in a clear voice. “I can’t stay
very long. I am so glad to see you, Uncle. You know, we can see quite
clearly in this light, even if you can’t.”

“Yes, I know you can. I say, Jock. I wanted to tell you that I told your
mother I had seen you. She said her Church taught her it was wrong.”

“I know. And that I was a demon. Oh, it is rotten, rotten, rotten, and
rotten things will fall!” His voice broke in a sob.

“Don’t blame her, Jock, she believes this.”

“No, no, I don’t blame her! She will know better some day. The day is
coming soon when all truth will be manifest and all these corrupt
Churches will be swept off the earth with their cruel doctrines and
their caricatures of God.”

“Why, Jock, you are becoming quite a heretic!”

“Love, Uncle! Love! That is all that counts. What matter what you
believe if you are sweet and kind and unselfish as the Christ was of
old?”

“Have you seen Christ?” asked someone.

“Not yet. Perhaps the time may come.”

“Is He not in Heaven, then?”

“There are many heavens. I am in a very humble one. But it is glorious,
all the same.”

Enid had thrust her head forward during this dialogue. Her eyes had got
used to the light and she could see more clearly than before. The man
who stood within a few feet of her was not human. Of that she had no
doubt whatever, and yet the points were very subtle. Something in his
strange, yellow-white colouring as contrasted with the faces of her
neighbours. Something, also, in the curious stiffness of his carriage,
as of a man in very rigid stays.

“Now, Jock,” said Mailey, “give an address to the company. Tell them a
few words about your life.”

The figure hung his head, exactly as a shy youth would do in life.

“Oh, Uncle, I can’t.”

“Come, Jock, we love to listen to you.”

“Teach the folk what death is,” the figure began. “God wants them to
know. That is why He lets us come back. It is nothing. You are no more
changed than if you went into the next room. You can’t believe you are
dead. I didn’t. It was only when I saw old Sam that I knew, for I was
certain that he was dead, anyhow. Then I came back to mother. And”--his
voice broke--“she would not receive me.”

“Never mind, dear old Jock,” said Mailey. “She will learn wisdom.”

“Teach them the truth! Teach it to them! Oh, it is so much more
important than all the things men talk about. If papers for one week
gave as much attention to psychic things as they do to football, it
would be known to all. It is ignorance which stands----”

The observers were conscious of a sort of flash towards the cabinet, but
the youth had disappeared.

“Power run down,” said Mailey. “Poor lad, he held on to the last. He
always did. That was how he died.”

There was a long pause. The gramophone started again. Then there was a
movement of the curtains. Something was emerging. Mrs. Linden sprang up
and waved the figure back. The medium for the first time stirred in his
chair and groaned.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Linden?”

“Only half-formed,” she answered. “The lower face had not materialised.
Some of you would have been alarmed. I think that we shall have no more
to-night. The power has sunk very low.”

So it proved. The lights were gradually turned on. The medium lay with a
white face and a clammy brow in his chair, while his wife sedulously
watched over him, unbuttoning his collar and bathing his face from a
water-glass. The company broke into little groups, discussing what they
had seen.

“Oh, wasn’t it thrilling!” cried Miss Badley. “It really was most
exciting. But what a pity we could not see the one with the
semi-materialised face.”

“Thank you, I have seen quite enough,” said the pompous mystic, all the
pomposity shaken out of him.

“I confess that it has been rather too much for my nerves.”

Dr. Atkinson found himself near the psychic researchers. “Well, what do
you make of it?” he asked.

“I have seen it better done at Maskelyne’s Hall,” said one.

“Oh, come, Scott!” said the other. “You’ve no right to say that. You
admitted that the cabinet was fraud-proof.”

“Well, so do the committees who go on the stage at Maskelyne’s.”

“Yes, but it is Maskelyne’s own stage. This is not Linden’s own stage.
He has no machinery.”

“_Populus vult decipi_,” the other answered, shrugging his shoulders. “I
should certainly reserve judgment.” He moved away with the dignity of
one who cannot be deceived, while his more rational companion still
argued with him as they went.

“Did you hear that?” said Atkinson. “There is a certain class of psychic
researcher who is absolutely incapable of receiving evidence. They
misuse their brains by straining them to find a way round when the road
is quite clear before them. When the human race advances into its new
kingdom, these intellectual men will form the absolute rear.”

“No, no,” said Mailey, laughing. “The bishops are predestined to be the
rearguard. I see them all marching in step, a solid body, with their
gaiters and cassocks--the last in the whole world to reach spiritual
truth.”

“Oh, come,” said Enid, “that is too severe. They are all good men.”

“Of course they are. It’s quite physiological. They are a body of
elderly men, and the elderly brain is sclerosed and cannot record new
impressions. It’s not their fault, but the fact remains. You are very
silent, Malone.”

But Malone was thinking of a little, squat, dark figure which waved its
hands in joy when he spoke to it. It was with that image in his mind
that he turned from this room of wonders and passed down into the
street.




CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH THE READER IS SHOWN THE HABITS OF A NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL


We will now leave that little group with whom we have made our first
exploration of these grey and ill-defined, but immensely important,
regions of human thought and experiences. From the researchers we will
turn to the researched. Come with me and we will visit Mr. Linden at
home, and will examine the lights and shades which make up the life of a
professional medium.

To reach him we will pass down the crowded thoroughfare of Tottenham
Court Road, where the huge furniture emporia flank the way, and we will
turn into a small street of drab houses which leads eastwards towards
the British Museum. Tullis Street is the name and 40 the number. Here it
is, one of a row, flat-faced, dull-coloured and commonplace, with railed
steps leading up to a discoloured door, and one front-room window, in
which a huge gilt-edged Bible upon a small round table reassures the
timid visitor. With the universal pass-key of imagination we open the
dingy door, pass down a dark passage and up a narrow stair. It is nearly
ten o’clock in the morning and yet it is in his bedroom that we must
seek the famous worker of miracles. The fact is that he has had, as we
have seen, an exhausting sitting the night before, and that he has to
conserve his strength in the mornings.

At the moment of our inopportune, but invisible, visit he was sitting
up, propped by the pillows, with a breakfast-tray upon his knees. The
vision he presented would have amused those who have prayed with him in
the humble Spiritualist temples, or had sat with awe at the séances
where he had exhibited the modern equivalents of the gifts of the
Spirit. He looked unhealthily pallid in the dim morning light, and his
curly hair rose up in a tangled pyramid above his broad, intellectual
brow. The open collar of his night-shirt displayed a broad, bull’s neck,
and the depth of his chest and spread of his shoulders showed that he
was a man of considerable personal strength. He was eating his breakfast
with avidity while he conversed with the little, eager, dark-eyed wife
who was seated on the side of the bed.

“And you reckon it a good meeting, Mary?”

“Fair to middling, Tom. There was two of them researchers raking round
with their feet and upsetting everybody. D’ye think those folk in the
Bible would have got their phenomena if they had chaps of that sort on
the premises? ‘Of one accord,’ that’s what they say in the Book.”

“Of course!” cried Linden heartily. “Was the Duchess pleased?”

“Yes, I think she was very pleased. So was Mr. Atkinson, the surgeon.
There was a new man there called Malone of the Press. Then Lord and Lady
Montnoir got evidence and so did Sir James Smith and Mr. Mailey.”

“I wasn’t satisfied with the clairvoyance,” said the medium. “The silly
idiots kept on putting things into my mind. ‘That’s surely my Uncle
Sam,’ and so forth. It blurs me so that I can see nothing clear.”

“Yes, and they think they are helping! Helping to muddle you and
deceive themselves. I know the kind.”

“But I went under nicely and I am glad there were some fine
materialisations. It took it out of me, though. I’m a rag this morning.”

“They work you too hard, dear. I’ll take you to Margate and build you
up.”

“Well, maybe at Easter we could do a week. It would be fine. I don’t
mind readings and clairvoyance, but the physicals do try you. I’m not as
bad as Hallows. They say he just lies white and gasping on the floor
after them.”

“Yes,” cried the woman bitterly. “And then they run to him with whiskey,
and so they teach him to rely on the bottle and you get another case of
a drunken medium. I know them. You keep off it, Tom!”

“Yes, one of our trade should stick to soft drinks. If he can stick to
vegetables, too, he’s all the better, but I can’t preach that while I am
wolfin’ up ham and eggs. By Gosh, Mary! it’s past ten and I have a
string of them comin’ this morning. I’m going to make a bit to-day.”

“You give it away as quick as you make it, Tom.”

“Well, some hard cases come my way. So long as we can make both ends
meet what more do we want? I expect _they_ will look after us all
right.”

“They have let down a lot of other poor mediums who did good work in
their day.”

“It’s the rich folk that are to blame, not the Spirit-people,” said Tom
Linden hotly. “It makes me see red when I remember these folk, Lady This
and Countess That, declaring all the comfort they have had, and then
leaving those who gave it to die in the gutter or rot in the workhouse.
Poor old Tweedy and Soames and the rest all living on old-age pensions
and the papers talking of the money that mediums make, while some damned
conjuror makes more than all of us put together by a rotten imitation
with two tons of machinery to help him.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” cried the medium’s wife, putting her thin hand
caressingly upon the tangled mane of her man. “It all comes level in
time and everybody pays the price for what they have done.”

Linden laughed loudly. “It’s my Welsh half that comes out when I flare
up. Let the conjurors take their dirty money and let the rich folk keep
their purses shut. I wonder what they think money is for. Paying death
duties is about the only fun some of them seem to get out of it. If I
had their money....”

There was a knock at the door.

“Please, sir, your brother Silas is below.”

The two looked at each other with some dismay.

“More trouble,” said Mrs. Linden sadly.

Linden shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Susan!” he cried. “Tell him
I’ll be down. Now, dear, you keep him going and I’ll be with you in a
quarter of an hour.”

In less time than he named he was down in the front-room--his consulting
room--where his wife was evidently having some difficulty in making
agreeable conversation with their visitor. He was a big, heavy man, not
unlike his elder brother, but with all the genial chubbiness of the
medium coarsened into pure brutality. He had the same pile of curly
hair, but he was clean-shaven with a heavy, obstinate jowl. He sat by
the window with his huge freckled hands upon his knees. A very important
part of Mr. Silas Linden lay in those hands, for he had been a
formidable professional boxer, and at one time was fancied for the
welter-weight honours of England. Now, as his stained tweed suit and
frayed boots made clear, he had fallen on evil days, which he
endeavoured to mitigate by cadging on his brother.

“Mornin’, Tom,” he said in a husky voice. Then as the wife left the
room: “Got a drop of Scotch about? I’ve a head on me this morning. I met
some of the old set last night down at ‘The Admiral Vernon.’ Quite a
reunion it was--chaps I hadn’t seen since my best ring days.”

“Sorry, Silas,” said the medium, seating himself behind his desk. “I
keep nothing in the house.”

“Spirits enough, but not the right sort,” said Silas. “Well, the price
of a drink will do as well. If you’ve got a Bradbury about you I could
do with it, for there’s nothing coming my way.”

Tom Linden took a pound from his desk.

“Here you are, Silas. So long as I have any you have your share. But you
had two pounds last week. Is it gone?”

“Gone! I should say so!” He put the note in his pocket. “Now, look here,
Tom, I want to speak to you very serious as between man and man.”

“Yes, Silas, what is it?”

“You see that!” He pointed to a lump on the back of his hand. “That’s a
bone! See? It will never be right. It was when I hit Curly Jenkins third
round and outed him at the N.S.C. I outed myself for life that night. I
can put up a show fight and exhibition bout, but I’m done for the real
thing. My right has gone west.”

“It’s a hard case, Silas.”

“Damned hard! But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that
I’ve got to pick up a living and I want to know how to do it. An old
scrapper don’t find many openings. Chucker-out at a pub with free
drinks. Nothing doing there. What I want to know, Tom, is what’s the
matter with my becoming a medium?”

“A medium?”

“Why the devil should you stare at me! If it’s good enough for you it’s
good enough for me.”

“But you are _not_ a medium.”

“Oh, come! Keep that for the newspapers. It’s all in the family, and
between you an’ me, how dy’e do it?”

“I don’t do it. I do nothing.”

“And get four or five quid a week for it. That’s a good yarn. Now you
can’t fool me, Tom. I’m not one o’ those duds that pay you a thick ’un
for an hour in the dark. We’re on the square, you an’ me. How d’ye do
it?”

“Do what?”

“Well, them raps, for example. I’ve seen you sit there at your desk, as
it might be, and raps come answerin’ questions over yonder on the
bookshelf. It’s damned clever--fair puzzles ’em every time. How d’ye get
them?”

“I tell you I don’t. It’s outside myself.”

“Rats! You can tell me, Tom. I’m Griffiths, the safe man. It would set
me up for life if I could do it.”

For the second time in one morning the medium’s Welsh strain took
control.

“You’re an impudent, blasphemous rascal, Silas Linden. It’s men like you
who come into our movement and give it a bad name. You should know me
better than to think that I am a cheat. Get out of my house, you
ungrateful rascal!”

“Not too much of your lip,” growled the ruffian.

“Out you go, or I’ll put you out, brother or no brother.”

Silas doubled his great fists and looked ugly for a moment. Then the
anticipation of favours to come softened his mood.

“Well, well, no harm meant,” he growled, as he made for the door. “I
expect I can make a shot at it without your help.” His grievance
suddenly overcame his prudence as he stood in the doorway. “You damned,
canting, hypocritical box-of-tricks. I’ll be even with you yet.”

The heavy door slammed behind him.

Mrs. Linden had run in to her husband.

“The ’ulking blackguard!” she cried. “I ’eard ’im. What did ’e want?”

“Wanted me to put him wise to mediumship. Thinks it’s a trick of some
sort that I could teach him.”

“The foolish lump! Well, it’s a good thing, for he won’t dare show his
face here again.”

“Oh, won’t he?”

“If he does I’ll slap it for him. To think of his upsettin’ you like
this. Why, you’re shakin’ all over.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t be a medium if I wasn’t high strung. Someone said
we were poets, only more so. But it’s bad just when work is beginning.”

“I’ll give you healing.”

She put her little, work-worn hands over his high forehead and held them
there in silence.

“That’s better!” said he. “Well done, Mary. I’ll have a cigarette in the
kitchen. That will finish it.”

“No, there’s someone here.” She had looked out of the window. “Are you
fit to see her? It’s a woman.”

“Yes, yes. I am all right now. Show her in.”

An instant later a woman entered, a pale, tragic figure in black, whose
appearance told its own tale. Linden motioned her to a chair away from
the light. Then he looked through his papers.

“You are Mrs. Blount, are you not? You had an appointment.”

“Yes--I wanted to ask----”

“Please ask me nothing. It confuses me.”

He was looking at her with the medium’s gaze in his light, grey
eyes--that gaze which looks round and through a thing rather than at it.

“You have been wise to come, very wise. There is someone beside you who
has an urgent message which could not be delayed. I get a name ...
Francis ... yes, Francis.”

The woman clasped her hands.

“Yes, yes, it is the name.”

“A dark man, very sad, very earnest--oh, so earnest. He will speak. He
must speak! It is urgent. He says, ‘Tink-a-bell.’ Who is Tink-a-bell?”

“Yes, yes, he called me so. Oh, Frank, Frank, speak to me! Speak!”

“He is speaking. His hand is on your head. ‘Tink-a-bell,’ he says. ‘If
you do what you purpose doing it will make a gap that it will take many
years to cross.’ Does that mean anything?”

She sprang from her chair. “It means everything. Oh, Mr. Linden, this
was my last chance. If this had failed--if I found that I had really
lost him I meant to go and seek him. I would have taken poison this
night.”

“Thank God that I have saved you. It is a terrible thing, madame, to
take one’s life. It breaks the law of Nature, and Nature’s laws cannot
be broken without punishment. I rejoice that he has been able to save
you. He has more to say to you. His message is, ‘If you will live and do
your duty I will for ever be by your side, far closer to you than ever I
was in life. My presence will surround and guard both you and our three
babes.’”

It was marvellous the change! The pale, worn woman who had entered the
room was now standing with flushed cheeks and smiling lips. It is true
that tears were pouring down her face, but they were tears of joy. She
clapped her hands. She made little convulsive movements as if she would
dance.

“He’s not dead! He’s not dead! How can he be dead if he can speak to me
and be closer to me than ever? Oh, it’s glorious! Oh, Mr. Linden, what
can I do for you? You have saved me from shameful death! You have
restored my husband to me! Oh, what a Godlike power you have!”

The medium was an emotional man and his own tears were moist upon his
cheeks.

“My dear lady, say no more. It is not I. I do nothing. You can thank God
Who in His mercy permits some of His mortals to discern a spirit or to
carry a message. Well, well, a guinea is my fee, if you can afford it.
Come back to me if ever you are in trouble.”

“I am content now,” she cried, drying her eyes, “to await God’s will and
to do my duty in the world until such time as it shall be ordained that
we unite once more.”

The widow left the house walking on air. Tom Linden also felt that the
clouds left by his brother’s visit had been blown away by this joyful
incident, for there is no happiness like giving happiness and seeing
the beneficent workings of one’s own power. He had hardly settled down
in his chair, however, before another client was ushered in. This time
it was a smartly-dressed, white-spatted, frock-coated man of the world,
with a bustling air as of one to whom minutes are precious.

“Mr. Linden, I believe? I have heard, sir, of your powers. I am told
that by handling an object you can often get some clue as to the person
who owned it?”

“It happens sometimes. I cannot command it.”

“I should like to test you. I have a letter here which I received this
morning. Would you try your powers upon that?”

The medium took the folded letter, and, leaning back in his chair, he
pressed it upon his forehead. He sat with his eyes closed for a minute
or more. Then he returned the paper.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “I get a feeling of evil. I see a man
dressed all in white. He has a dark face. He writes at a bamboo table. I
get a sensation of heat. The letter is from the tropics.”

“Yes, from Central America.”

“I can tell you no more.”

“Are the spirits so limited? I thought they knew everything.”

“They do not know everything. Their power and knowledge are as closely
limited as ours. But this is not a matter for the spirit people. What I
did then was psychometry, which, so far as we know, is a power of the
human soul.”

“Well, you are right as far as you have gone. This man, my
correspondent, wants me to put up the money for the half-share in an
oil boring. Shall I do it?”

Tom Linden shook his head.

“These powers are given to some of us, sir, for the consolation of
humanity and for a proof of immortality. They were never meant for
worldly use. Trouble always comes of such use, trouble to the medium and
trouble to the client. I will not go into the matter.”

“Money’s no object,” said the man, drawing a wallet from his inner
pocket.

“No, sir, nor to me. I am poor, but I have never ill-used my gift.”

“A fat lot of use the gift is, then!” said the visitor, rising from his
chair. “I can get all the rest from the parsons who are licensed, and
you are not. There is your guinea, but I have not had the worth of it.”

“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot break a rule. There is a lady beside
you--near your left shoulder--an elderly lady....”

“Tut! tut!” said the financier, turning towards the door.

“She wears a large gold locket with an emerald cross upon her breast.”

The man stopped, turned and stared.

“Where did you pick that up?”

“I see it before me now.”

“Why, dash it, man, that was what my mother always wore! D’you tell me
you can see her?”

“No, she is gone.”

“What was she like? What was she doing?”

“She _was_ your mother. She said so. She was weeping.”

“Weeping! My mother! Why, she is in heaven if ever a woman was. They
don’t weep in heaven!”

“Not in the imaginary heaven. They do in the real heaven. It is only we
who ever make them weep. She left a message.”

“Give it me!”

“The message was: ‘Oh, Jack! Jack! you are drifting ever further from my
reach.’”

The man made a contemptuous gesture.

“I was a damned fool to let you have my name when I made the
appointment. You have been making enquiries. You don’t take me in with
your tricks. I’ve had enough of it--more than enough!”

For the second time that morning the door was slammed by an angry
visitor.

“He didn’t like his message,” Linden explained to his wife. “It was his
poor mother. She is fretting over him. Lord! if folk only knew these
things it would do them more good than all the forms and ceremonies.”

“Well, Tom, it’s not your fault if they don’t,” his wife answered.
“There are two women waiting to see you. They have not an introduction
but they seem in great trouble.”

“I’ve a bit of a headache. I haven’t got over last night. Silas and I
are the same in that. Our night’s work finds us out next morning. I’ll
just take these and no more, for it is bad to send anyone sorrowin’ away
if one can help it.”

The two women were shown in, both of them austere figures dressed in
black, one a stern-looking person of fifty, the other about half that
age.

“I believe your fee is a guinea,” said the elder, putting that sum upon
the table.

“To those who can afford it,” Linden answered. As a matter of fact, the
guinea often went the other way.

“Oh, yes, I can afford it,” said the woman. “I am in sad trouble and
they told me maybe you could help me.”

“Well, I will if I can. That’s what I am for.”

“I lost my poor husband in the war--killed at Ypres he was. Could I get
in touch with him?”

“You don’t seem to bring any influence with you. I get no impression. I
am sorry, but we can’t command these things. I get the name Edmund. Was
that his name?”

“No.”

“Or Albert?”

“No.”

“I am sorry, but it seems confused--cross vibrations, perhaps and a
mix-up of messages like crossed telegraph wires.”

“Does the name Pedro help you?”

“Pedro! Pedro! No, I get nothing. Was Pedro an elderly man?”

“No, not elderly.”

“I can get no impression.”

“It was about this girl of mine that I really wanted advice. My husband
would have told me what to do. She has got engaged to a young man, a
fitter by trade, but there are one or two things against it and I want
to know what to do.”

“Do give us some advice,” said the young woman, looking at the medium
with a hard eye.

“I would if I could, my dear. Do you love this man?”

“Oh, yes, he’s all right.”

“Well, if you don’t feel more than that about him, I should leave him
alone. Nothing but unhappiness comes of such a marriage.”

“Then you see unhappiness waiting for her?”

“I see a good chance of it. I think she should be careful.”

“Do you see anyone else coming along?”

“Everyone, man or woman, meets his mate sometime somewhere.”

“Then she will get a mate?”

“Most certainly she will.”

“I wonder if I should have any family?” asked the girl.

“Nay, that’s more than I can say.”

“And money--will she have money? We are down-hearted, Mr. Linden, and we
want a little----”

At this moment there came a most surprising interruption. The door flew
open and little Mrs. Linden rushed into the room with pale face and
blazing eyes.

“They are policewomen, Tom. I’ve had a warning about them. It’s only
just come. Get out of this house, you pair of snivelling hypocrites. Oh,
what a fool! What a fool I was not to recognise what you were.”

The two women had risen.

“Yes, you are rather late, Mrs. Linden,” said the senior. “The money has
passed.”

“Take it back! Take it back! It’s on the table.”

“No, no, the money has passed. We have had our fortune told. You will
hear more of this, Mr. Linden.”

“You brace of frauds! You talk of frauds when it is you who are the
frauds all the time! He would not have seen you if it had not been for
compassion.”

“It is no use scolding us,” the woman answered. “We do our duty and we
did not make the law. So long as it is on the Statute Book we have to
enforce it. We must report the case at headquarters.”

Tom Linden seemed stunned by the blow, but when the policewomen had
disappeared, he put his arms round his weeping wife and consoled her as
best he might.

“The typist at the police office sent down the warning,” she said. “Oh,
Tom, it is the second time!” she cried. “It means gaol and hard labour
for you.”

“Well, dear, so long as we are conscious of having done no wrong and of
having done God’s work to the best of our power, we must take what comes
with a good heart.”

“But where were they? How could they let you down so? Where was your
guide?”

“Yes, Victor,” said Tom Linden, shaking his head at the air above him,
“where were you? I’ve got a crow to pick with you. You know, dear,” he
added, “just as a doctor can never treat his own case, a medium is very
helpless when things come to his own address. That’s the law. And yet I
should have known. I was feeling in the dark. I had no inspiration of
any sort. It was just a foolish pity and sympathy that led me on when I
had no sort of a real message. Well, dear Mary, we will take what’s
coming to us with a brave heart. Maybe they have not enough to make a
case, and maybe the beak is not as ignorant as most of them. We’ll hope
for the best.”

In spite of his brave words the medium was shaking and quivering at the
shock. His wife had put her hands upon him and was endeavouring to
steady him, when Susan, the maid, who knew nothing of the trouble,
admitted a fresh visitor into the room. It was none other than Edward
Malone.

“He can’t see you,” said Mrs. Linden, “the medium is ill. He will see no
one this morning.”

But Linden had recognised his visitor.

“This is Mr. Malone, my dear, of the _Daily Gazette_. He was with us
last night. We had a good sitting, had we not, sir?”

“Marvellous!” said Malone. “But what is amiss?”

Both husband and wife poured out their sorrows.

“What a dirty business!” cried Malone, with disgust. “I am sure the
public does not realise how this law is enforced, or there would be a
row. This agent-provocateur business is quite foreign to British
justice. But in any case, Linden, you are a real medium. The law was
made to suppress false ones.”

“There are no real mediums in British law,” said Linden ruefully. “I
expect the more real you are the greater the offence. If you are a
medium at all and take money you are liable. But how can a medium live
if he does not take money? It’s a man’s whole work and needs all his
strength. You can’t be a carpenter all day and a first-class medium in
the evening.”

“What a wicked law! It seems to be deliberately stifling all physical
proofs of spiritual power.”

“Yes, that is just what it is. If the Devil passed a law it would be
just that. It is supposed to be for the protection of the public and yet
no member of the public has ever been known to complain. Every case is a
police trap. And yet the police know as well as you or I that every
Church charity garden-party has got its clairvoyante or its
fortune-teller.”

“It does seem monstrous. What will happen now?”

“Well, I expect a summons will come along. Then a police court case.
Then fine or imprisonment. It’s the second time, you see.”

“Well, your friends will give evidence for you and we will have a good
man to defend you.”

Linden shrugged his shoulders.

“You never know who are your friends. They slip away like water when it
comes to the pinch.”

“Well, I won’t for one,” said Malone, heartily. “Keep me in touch with
what is going on. But I called because I had something to ask you.”

“I am sorry, but I am really not fit,” Linden held out a quivering hand.

“No, no, nothing psychic. I simply wanted to ask you whether the
presence of a strong sceptic would stop all your phenomena?”

“Not necessarily. But, of course, it makes everything more difficult. If
they will be quiet and reasonable we can get results. But they know
nothing, break every law, and ruin their own sittings. There was old
Sherbank, the doctor, the other day. When the raps came on the table he
jumped up, put his hand on the wall, and cried, ‘Now then, put a rap on
the palm of my hand within five seconds.’ Because he did not get it he
declared it was all humbug and stamped out of the room. They will not
admit that there are fixed laws in this as in everything else.”

“Well, I must confess that the man I am thinking of might be quite as
unreasonable. It is the great Professor Challenger.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard he is a hard case.”

“Would you give him a sitting?”

“Yes, if you desired it.”

“He won’t come to you or to any place you name. He imagines all sorts of
wires and contrivances. You might have to come down to his country
house.”

“I would not refuse if it might convert him.”

“And when?”

“I can do nothing until this horrible affair is over. It will take a
month or two.”

“Well, I will keep in touch with you till then. When all is well again
we shall make our plans and see if we can bring these facts before him
as they have been brought before me. Meanwhile, let me say how much I
sympathise. We will form a committee of your friends and all that can
will surely be done.”




CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH THE NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL GETS WHAT THE BRITISH LAW CONSIDERS TO
BE HIS DESERTS


Before we pursue further the psychic adventures of our hero and heroine,
it would be well to see how the British law dealt with that wicked man,
Mr. Tom Linden.

The two policewomen returned in triumph to Bardsley Square Station where
Inspector Murphy, who had sent them, was waiting for their report.
Murphy was a jolly-looking, red-faced, black-moustached man who had a
cheerful, fatherly way with women which was by no means justified by his
age or virility. He sat behind his official table, his papers strewn in
front of him.

“Well, girls,” he said as the two women entered, “what luck?”

“I think it’s a go, Mr. Murphy,” said the elder policewoman. “We have
the evidence you want.”

The Inspector took up a written list of questions from his desk.

“You ran it on the general lines that I suggested?” he asked.

“Yes. I said my husband was killed at Ypres.”

“What did he do?”

“Well, he seemed sorry for me.”

“That, of course, is part of the game. He’ll be sorry for himself before
he is through with it. He didn’t say, ‘You are a single woman and never
had a husband?’”

“No.”

“Well, that’s one up against his spirits, is it not? That should impress
the court. What more?”

“He felt round for names. They were all wrong.”

“Good!”

“He believed me when I said that Miss Bellinger here was my daughter.”

“Good again! Did you try the Pedro stunt?”

“Yes, he considered the name, but I got nothing.”

“Ah, that’s a pity. But, anyhow, he did not know that Pedro was your
Alsatian dog. He considered the name. That’s good enough. Make the jury
laugh and you have your verdict. Now about fortune-telling? Did you do
what I suggested?”

“Yes, I asked about Amy’s young man. He did not give much that was
definite.”

“Cunning devil! He knows his business.”

“But he did say that she would be unhappy if she married him.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Well, if we spread that a little we have got all we
want. Now sit down and dictate your report while you have it fresh. Then
we can go over it together and see how we can put it best. Amy must
write one, also.”

“Very good, Mr. Murphy.”

“Then we shall apply for the warrant. You see, it all depends upon which
magistrate it comes before. There was Mr. Dalleret who let a medium off
last month. He is no use to us. And Mr. Lancing has been mixed up with
these people. Mr. Melrose is a stiff materialist. We could depend on him
and have timed the arrest accordingly. It would never do to fail to get
our conviction.”

“Couldn’t you get some of the public to corroborate?”

The Inspector laughed.

“We are supposed to be protecting the public, but between you and me
none of the public have ever yet asked to be protected. There are no
complaints. Therefore it is left to us to uphold the law as best we can.
As long as it is there we have got to enforce it. Well, good-bye, girls!
Let me have the report by four o’clock.”

“Nothing for us, I suppose?” said the elder woman, with a smile.

“You wait, my dear. If we get twenty-five pounds fine it has got to go
somewhere--Police Fund, of course, but there may be something over.
Anyhow, you go and cough it up and then we shall see.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning a scared maid broke into Linden’s modest study. “Please,
sir, it’s an officer.”

The man in blue followed hard at her heels.

“Name of Linden?” said he, and handing a folded sheet of foolscap he
departed.

The stricken couple who spent their lives in bringing comfort to others
were sadly in need of comfort themselves. She put her arm round his neck
while they read the cheerless document:

                TO THOMAS LINDEN of 40, Tullis Street, N.W.

     Information has been laid this day by Patrick Murphy, Inspector of
     Police, that you the said Thomas Linden on the 10th day of November
     at the above dwelling did profess to Henrietta Dresser and to Amy
     Bellinger to tell fortunes to deceive and impose on certain of His
     Majesty’s subjects, to wit those above mentioned. You are
     therefore summoned to appear before the Magistrate of the Police
     Court in Bardsley Square on Wednesday next, the 17th, at the hour
     of 11 in the forenoon to answer to the said information.

               Dated the 10th day of November.

                       (_Signed_) B. J. WITHERS.


On the same afternoon Mailey called upon Malone and they sat in
consultation over this document. Then they went together to see
Summerway Jones, an acute solicitor and an earnest student of psychic
affairs. Incidentally, he was a hard rider to hounds, a good boxer, and
a man who carried a fresh-air flavour into the mustiest law chambers. He
arched his eyebrows over the summons.

“The poor devil has not an earthly!” said he. “He’s lucky to have a
summons. Usually they act on a warrant. Then the man is carted right
off, kept in the cells all night, and tried next morning with no one to
defend him. The police are cute enough, of course, to choose either a
Roman Catholic or a materialist as the magistrate. Then, by the
beautiful judgment of Chief Justice Lawrence--the first judgment, I
believe, that he delivered in that high capacity--the profession of
mediumship or wonder-working is in itself a legal crime, whether it be
genuine or no, so that no defence founded upon good results has a look
in. It’s a mixture of religious persecution and police blackmail. As to
the public they don’t care a damn! Why should they? If they don’t want
their fortune told, they don’t go. The whole thing is the most absolute
bilge and a disgrace to our legislature.”

“I’ll write it up,” said Malone, glowing with Celtic fire. “What do you
call the Act?”

“Well, there are two Acts, each more putrid than the other, and both
passed long before Spiritualism was ever heard of. There is the
Witchcraft Act dating from George the Second. That has become too
absurd, so they only use it as a second string. Then there is the
Vagrancy Act of 1824. It was passed to control the wandering gipsy folk
on the roadside, and was never intended, of course, to be used like
this.” He hunted among his papers. “Here is the beastly thing. ‘Every
person professing to tell fortunes or using any subtle craft, means or
device to deceive and impose on any of His Majesty’s subjects shall be
deemed a rogue and a vagabond,’ and so on and so forth. The two Acts
together would have roped in the whole Early Christian movement just as
surely as the Roman persecution did.”

“Lucky there are no lions now,” said Malone.

“Jackasses!” cried Mailey. “That’s the modern substitute. But what are
we to do?”

“I’m damned if I know!” said the solicitor, scratching his head. “It’s
perfectly hopeless!”

“Oh, dash it all!” cried Malone, “we can’t give it up so easily. We know
the man is an honest man.”

Mailey turned and grasped Malone’s hand.

“I don’t know if you call yourself a Spiritualist yet,” he said, “but
you are the kind of chap we want. There are too many white-livered folk
in our movement who fawn on a medium when all is well, and desert him at
the first breath of an accusation. But, thank God! there are a few
stalwarts. There is Brookes and Rodwin and Sir James Smith. We can put
up a hundred or two among us.”

“Right-o!” said the solicitor, cheerily. “If you feel like that we will
give you a run for your money.”

“How about a K.C.?”

“Well, they don’t plead in police courts. If you’ll leave it in my hands
I fancy I can do as well as anyone, for I’ve had a lot of these cases.
It will keep the costs down, too.”

“Well, we are with you. And we will have a few good men at our back.”

“If we do nothing else we shall ventilate it,” said Malone. “I believe
in the good old British public. Slow and stupid, but sound at the core.
They will not stand for injustice if you can get the truth into their
heads.”

“They damned well need trepanning before you can get it there,” said the
solicitor. “Well, you do your bit and I’ll do mine and we will see what
comes to it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The fateful morning arrived and Linden found himself in the dock facing
a spruce, middle-aged man with rat-trap jaws, Mr. Melrose, the
redoubtable police magistrate. Mr. Melrose had a reputation for severity
with fortune-tellers and all who foretold the future, though he spent
the intervals in his court by reading up the sporting prophets, for he
was an ardent follower of the Turf, and his trim, fawn-coloured coat and
rakish hat were familiar objects at every race meeting which was within
his reach. He was in no particularly good humour this morning as he
glanced at the charge-sheet and then surveyed the prisoner. Mrs. Linden
had secured a position below the dock, and occasionally extended her
hand to pat that of the prisoner which rested on the edge. The court was
crowded and many of the prisoner’s clients had attended to show their
sympathy.

“Is this case defended?” asked Mr. Melrose.

“Yes, your worship,” said Summerway Jones. “May I, before it opens, make
an objection?”

“If you think it worth while, Mr. Jones.”

“I beg to respectfully request your ruling before the case is proceeded
with. My client is not a vagrant, but a respectable member of the
community, living in his own house, paying rates and taxes, and on the
same footing as every other citizen. He is now prosecuted under the
fourth section of the Vagrancy Act of 1824, which is styled, ‘An Act for
punishing idle and disorderly persons, and rogues and vagabonds.’ The
Act was intended, as the words imply, to restrain lawless gipsies and
others, who at that time infested the country. I ask your Worship to
rule that my client is clearly not a person within the purview of this
Act or liable to its penalties.”

The Magistrate shook his head.

“I fear, Mr. Jones, that there have been too many precedents for the Act
to be now interpreted in this limited fashion. I will ask the solicitor
prosecuting on behalf of the Commissioner of Police to put forward his
evidence.”

A little bull of a man with side-whiskers and a raucous voice sprang to
his feet.

“I call Henrietta Dresser.”

The elder policewoman popped up in the box with the alacrity of one who
is used to it. She held an open notebook in her hand.

“You are a policewoman, are you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand that you watched the prisoner’s home the day before you
called on him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many people went in?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

“Fourteen people. And I believe the prisoner’s average fee is ten and
sixpence.”

“Yes.”

“Seven pounds in one day! Pretty good wages when many an honest man is
content with five shillings.”

“These were the tradespeople!” cried Linden.

“I must ask you not to interrupt. You are already very efficiently
represented,” said the Magistrate severely.

“Now, Henrietta Dresser,” continued the prosecutor, wagging his
pince-nez. “Let us hear what occurred when you and Amy Bellinger visited
the prisoner.”

The policewoman gave an account which was in the main true, reading it
from her book. She was not a married woman, but the medium had accepted
her statement that she was. He had fumbled with several names and had
seemed greatly confused. The name of a dog--Pedro--had been submitted to
him, but he had not recognised it as such. Finally, he had answered
questions as the future of her alleged daughter, who was, in fact, no
relation to her, and had foretold that she would be unhappy in her
marriage.

“Any questions, Mr. Jones?” asked the Magistrate.

“Did you come to this man as one who needed consolation? And did he
attempt to give it?”

“I suppose you might put it so.”

“You professed deep grief, I understand.”

“I tried to give that impression.”

“You do not consider that to be hypocrisy?”

“I did what was my duty.”

“You saw no signs of psychic power, or anything abnormal?” asked the
prosecutor.

“No, he seemed a very nice, ordinary sort of man.”

Amy Bellinger was the next witness. She appeared with her notebook in
her hand.

“May I ask, your worship, whether it is in order that these witnesses
should read their evidence?” asked Mr. Jones.

“Why not?” queried the Magistrate. “We desire the exact facts, do we
not?”

“_We_ do. Possibly Mr. Jones does not,” said the prosecuting solicitor.

“It is clearly a method of securing that the evidence of these two
witnesses shall be in accord,” said Jones. “I submit that these accounts
are carefully prepared and collated.”

“Naturally, the police prepare their case,” said the Magistrate. “I do
not see that you have any grievance, Mr. Jones. Now, witness, let us
hear your evidence.”

It followed on the exact lines of the other.

“You asked questions about your fiancé? You had no fiancé,” said Mr.
Jones.

“That is so.”

“In fact, you both told a long sequence of lies?”

“With a good object in view.”

“You thought the end justifies the means?”

“I carried out my instructions.”

“Which were given you beforehand?”

“Yes, we were told what to ask.”

“I think,” said the Magistrate, “that the policewomen have given their
evidence very fairly and well. Have you any witnesses for the defence,
Mr. Jones?”

“There are a number of people in court, your worship, who have received
great benefit from the mediumship of the prisoner. I have subpœnaed one
woman who was, by her own account, saved from suicide that very morning
by what he told her. I have another man who was an atheist, and had lost
all belief in future life. He was completely converted by his experience
of psychic phenomena. I can produce men of the highest eminence in
science and literature who will testify to the real nature of Mr.
Linden’s powers.”

The Magistrate shook his head.

“You must know, Mr. Jones, that such evidence would be quite beside the
question. It has been clearly laid down by the ruling of the Lord Chief
Justice and others that the law of this country does not recognise
supernatural powers of any sort whatever, and that a pretence of such
powers where payment is involved constitutes a crime in itself.
Therefore your suggestion that you should call witnesses could not
possibly lead to anything save a wasting of the time of the court. At
the same time, I am, of course, ready to listen to any observations
which you may care to make after the solicitor for the prosecution has
spoken.”

“Might I venture to point out, your worship,” said Jones, “that such a
ruling would mean the condemnation of any sacred or holy person of whom
we have any record, since even holy persons have to live, and have
therefore to receive money.”

“If your refer to Apostolic times, Mr. Jones,” said the Magistrate
sharply, “I can only remind you that the Apostolic age is past and also
that Queen Anne is dead. Such an argument is hardly worthy of your
intelligence. Now, sir, if you have anything to add....”

Thus encouraged the prosecutor made a short address, stabbing the air at
intervals with his pince-nez as if every stab punctured afresh all
claims of the spirit. He pictured the destitution among the
working-classes, and yet charlatans, by advancing wicked and blasphemous
claims, were able to earn a rich living. That they had real powers was,
as had been observed, beside the question, but even that excuse was
shattered by the fact that these policewomen, who had discharged an
unpleasant duty in a most exemplary way, had received nothing but
nonsense in return for their money. Was it likely that other clients
fared any better? These parasites were increasing in number, trading
upon the finer feelings of bereaved parents, and it was high time that
some exemplary punishment should warn them that they would be wise to
turn their hands to some more honest trade.

Mr. Summerway Jones replied as best he might. He began by pointing out
that the Acts were being used for a purpose for which they were never
intended. (“That point has been already considered!” snapped the
Magistrate.) The whole position was open to criticism. The convictions
were secured by evidence from agents-provocateurs, who, if any crime had
been committed, were obviously inciters to it and also participants. The
fines obtained were often deflected for purposes in which the police had
a direct interest.

“Surely, Mr. Jones, you do not mean to cast a reflection upon the
honesty of the police!”

The police were human, and were naturally inclined to stretch a point
where their own interests were affected. All these cases were
artificial. There was no record at any time of any real complaint from
the public or any demand for protection. There were frauds in every
profession, and if a man deliberately invested and lost a guinea in a
false medium he had no more right to protection than the man who
invested his money in a bad company on the stock market. Whilst the
police were wasting time upon such cases, and their agents were weeping
crocodile tears in the character of forlorn mourners, many other
branches of real crime received far less attention than they deserved.
The law was quite arbitrary in its action. Every big garden-party, even,
as he had been informed, every police fête was incomplete without its
fortune-teller or palmist. Some years ago the _Daily Mail_ had raised an
outcry against fortune-tellers. That great man, the late Lord
Northcliffe, had been put in the box by the defence, and it had been
shown that one of his other papers was running a palmistry column, and
that the fees received were divided equally between the palmist and the
proprietors. He mentioned this in no spirit which was derogatory to the
memory of this great man, but merely as an example of the absurdity of
the law as it was now administered. Whatever might be the individual
opinion of members of that court, it was incontrovertible that a large
number of intelligent and useful citizens regarded this power of
mediumship as a remarkable manifestation of the power of spirit, making
for the great improvement of the race. Was it not a most fatal policy in
these days of materialism to crush down by law that which in its higher
manifestation might work for the regeneration of mankind? As to the
undoubted fact that information received by the policewomen was
incorrect and that their lying statements were not detected by the
medium, it was a psychic law that harmonious conditions were essential
for true results, and that deceit on one side produced confusion on the
other. If the court would for a moment adopt the Spiritualistic
hypothesis, they would realise how absurd it would be to expect that
angelic hosts would descend in order to answer the questions of two
mercenary and hypocritical inquirers.

Such, in a short synopsis, was the general line of Mr. Summerway Jones’
defence which reduced Mrs. Linden to tears and threw the magistrate’s
clerk into a deep slumber. The Magistrate himself rapidly brought the
matter to a conclusion.

“Your quarrel, Mr. Jones, seems to be with the law, and that is outside
my competence. I administer it as I find it, though I may remark that I
am entirely in agreement with it. Such men as the defendant are the
noxious fungi which collect on a corrupt society, and the attempt to
compare their vulgarities with the holy men of old, or to claim similar
gifts, must be reprobated by all right-thinking men.

“As to you, Linden,” he added, fixing his stern eyes upon the prisoner,
“I fear that you are a hardened offender since a previous conviction has
not altered your ways. I sentence you, therefore, to two months’ hard
labour without option of a fine.”

There was a scream from Mrs. Linden.

“Good-bye, dear, don’t fret,” said the medium, glancing over the side of
the dock. An instant later he had been hurried down to the cell.

Summerway Jones, Mailey and Malone met in the hall, and Mailey
volunteered to escort the poor stricken woman home.

“What had he ever done but bring comfort to all?” she moaned. “Is there
a better man living in the whole great City of London?”

“I don’t think there is a more useful one,” said Mailey. “I’ll venture
to say that the whole of Crockford’s Directory with the Archbishops at
their head could not prove the things of religion as I have seen Tom
Linden prove them, or convert an atheist as I have seen Linden convert
him.”

“It’s a shame! A damned shame!” said Malone, hotly.

“The touch about vulgarity was funny,” said Jones. “I wonder if he
thinks the Apostles were very cultivated people. Well, I did my best. I
had no hopes, and it has worked out as I thought. It is pure waste of
time.”

“Not at all,” Malone answered. “It has ventilated an evil. There were
reporters in court. Surely some of them have some sense. They will note
the injustice.”

“Not they,” said Mailey. “The Press is hopeless. My God, what a
responsibility these people take on themselves, and how little they
guess the price that each will pay! I know. I have spoken with them
while they were paying it.”

“Well, I for one will speak out,” said Malone, “and I believe others
will also. The Press is more independent and intelligent than you seem
to think.”

But Mailey was right, after all. When he had left Mrs. Linden in her
lonely home and had reached Fleet Street once more, Malone bought a
_Planet_. As he opened it a scare head-line met his eye:

                     IMPOSTOR IN THE POLICE COURT

                        _Dog Mistaken for Man._
                            WHO WAS PEDRO?
                          Exemplary Sentence.

He crumpled the paper up in his hand.

“No wonder these Spiritualists feel bitterly,” he thought. “They have
good cause.”

Yes, poor Tom Linden had a bad press. He went down into his miserable
cell amid universal objurgation. The _Planet_, an evening paper which
depended for its circulation upon the sporting forecasts of Captain
Touch-and-go, remarked upon the absurdity of forecasting the future.
_Honest John_, a weekly journal which had been mixed up with some of the
greatest frauds of the century, was of opinion that the dishonesty of
Linden was a public scandal. A rich country rector wrote to _The Times_
to express his indignation that anyone should profess to sell the gifts
of the spirit. The _Churchman_ remarked that such incidents arose from
the growing infidelity, while the _Freethinker_ saw in them a reversion
to superstition. Finally Mr. Maskelyne showed the public, to the great
advantage of his box office, exactly how the swindle was perpetrated. So
for a few days Tom Linden had what the French call a “succes
d’execration.” Then the world moved on and he was left to his fate.




CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH THREE INVESTIGATORS COME UPON A DARK SOUL


Lord Roxton had returned from Central African heavy game shooting, and
had at once carried out a series of Alpine ascents which had satisfied
and surprised everyone except himself.

“Top of the Alps is becomin’ a perfect bear-garden,” said he. “Short of
Everest there don’t seem to be any decent privacy left.”

His advent into London was acclaimed by a dinner given in his honour at
the Travellers’ by the Heavy Game Society. The occasion was private and
there were no reporters, but Lord Roxton’s speech was fixed _verbatim_
in the minds of all his audience and has been imperishably preserved. He
writhed for twenty minutes under the flowery and eulogistic periods of
the president, and rose himself in the state of confused indignation
which the Briton feels when he is publicly approved. “Oh, I say! By
Jove! What!” was his oration, after which he resumed his seat and
perspired profusely.

Malone was first aware of Lord Roxton’s return through McArdle, the
crabbed old red-headed news editor, whose bald dome projected further
and further from its ruddy fringe as the years still found him slaving
at the most grinding of tasks. He retained his keen scent of what was
good copy, and it was this sense of his which caused him one winter
morning to summon Malone to his presence. He removed the long glass
tube which he used as a cigarette-holder from his lips, and he blinked
through his big round glasses at his subordinate.

“You know that Lord Roxton is back in London?”

“I had not heard.”

“Aye, he’s back. Dootless you’ve heard that he was wounded in the war.
He led a small column in East Africa and made a wee war of his own till
he got an elephant bullet through his chest. Oh, he’s done fine since
then, or he couldn’t be climbin’ these mountains. He’s a deevil of a man
and aye stirring up something new.”

“What is the latest?” asked Malone, eyeing a slip of paper which McArdle
was waving between his finger and thumb.

“Well, that’s where he impinges on you. I was thinking maybe you could
hunt in couples, and there would be copy in it. There’s a leaderette in
the _Evening Standard_.” He handed it over. It ran thus:

     “A quaint advertisement in the columns of a contemporary shows that
     the famous Lord John Roxton, third son of the Duke of Pomfret, is
     seeking fresh worlds to conquer. Having exhausted the sporting
     adventures of this terrestrial globe, he is now turning to those of
     the dim, dark and dubious regions of psychic research. He is in the
     market apparently for any genuine specimen of a haunted house, and
     is open to receive information as to any violent or dangerous
     manifestation which called for investigation. As Lord John Roxton
     is a man of resolute character and one of the best revolver shots
     in England, we would warn any practical joker that he would be
     well-advised to stand aside and leave this matter to those who are
     said to be as impervious to bullets as their supporters are to
     common sense.”

McArdle gave his dry chuckle at the concluding words.

“I’m thinking they are getting pairsonal there, friend Malone, for if
you are no a supporter, you’re well on the way. But are you no of the
opeenion that this chiel and you between you might put up a spook and
get two racy columns off him?”

“Well, I can see Lord Roxton,” said Malone. “He’s still, I suppose, in
his old rooms in the Albany. I would wish to call in any case, so I can
open this up as well.”

Thus it was that in the late afternoon just as the murk of London broke
into dim circles of silver, the pressman found himself once more walking
down Vigo Street and accosting the porter at the dark entrance of the
old-fashioned chambers. Yes, Lord John Roxton was in, but a gentleman
was with him. He would take a card. Presently he returned with word that
in spite of the previous visitor, Lord Roxton would see Malone at once.
An instant later, he had been ushered into the old luxurious rooms with
their trophies of war and of the chase. The owner of them with
outstreched hand was standing at the door, long, thin, austere, with the
same gaunt, whimsical, Don Quixote face as of old. There was no change
save that he was more aquiline, and his eyebrows jutted more thickly
over his reckless, restless eyes.

“Hullo, young fellah!” he cried. “I was hopin’ you’d draw this old
covert once more. I was comin’ down to the office to look you up. Come
in! Come in! Let me introduce you to the Reverend Charles Mason.”

A very tall, thin clergyman, who was coiled up in a large basket chair,
gradually unwound himself and held out a bony hand to the newcomer.
Malone was aware of two very earnest and human grey eyes looking
searchingly into his, and of a broad, welcoming smile which disclosed a
double row of excellent teeth. It was a worn and weary face, the tired
face of the spiritual fighter, but it was very kindly and companionable,
none the less. Malone had heard of the man, a Church of England vicar,
who had left his model parish and the church which he had built himself
in order to preach freely the doctrines of Christianity, with the new
psychic knowledge super-added.

“Why, I never seem to get away from the Spiritualists!” he exclaimed.

“You never will, Mr. Malone,” said the lean clergyman, chuckling. “The
world never will until it has absorbed this new knowledge which God has
sent. You can’t get away from it. It is too big. At the present moment
in this great city there is not a place where men or women meet that it
does not come up. And yet you would not know it from the Press.”

“Well, you can’t level that reproach at the _Daily Gazette_,” said
Malone. “Possibly you may have read my own descriptive articles.”

“Yes, I read them. They are at least better than the awful sensational
nonsense which the London Press usually serves up, save when they ignore
it altogether. To read a paper like _The Times_ you would never know
that this vital movement existed at all. The only editorial allusion to
it that I can ever remember was in a leading article when the great
paper announced that it would believe in it when it found it could, by
means of it, pick out more winners on a race-card than by other means.”

“Doosed useful, too,” said Lord Roxton. “It’s just what I should have
said myself. What!”

The clergyman’s face was grave and he shook his head.

“That brings me back to the object of my visit,” he said. He turned to
Malone. “I took the liberty of calling upon Lord Roxton in connection
with his advertisement to say that if he went on such a quest with a
good intention, no better work could be found in the world, but if he
did it out of a love of sport, following some poor earth-bound soul in
the same spirit as he followed the white rhinoceros of the Lido, he
might be playing with fire.”

“Well, padre, I’ve been playin’ with fire all my life and that’s nothin’
new. What I mean--if you want me to look at this ghost business from the
religious angle, there’s nothin’ doin’, for the Church of England that I
was brought up in fills my very modest need. But if it’s got a spice of
danger, as you say, then it’s worth while. What!”

The Rev. Charles Mason smiled his kindly, toothsome grin.

“Incorrigible, is he not?” he said to Malone. “Well, I can only wish you
a fuller comprehension of the subject.” He rose as if to depart.

“Wait a bit, padre!” cried Lord Roxton, hurriedly. “When I’m explorin’,
I begin by ropin’ in a friendly native. I expect you’re just the man.
Won’t you come with me?”

“Where to?”

“Well, sit down and I’ll tell you.” He rummaged among a pile of letters
on his desk. “Fine selection of spooks!” he said. “I got on the track of
over twenty by the first post. This is an easy winner, though. Read it
for yourself. Lonely house, man driven mad, tenants boltin’ in the
night, horrible spectre. Sounds all right--what!”

The clergyman read the letter with puckered brows. “It seems a bad
case,” said he.

“Well, suppose you come along. What! Maybe you can help clear it up.”

The Rev. Mr. Mason pulled out a pocket-almanac. “I have a service for
ex-Service men on Wednesday, and a lecture the same evening.”

“But we could start to-day.”

“It’s a long way.”

“Only Dorsetshire. Three hours.”

“What is your plan?”

“Well, I suppose a night in the house should do it.”

“If there is any poor soul in trouble it becomes a duty. Very well, I
will come.”

“And surely there is room for me,” pleaded Malone.

“Of course there is, young fellah! What I mean--I expect that old,
red-headed bird at the office sent you round with no other purpose. Ah,
I thought so. Well, you can write an adventure that is not perfect bilge
for a change--what! There’s a train from Victoria at eight o’clock. We
can meet there, and I’ll have a look in at old man Challenger as I
pass.”

They dined together in the train and after dinner reassembled in their
first-class carriage, which is the snuggest mode of travel which the
world can show. Roxton, behind a big black cigar, was full of his visit
to Challenger.

“The old dear is the same as ever. Bit my head off once or twice in his
own familiar way. Talked unadulterated tripe. Says I’ve got
brain-softenin’ if I could think there was such a thing as a real spook.
‘When you’re dead you’re dead.’ That’s the old man’s cheery slogan.
Surveyin’ his contemporaries, he said, extinction was a doosed good
thing! ‘It’s the only hope of the world,’ said he. ‘Fancy the awful
prospect if they survived.’ Wanted to give me a bottle of chlorine to
chuck at the ghost. I told him that if my automatic was not a
spook-stopper, nothin’ else would serve. Tell me, padre, is this the
first time you’ve been on Solfari after this kind of game?”

“You treat the matter too lightly, Lord John,” said the clergyman,
gravely. “You have clearly had no experience of it. In answer to your
question I may say that I have several times tried to help in similar
cases.”

“And you take it seriously?” asked Malone, making notes for his article.

“Very, very seriously.”

“What do you think these influences are?”

“I am no authority upon the general question. You know Algernon Mailey,
the barrister, do you not? He could give you facts and figures. I
approach the subject rather perhaps from the point of view of instinct
and emotion. I remember Mailey lecturing on Professor Bozzano’s book on
ghosts where over five hundred well-authenticated instances were given,
every one of them sufficient to establish an _a priori_ case. There is
Flammarion, too. You can’t laugh away evidence of that kind.”

“I’ve read Bozzano and Flammarion, too,” said Malone, “but it is your
own experience and conclusions that I want.”

“Well, if you quote me, remember that I do not look on myself as a great
authority on psychic research. Wiser brains than mine may come along
and give some other explanation. Still, what I have seen has led me to
certain conclusions. One of them is to think that there is some truth in
the theosophical idea of shells.”

“What is that?”

“They imagined that all spirit bodies near the earth were empty shells
or husks from which the real entity had departed. Now, of course, we
know that a general statement of that sort is nonsense, for we could not
get the glorious communications which we do get from anything but high
intelligences. But we also must beware of generalisations. They are not
_all_ high intelligences. Some are so low that I think the creature is
purely external and is an appearance rather than a reality.”

“But why should it be there?”

“Yes, that is the question. It is usually allowed that there is the
natural body, as St. Paul called it, which is dissolved at death, and
the etheric or spiritual body which survives and functions upon an
etheric plane. Those are the essential things. But we may really have as
many coats as an onion and there may be a mental body which may shed
itself at any spot where great mental or emotional strain has been
experienced. It may be a dull automatic simulacrum and yet carry
something of our appearance and thoughts.”

“Well,” said Malone, “that would to some extent get over the difficulty,
for I could never imagine that a murderer or his victim could spend
whole centuries re-acting the old crime. What would be the sense of it?”

“Quite right, young fellah,” said Lord Roxton. “There was a pal of mine,
Archie Soames, the gentleman Jock, who had an old place in Berkshire.
Well, Nell Gwynne had lived there once, and he was ready to swear he met
her a dozen times in the passage. Archie never flinched at the big jump
at the Grand National, but, by Jove! he flinched at those passages after
dark. Doosed fine woman she was and all that, but dash it all! What I
mean--one has to draw the line--what!”

“Quite so!” the clergyman answered. “You can’t imagine that the real
soul of a vivid personality like Nell could spend centuries walking
those passages. But if by chance she had ate her heart out in that
house, brooding and fretting, one could think that she might have cast a
shell and left some thought-image of herself behind her.”

“You said you had experiences of your own.”

“I had one before ever I knew anything of Spiritualism. I hardly expect
that you will believe me, but I assure you it is true. I was a very
young curate up in the north. There was a house in the village which had
a _poltergeist_, one of those very mischievous influences which cause so
much trouble. I volunteered to exorcise it. We have an official form of
exorcism in the Church, you know, so I thought that I was well-armed. I
stood in the drawing-room which was the centre of the disturbances, with
all the family on their knees beside me, and I read the service. What do
you think happened?”

Mason’s gaunt face broke into a sweetly humorous laugh. “Just as I
reached Amen, when the creature should have been slinking away abashed,
the big bearskin hearthrug stood up on end and simply enveloped me. I am
ashamed to say that I was out of that house in two jumps. It was then
that I learned that no formal religious proceeding has any effect at
all.”

“Then what has?”

“Well, kindness and reason may do something. You see, they vary greatly.
Some of these earthbound or earth-interested creatures are neutral, like
these simulacra or shells that I speak of. Others are essentially good
like these monks of Glastonbury, who have manifested so wonderfully of
late years and are recorded by Bligh Bond. They are held to earth by a
pious memory. Some are mischievous children like the _poltergeists_. And
some--only a few, I hope--are deadly beyond words, strong, malevolent
creatures too heavy with matter to rise above our earth plane--so heavy
with matter that their vibrations may be low enough to affect the human
retina and to become visible. If they have been cruel, cunning brutes in
life, they are cruel and cunning still with more power to hurt. It is
evil monsters of this kind who are let loose by our system of capital
punishment, for they die with unused vitality which may be expended upon
revenge.”

“This Dryfont spook has a doosed bad record,” said Lord Roxton.

“Exactly. That is why I disapprove of levity. He seems to me to be the
very type of the creature I speak of. Just as an octopus may have his
den in some ocean cave, and come floating out a silent image of horror,
to attack a swimmer, so I picture such a spirit lurking in the dark of
the house which he curses by his presence, and ready to float out upon
all whom he can injure.”

Malone’s jaw began to drop.

“I say!” he exclaimed, “have we no protection?”

“Yes, I think we have. If we had not, such a creature could devastate
the earth. Our protection is that there are white forces as well as
dark ones. We may call them ‘guardian angels’ as the Catholics do, or
‘guides’ or ‘controls,’ but whatever you call them, they really do exist
and they guard us from evil on the spiritual plane.”

“What about the chap who was driven mad, padre? Where was your guide
when the spook put the rug around you? What?”

“The power of our guards may depend upon our own worthiness. Evil may
always win for a time. Good wins in the end. That’s my experience in
life.”

Lord Roxton shook his head.

“If good wins, then it runs a doosed long waitin’ race, and most of us
never live to see the finish. Look at those rubber devils that I had a
scrap with up the Putomayo River. Where are they? What! Mostly in Paris
havin’ a good time. And the poor niggers they murdered. What about
them?”

“Yes, we need faith sometimes. We have to remember that we don’t see the
end. ‘To be continued in our next’ is the conclusion of every
life-story. That’s where the enormous value of the other world accounts
come in. They give us at least one chapter more.”

“Where can I get that chapter?” asked Malone.

“There are many wonderful books, though the world has not yet learned to
appreciate them--records of the life beyond. I remember one
incident--you may take it as a parable, if you like--but it is really
more than that. The dead rich man pauses before the lovely dwelling. His
sad guide draws him away. ‘It is not for you. It is for your gardener.’
He shows him a wretched shack. ‘You gave us nothing to build with. It
was the best that we could do.’ That may be the next chapter in the
story of your rubber millionaires.”

Roxton laughed grimly.

“I gave some of them a shack that was six foot long and two foot deep,”
said he. “No good shakin’ your head, padre. What I mean--I don’t love my
neighbour as myself, and never shall. I hate some of ’em like poison.”

“Well, we should hate sin, and for my own part, I have never been strong
enough to separate sin from the sinner. How can I preach when I am as
human and weak as anyone?”

“Why, that’s the only preachin’ I could listen to,” said Lord Roxton.
“The chap in the pulpit is over my head. If he comes down to my level I
have some use for him. Well, it strikes me we won’t get much sleep
to-night. We’ve just an hour before we reach Dryfont. Maybe we had
better use it.”

It was past eleven o’clock of a cold, frosty night when the party
reached their destination. The station of the little watering-place was
almost deserted, but a small, fat man in a fur overcoat ran forward to
meet them, and greeted them warmly.

“I am Mr. Belchamber, owner of the house. How do you do, gentlemen? I
got your wire, Lord Roxton, and everything is in order. It is indeed
kind of you to come down. If you can do anything to ease my burden I
shall indeed be grateful.”

Mr. Belchamber led them across to the little Station Hotel where they
partook of sandwiches and coffee, which he had thoughtfully ordered. As
they ate he told them something of his troubles.

“It isn’t as if I was a rich man, gentleman. I am a retired grazier and
all my savings are in three houses. That is one of them, the Villa
Maggiore. Yes, I got it cheap, that’s true. But how could I think there
was anything in this story of the mad doctor?”

“Let’s have the yarn,” said Lord Roxton, munching at a sandwich.

“He was there away back in Queen Victoria’s time. I’ve seen him myself.
A long, stringy, dark-faced kind of man, with a round back and a queer,
shuffling way of walking. They say he had been in India all his life,
and some thought he was hiding from some crime, for he would never show
his face in the village and seldom came out till after dark. He broke a
dog’s leg with a stone, and there was some talk of having him up for it,
but the people were afraid of him and no one would prosecute. The little
boys would run past, for he would sit glowering and glooming in the
front window. Then one day he didn’t take the milk in, and the same the
next day, and so they broke the door open, and he was dead in his
bath--but it was a bath of blood for he had opened the veins of his arm.
Tremayne was his name. No one here forgets it.”

“And you bought the house?”

“Well, it was re-papered and painted and fumigated, and done up outside.
You’d have said it was a new house. Then, I let it to Mr. Jenkins of the
Brewery. Three days he was in it. I lowered the rent, and Mr. Beale, the
retired grocer, took it. It was he who went mad--clean mad--after a week
of it. And I’ve had it on my hands ever since--sixty pounds out of my
income, and taxes to pay on it, into the bargain. If you gentlemen can
do anything, for God’s sake do it! If not, it would pay me to burn it
down.”

The Villa Maggiore stood about half a mile from the town on the slope of
a low hill. Mr. Belchamber conducted them so far, and even up to the
hall door. It was certainly a depressing place, with a huge, gambrel
roof which came down over the upper windows and nearly obscured them.
There was a half-moon, and by its light they could see that the garden
was a tangle of scraggy, winter vegetation, which had, in some places,
almost overgrown the path. It was all very still, very gloomy and very
ominous.

“The door is not locked,” said the owner. “You will find some chairs and
a table in the sitting-room on the left of the hall. I had a fire lit
there, and there is a bucketful of coals. You will be pretty
comfortable, I hope. You won’t blame me for not coming in, but my nerves
are not so good as they were.” With a few apologetic words, the owner
slipped away, and they were alone with their task.

Lord Roxton had brought a strong electric torch. On opening the mildewed
door, he flashed a tunnel of light down the passage, uncarpeted and
dreary, which ended in a broad, straight, wooden staircase leading to
the upper floor. There were doors on either side of the passage. That on
the right led into a large, cheerless, empty room, with a derelict
lawn-mower in one corner and a pile of old books and journals. There was
a corresponding room upon the left which was a much more cheery
apartment. A brisk fire burned in the grate, there were three
comfortable chairs, and a deal table with a water carafe, a bucket of
coals, and a few other amenities. It was lit by a large oil-lamp. The
clergyman and Malone drew up to the fire, for it was very cold, but Lord
Roxton completed his preparations. From a little hand-bag he extracted
his automatic pistol, which he put upon the mantelpiece. Then he
produced a packet of candles, placing two of them in the hall. Finally
he took a ball of worsted and tied strings of it across the back
passage and across the opposite door.

“We will have one look round,” said he, when his preparations were
complete. “Then we can wait down here and take what comes.”

The upper passage led at right angles to left and right from the top of
the straight staircase. On the right were two large, bare, dusty rooms,
with the wall-paper hanging in strips and the floor littered with
scattered plaster. On the left was a single large room in the same
derelict condition. Out of it was the bathroom of tragic memory, with
the high, zinc bath still in position. Great splotches of red lay within
it, and though they were only rust stains, they seemed to be terrible
reminders from the past. Malone was surprised to see the clergyman
stagger and support himself against the door. His face was ghastly white
and there was moisture on his brow. His two comrades supported him down
the stairs, and he sat for a little, as one exhausted, before he spoke.

“Did you two really feel nothing?” he asked. “The fact is that I am
mediumistic myself and very open to psychic impressions. This particular
one was horrible beyond description.”

“What did you get, padre?”

“It is difficult to describe these things. It was a sinking of my heart,
a feeling of utter desolation. All my senses were affected. My eyes went
dim. I smelt a terrible odour of putrescence. The strength seemed to be
sapped out of me. Believe me, Lord Roxton, it is no light thing which we
are facing to-night.”

The sportsman was unusually grave. “So I begin to think,” said he. “Do
you think you are fit for the job?”

“I am sorry to have been so weak,” Mr. Mason answered. “I shall
certainly see the thing through. The worse the case, the more need for
my help. I am all right now,” he added, with his cheery laugh, drawing
an old charred briar from his pocket. “This is the best doctor for
shaken nerves. I’ll sit here and smoke till I’m wanted.”

“What shape do you expect it to take?” asked Malone of Lord Roxton.

“Well, it is something you can see. That’s certain.”

“That’s what I cannot understand, in spite of all my reading,” said
Malone. “These authorities are all agreed that there is a material
basis, and that this material basis is drawn from the human body. Call
it ectoplasm, or what you like, it is human in origin, is it not?”

“Certainly,” Mason answered.

“Well, then are we to suppose that this Dr. Tremayne builds up his own
appearance by drawing stuff from me and you?”

“I think, so far as I understand it, that in most cases a spirit does
so. I believe that when the spectator feels that he goes cold, that his
hair rises and the rest of it, he is really conscious of this draft upon
his own vitality which may be enough to make him faint or even to kill
him. Perhaps he was drawing on me then.”

“Suppose we are not mediumistic? Suppose we give out nothing?”

“There is a very full case that I read lately,” Mr. Mason answered. “It
was closely observed--reported by Professor Neillson of Iceland. In that
case the evil spirit used to go down to an unfortunate photographer in
the town, draw his supplies from him, and then come back and use them.
He would openly say, ‘Give me time to get down to So-and-so. Then I will
show you what I can do.’ He was a most formidable creature and they had
great difficulty in mastering him.”

“Strikes me, young fellah, we have taken on a larger contract than we
knew,” said Lord Roxton. “Well, we’ve done what we could. The passage is
well lit. No one can come at us except down the stair without breaking
the worsted. There is nothing more we can do except just to wait.”

So they waited. It was a weary time. A carriage clock had been placed on
the discoloured wooden mantelpiece, and slowly its hands crept on from
one to two and from two to three. Outside an owl was hooting most
dismally in the darkness. The villa was on a by-road, and there was no
human sound to link them up with life. The padre lay dozing in his
chair. Malone smoked incessantly. Lord Roxton turned over the pages of a
magazine. There were the occasional strange tappings and creakings which
come in the silence of the night. Nothing else until....

Someone came down the stair.

There could not be a doubt of it. It was a furtive, and yet a clear
footstep. Creak! Creak! Creak! Then it had reached the level. Then it
had reached their door. They were all sitting erect in their chairs,
Roxton grasping his automatic. Had it come in? The door was ajar, but
had not further opened. Yet all were aware of a sense that they were not
alone, that they were being observed. It seemed suddenly colder, and
Malone was shivering. An instant later the steps were retreating. They
were low and swift--much swifter than before. One could imagine that a
messenger was speeding back with intelligence to some great master who
lurked in the shadows above.

The three sat in silence, looking at each other.

“By Jove!” said Lord Roxton at last. His face was pale but firm. Malone
scribbled some notes and the hour. The clergyman was praying.

“Well, we are up against it,” said Roxton after a pause. “We can’t leave
it at that. We have to go through with it. I don’t mind tellin’ you,
padre, that I’ve followed a wounded tiger in a thick jungle and never
had quite the feelin’ I’ve got now. If I’m out for sensations, I’ve got
them. But I’m going upstairs.”

“We will go, too,” cried his comrades, rising from their chairs.

“Stay here, young fellah! And you, too, padre. Three of us make too much
noise. I’ll call you if I want you. My idea is just to steal out and
wait quiet on the stair. If that thing, whatever it was, comes again, it
will have to pass me.”

All three went into the passage. The two candles were throwing out
little circles of light, and the stair was dimly illuminated, with heavy
shadows at the top. Roxton sat down half-way up the stair, pistol in
hand. He put his finger to his lips and impatiently waved his companions
back to the room. Then they sat by the fire, waiting, waiting.

Half an hour, three-quarters--and then, suddenly it came. There was a
sound as of rushing feet, the reverberation of a shot, a scuffle and a
heavy fall, with a loud cry for help. Shaking with horror, they rushed
into the hall. Lord Roxton was lying on his face amid a litter of
plaster and rubbish. He seemed half-dazed as they raised him, and was
bleeding where the skin had been grazed from his cheek and hands.
Looking up the stair, it seemed that the shadows were blacker and
thicker at the top.

“I’m all right,” said Roxton, as they led him to his chair. “Just give
me a minute to get my wind and I’ll have another round with the
devil--for if this is not the devil, then none ever walked the earth.”

“You shan’t go alone this time,” said Malone.

“You never should,” added the clergyman. “But tell us what happened.”

“I hardly know myself. I sat, as you saw, with my back to the top
landing. Suddenly I heard a rush. I was aware of something dark right on
the top of me. I half-turned and fired. The next instant I was chucked
down as if I had been a baby. All that plaster came showering down after
me. That’s as much as I can tell you.”

“Why should we go further in the matter?” said Malone. “You are
convinced that this is more than human, are you not?”

“There is no doubt of that.”

“Well, then you have had your experience. What more can you want?”

“Well, I, at least, want something more,” said Mr. Mason. “I think our
help is needed.”

“Strikes me that _we_ shall need the help,” said Lord Roxton, rubbing
his knee. “We shall want a doctor before we get through. But I’m with
you, padre. I feel that we must see it through. If you don’t like it,
young fellah----”

The mere suggestion was too much for Malone’s Irish blood.

“I am going up alone!” he cried, making for the door.

“No, indeed. I am with you.” The clergyman hurried after him.

“And you don’t go without me!” cried Lord Roxton, limping in the rear.

They stood together in the candle-lit, shadow-draped passage. Malone had
his hand on the balustrade and his foot on the lower step, when it
happened.

What was it? They could not tell themselves. They only knew that the
black shadows at the top of the staircase had thickened, had coalesced,
had taken a definite, batlike shape. Great God! They were moving! They
were rushing swiftly and noiselessly downwards! Black, black as night,
huge, ill-defined, semi-human and altogether evil and damnable. All
three men screamed and blundered for the door. Lord Roxton caught the
handle and threw it open. It was too late; the thing was upon them. They
were conscious of a warm, glutinous contact, of a purulent smell, of a
half-formed, dreadful face and of entwining limbs. An instant later all
three were lying half-dazed and horrified, hurled outwards on to the
gravel of the drive. The door had shut with a crash.

Malone whimpered and Roxton swore, but the clergyman was silent as they
gathered themselves together, each of them badly shaken and bruised, but
with an inward horror which made all bodily ill seem insignificant.
There they stood in a little group in the light of the sinking moon,
their eyes turned upon the black square of the door.

“That’s enough,” said Roxton, at last.

“More than enough,” said Malone. “I wouldn’t enter that house again for
anything Fleet Street could offer.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Defiled, degraded--oh, it was loathsome!”

“Foul!” said Roxton. “Foul! Did you get the reek of it? And the purulent
warmth?”

Malone gave a cry of disgust. “Featureless--save for the dreadful eyes!
Semi-materialised! Horrible!”

“What about the lights?”

“Oh, damn the lights! Let them burn. I am not going in again!”

“Well, Belchamber can come in the morning. Maybe he is waiting for us
now at the inn.”

“Yes, let us go to the inn. Let us get back to humanity.”

Malone and Roxton turned away, but the clergyman stood fast. He had
drawn a crucifix from his pocket.

“You can go,” said he. “I am going back.”

“What! Into the house?”

“Yes, into the house.”

“Padre, this is madness! It will break your neck. We were all like
stuffed dolls in its clutch.”

“Well, let it break my neck. I am going.”

“You are not! Here, Malone, catch hold of him!”

But it was too late. With a few quick steps, Mr. Mason had reached the
door, flung it open, passed in and closed it behind him. As his comrades
tried to follow, they heard a creaking clang upon the further side. The
padre had bolted them out. There was a great slit where the letter-box
had been. Through it Lord Roxton entreated him to return.

“Stay there!” said the quick, stern voice of the clergyman. “I have my
work to do. I will come when it is done.”

A moment later he began to speak. His sweet, homely, affectionate
accents rang through the hall. They could only hear snatches outside,
bits of prayer, bits of exhortation, bits of kindly greeting. Looking
through the narrow opening, Malone could see the straight, dark figure
in the candle-light, its back to the door, its face to the shadows of
the stair, the crucifix held aloft in its right hand.

His voice sank into silence and then there came one more of the miracles
of this eventful night. A voice answered him. It was such a sound as
neither of the auditors had heard before--a guttural, rasping, croaking
utterance, indescribably menacing. What it said was short, but it was
instantly answered by the clergyman, his tone sharpened to a fine edge
by emotion. His utterance seemed to be exhortation and was at once
answered by the ominous voice from beyond. Again and again, and yet
again came the speech and the answer, sometimes shorter, sometimes
longer, varying in every key of pleading, arguing, praying, soothing,
and everything save upbraiding. Chilled to the marrow, Roxton and Malone
crouched by the door, catching snatches of that inconceivable dialogue.
Then, after what seemed a weary time, though it was less than an hour,
Mr. Mason, in a loud, full, exultant tone, repeated the “Our Father.”
Was it fancy, or echo, or was there really some accompanying voice in
the darkness beyond him. A moment later the light went out in the
left-hand window, the bolt was drawn, and the clergyman emerged carrying
Lord Roxton’s bag. His face looked ghastly in the moonlight, but his
manner was brisk and happy.

“I think you will find everything here,” he said, handing over the bag.

Roxton and Malone took him by either arm and hurried him down to the
road.

“By Jove! You don’t give us the slip again!” cried the nobleman.
“Padre, you should have a row of Victoria Crosses.”

“No, no, it was my duty. Poor fellow, he needed help so badly. I am but
a fellow-sinner and yet I was able to give it.”

“You did him good?”

“I humbly hope so. I was but the instrument of the higher forces. The
house is haunted no longer. He promised. But I will not speak of it now.
It may be easier in days to come.”

The landlord and the maids stared at the three adventurers in amazement
when, in the chill light of the winter dawn, they presented themselves
at the inn once more. Each of them seemed to have aged five years in the
night. Mr. Mason, with the reaction upon him, threw himself down upon
the horsehair sofa in the humble coffee-room and was instantly asleep.

“Poor chap! He looks pretty bad!” said Malone. Indeed, his white,
haggard face and long, limp limbs might have been those of a corpse.

“We will get a cup of hot tea into him,” Lord Roxton answered, warming
his hands at the fire, which the maid had just lit. “By Jove! We shall
be none the worse for some ourselves. Well, young fellah, we’ve got what
we came for. I’ve had my sensation, and you’ve had your copy.”

“And he has had the saving of a soul. Well, we must admit that our
objects seem very humble compared to his.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They caught the early train to London, and had a carriage to themselves.
Mason had said little and seemed to be lost in thought. Suddenly, he
turned to his companions.

“I say, you two, would you mind joining me in prayer?”

Lord Roxton made a grimace. “I warn you, padre, I am rather out of
practice.”

“Please kneel down with me. I want your aid.”

They knelt down, side by side, the padre in the middle. Malone made a
mental note of the prayer.

“Father, we are all Your children, poor, weak, helpless creatures,
swayed by Fate and circumstance. I implore You that You will turn eyes
of compassion upon the man, Rupert Tremayne, who wandered far from You,
and is now in the dark. He has sunk deep, very deep, for he had a proud
heart which would not soften, and a cruel mind, which was filled with
hate. But now he would turn to the light, and so I beg help for him and
for the woman, Emma, who, for the love of him, has gone down into the
darkness. May she raise him, as she had tried to do. May they both break
the bonds of evil memory which tie them to earth. May they, for
to-night, move up towards that glorious light which sooner or later
shines upon even the lowest.”

They rose from their knees.

“That’s better!” cried the Padre, thumping his chest with his bony hand,
and breaking out into his expansive, toothsome grin. “What a night! Good
Lord, what a night!”[B]




CHAPTER IX

WHICH INTRODUCES SOME VERY PHYSICAL PHENOMENA


Malone seemed destined to be entangled in the affairs of the Linden
family, for he had hardly seen the last of the unfortunate Tom before he
became involved in a very much more unpleasant fashion with his
unsavoury brother.

The episode began by a telephone ring in the morning and the voice of
Algernon Mailey at the far end of the wire.

“Are you clear for this afternoon?”

“At your service.”

“I say, Malone, you are a hefty man. You played Rugger for Ireland, did
you not? You don’t mind a possible rough-and-tumble, do you?”

Malone grinned over the receiver.

“You can count me in.”

“It may really be rather formidable. We shall have possibly to tackle a
prizefighter.”

“Right-o!” said Malone, cheerfully.

“And we want another man for the job. Do you know any fellow who would
come along just for the sake of the adventure. If he knows anything
about psychic matters, all the better.”

Malone puzzled for a moment. Then he had an inspiration.

“There is Roxton,” said he. “He’s not a chicken, but he is a useful man
in a row. I think I could get him. He has been keen on your subject
since his Dorsetshire experience.”

“Right! Bring him along! If he can’t come, we shall have to tackle the
job ourselves. Forty-one, Belshaw Gardens, S.W. Near Earl’s Court
Station. Three p.m. Right!”

Malone at once rang up Lord Roxton, and soon heard the familiar voice.

“What’s that, young fellah?... A scrap? Why, certainly. What!... I mean
I had a golf match at Richmond Deer Park, but this sounds more
attractive. What! Very good. I’ll meet you there.”

And so it came about that at the hour of three, Mailey, Lord Roxton and
Malone found themselves seated round the fire in the comfortable
drawing-room of the barrister. His wife, a sweet and beautiful woman,
who was his helpmate in his spiritual as well as in his material life,
was there to welcome them.

“Now, dear, you are not on in this act,” said Mailey. “You will retire
discreetly into the wings. Don’t worry if you hear a row.”

“But I do worry, dear. You’ll get hurt.”

Mailey laughed.

“I think your furniture may possibly get hurt. You have nothing else to
fear, dear. And it’s all for the good of the Cause. That always settles
it,” he explained, as his wife reluctantly left the room. “I really
think she would go to the stake for the Cause. Her great, loving,
womanly heart knows what it would mean for this grey earth if people
could get away from the shadow of death and value this great happiness
that is to come, By Jove! she is an inspiration to me.... Well,” he went
on with a laugh, “I must not get on to that subject. We have something
very different to think of--something as hideous and vile as she is
beautiful and good. It concerns Tom Linden’s brother.”

“I’ve heard of the fellow,” said Malone. “I used to box a bit and I am
still a member of the N.S.C. Silas Linden was very nearly Champion in
the Welters.”

“That’s the man. He is out of a job and thought he would take up
mediumship. Naturally I and other Spiritualists took him seriously, for
we all love his brother, and these powers often run in families, so that
his claim seemed reasonable. So we gave him a trial last night.”

“Well, what happened?”

“I suspected the fellow from the first. You understand that it is hardly
possible for a medium to deceive an experienced Spiritualist. When there
is deception it is at the expense of outsiders. I watched him carefully
from the first, and I seated myself near the cabinet. Presently he
emerged clad in white. I broke the contact by prearrangement with my
wife who sat next me, and I felt him as he passed me. He was, of course,
in white. I had a pair of scissors in my pocket and I snipped off a bit
from the edge.”

Mailey drew a triangular piece of linen from his pocket.

“There it is, you see. Very ordinary linen. I have no doubt the fellow
was wearing his nightgown.”

“Why did you not have a show-up at once?” asked Lord Roxton.

“There were several ladies there, and I was the only really able-bodied
man in the room.”

“Well, what do you propose?”

“I have appointed that he come here at three-thirty. He is due now.
Unless he has noticed the small cut in his linen, I don’t think he has
any suspicion why I want him.”

“What will you do?”

“Well, that depends on him. We have to stop him at any cost. That is the
way our Cause gets bemired. Some villain who knows nothing about it
comes into it for money and so the labours of honest mediums get
discounted. The public very naturally brackets them all together. With
your help I can talk to this fellow on equal terms which I certainly
could not do if I were alone. By Jove! here he is!”

There was a heavy step outside. The door was opened and Silas Linden,
fake medium and ex-prizefighter, walked in. His small piggy grey eyes
under their shaggy brows looked round with suspicion at the three men.
Then he forced a smile and nodded to Mailey.

“Good day, Mr. Mailey. We had a good evening last night, had we not?”

“Sit down, Linden,” said Mailey, indicating a chair. “It’s about last
night that I want to talk to you. You cheated us.”

Silas Linden’s heavy face flushed red with anger.

“What’s that?” he cried, sharply.

“You cheated us. You dressed up and pretended to be a spirit.”

“You are a damned liar!” cried Linden. “I did nothing of the sort.”

Mailey took the rag of linen from his pocket and spread it on his knee.

“What about that?” he asked.

“Well, what about it?”

“It was cut out of the white gown you wore. I cut it out myself as you
stood in front of me. If you examine the gown you will find the place.
It’s no use, Linden. The game is up. You can’t deny it.”

For a moment the man was completely taken aback. Then he burst into a
stream of horrible profanity.

“What’s the game?” he cried, glaring round him. “Do you think I am easy
and that you can play me for a sucker? Is it a frame-up, or what? You’ve
chose the wrong man for a try-on of that sort.”

“There is no use being noisy or violent, Linden,” said Mailey quietly.
“I could bring you up in the police court to-morrow. I don’t want any
public scandal, for your brother’s sake. But you don’t leave this room
until you have signed a paper that I have here on my desk.”

“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Who will stop me?”

“We will.”

The three men were between him and the door.

“You will! Well, try that!” He stood before them with rage in his eyes
and his great hands knotted. “Will you get out of the way?”

They did not answer, but they all three gave the fighting snarl which is
perhaps the oldest of all human expressions. The next instant Linden was
upon them, his fists flashing out with terrific force. Mailey, who had
boxed in his youth, stopped one blow, but the next beat in his guard and
he fell with a crash against the door. Lord Roxton was hurled to one
side, but Malone, with a footballer’s instinct, ducked his head and
caught the prizefighter round the knees. If a man is too good for you on
his feet, then put him on his back, for he cannot be scientific there.
Over went Linden, crashing through an armchair before he reached the
ground. He staggered to one knee and got in a short jolt to the chin,
but Malone had him down again and Roxton’s bony hand had closed upon his
throat. Silas Linden had a yellow streak in him and he was cowed.

“Let up!” he cried. “That’s enough!”

He lay now spread-eagled upon his back. Malone and Roxton were bending
over him. Mailey had gathered himself together, pale and shaken after
his fall.

“I’m all right!” he cried, in answer to a feminine voice at the other
side of the door. “No, not yet, dear, but we shall soon be ready for
you. Now, Linden, there’s no need for you to get up, for you can talk
very nicely where you are. You’ve got to sign this paper before you
leave the room.”

“What is the paper?” croaked Linden, as Roxton’s grip upon his throat
relaxed.

“I’ll read it to you.”

Mailey took it from the desk and read aloud.

     “‘I, Silas Linden, hereby admit that I have acted as a rogue and a
     scoundrel by simulating to be a spirit, and I swear that I will
     never again in my life pretend to be a medium. Should I break this
     oath, then this signed confession may be used for my conviction in
     the police court.’”

“Will you sign that?”

“No, I am damned if I will!”

“Shall I give him another squeeze?” asked Lord Roxton. “Perhaps I could
choke some sense into him--what!”

“Not at all,” said Mailey. “I think that his case now would do good in
the police court, for it would show the public that we are determined to
keep our house clean. I’ll give you one minute for consideration,
Linden, and then I ring up the police.”

But it did not take a minute for the impostor to make up his mind.

“All right,” said he in a sulky voice, “I’ll sign.”

He was allowed to rise with a warning that if he played any tricks he
would not get off so lightly the second time. But there was no kick left
in him and he scrawled a big, coarse “Silas Linden” at the bottom of the
paper without a word. The three men signed as witnesses.

“Now, get out!” said Mailey, sharply. “Find some honest trade in future
and leave sacred things alone!”

“Keep your bloody cant to yourself!” Linden answered, and so departed,
grumbling and swearing, into the outer darkness from which he had come.
He had hardly passed before Mrs. Mailey had rushed into the room to
reassure herself as to her husband. Once satisfied as to this she
mourned over her broken chair, for like all good women she took a
personal pride and joy in every detail of her little _ménage_.

“Never mind, dear. It’s a cheap price to pay in order to get that
blackguard out of the movement. Don’t go away, you fellows. I want to
talk to you.”

“And tea is just coming in.”

“Perhaps something stronger would be better,” said Mailey, and indeed,
all three were rather exhausted, for it was sharp while it lasted.
Roxton, who had enjoyed the whole thing immensely, was full of vitality,
but Malone was shaken and Mailey had narrowly escaped serious injury
from that ponderous blow.

“I have heard,” said Mailey, as they all settled down round the fire,
“that this blackguard has sweated money out of poor Tom Linden for
years. It was a form of blackmail, for he was quite capable of
denouncing him. By Jove!” he cried, with sudden inspiration, “that would
account for the police raid. Why should they pick Linden out of all the
mediums in London? I remember now that Tom told me the fellow had asked
to be taught to be a medium, and that he had refused to teach him.”

“Could he teach him?” asked Malone.

Mailey was thoughtful over this question. “Well, perhaps he could,” he
said at last. “But Silas Linden as a false medium would be very much
less dangerous than Silas Linden as a true medium.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Mediumship can be developed,” said Mrs. Mailey. “One might almost say
it was catching.”

“That was what the laying-on of hands meant in the early Church,” Mailey
explained. “It was the conferring of thaumaturgic powers. We can’t do it
now as rapidly as that. But if a man or woman sits with the desire of
development, and especially if that sitting is in the presence of a real
medium, the chance is that powers will come.”

“But why do you say that would be worse than false mediumship?”

“Because it could be used for evil. I assure you, Malone, that the talk
of black magic and of evil entities is not an invention of the enemy.
Such things do happen and centre round the wicked medium. You can get
down into a region which is akin to the popular idea of witchcraft. It
is dishonest to deny it.”

“Like attracts like,” explained Mrs. Mailey, who was quite as capable an
exponent as her husband. “You get what you deserve. If you sit with
wicked people you get wicked visitors.”

“Then there is a dangerous side to it?”

“Do you know anything on earth which has not a dangerous side if it is
mishandled and exaggerated? This dangerous side exists quite apart from
orthodox Spiritualism, and our knowledge is the surest way to
counteract it. I believe that the witchcraft of the Middle Ages was a
very real thing, and that the best way to meet such practices is to
cultivate the higher powers of the spirit. To leave the thing entirely
alone is to abandon the field to the forces of evil.”

Lord Roxton interposed in an unexpected way.

“When I was in Paris last year,” said he, “there was a fellah called La
Paix who dabbled in the black magic business. He held circles and the
like. What I mean, there was no great harm in the thing, but it wasn’t
what you would call very spiritual, either.”

“It’s a side that I as a journalist would like to see something of, if I
am to report impartially upon this subject,” said Malone.

“Quite right!” Mailey agreed. “We want all the cards on the table.”

“Well, young fellah, if you give me a week of your time and come to
Paris, I’ll introduce you to La Paix,” said Roxton.

“It is a curious thing, but I also had a Paris visit in my mind for our
friend here,” said Mailey. “I have been asked over by Dr. Maupuis of the
Institute Métapsychique to see some of the experiments which he is
conducting upon a Galician medium. It is really the religious side of
this matter which interests me, and that is conspicuously wanting in the
minds of these scientific men of the Continent but for accurate, careful
examination of the psychic facts they are ahead of anyone except poor
Crawford of Belfast, who stood in a class by himself. I promised Maupuis
to run across, and he has certainly been having some wonderful--in some
respects, some rather alarming results.”

“Why alarming?”

“Well, his materialisations lately have not been human at all. That is
confirmed by photographs. I won’t say more, for it is best that, if you
go, you should approach it with an open mind.”

“I shall certainly go,” said Malone. “I am sure my chief would wish it.”

Tea had arrived to interrupt the conversation in the irritating way that
our bodily needs intrude upon our higher pursuits. But Malone was too
keen to be thrown off his scent.

“You speak of these evil forces. Have you ever come in contact with
them?”

Mailey looked at his wife and smiled.

“Continually,” he said. “It is part of our job. We specialise on it.”

“I understood that when there was an intrusion of that kind you drove it
away.”

“Not necessarily. If we can help any lower spirit we do so, and we can
only do it by encouraging it to tell us its troubles. Most of them are
not wicked. They are poor, ignorant, stunted creatures who are suffering
the effects of the narrow and false views which they have learned in
this world. We try to help them--and we do.”

“How do you know that you do?”

“Because they report to us afterwards and register their progress. Such
methods are often used by our people. They are called ‘rescue circles.’”

“I have heard of rescue circles. Where could I attend one? This thing
attracts me more and more. Fresh gulfs seem always opening. I would take
it as a great favour if you would help me to see this fresh side of it.”

Mailey became thoughtful.

“We don’t want to make a spectacle of these poor creatures. On the
other hand, though we can hardly claim you yet as a Spiritualist, you
have treated the subject with some understanding and sympathy.” He
looked enquiringly at his wife, who smiled and nodded.

“Ah, you have permission. Well then, you must know that we run our own
little rescue circle, and that at five o’clock to-day we have our weekly
sitting. Mr. Terbane is our medium. We don’t usually have anyone else
except Mr. Charles Mason, the clergyman. But if you both care to have
the experience, we shall be very happy if you will stay. Terbane should
be here immediately after tea. He is a railway-porter, you know, so his
time is not his own. Yes, psychic power in its varied manifestations is
found in humble quarters, but surely that has been its main
characteristic from the beginning--fishermen, carpenters, tent-makers,
camel drivers, these were the prophets of old. At this moment some of
the highest psychic gifts in England lie in a miner, a cotton operative,
a railway-porter, a bargeman and a charwoman. Thus does history repeat
itself, and that foolish beak, with Tom Linden before him, was but Felix
judging Paul. The old wheel goes round.”




CHAPTER X

DE PROFUNDIS


They were still having tea when Mr. Charles Mason was ushered in.
Nothing draws people together into such intimate soul-to-soul
relationship as psychic quest, and thus it was that Roxton and Malone,
who had only known him in the one episode, felt more near to this man
than to others with whom they had associated for years. This close vital
comradeship is one of the outstanding features of such communion. When
his loosely-built, straggling, lean, clerical figure appeared, with that
gaunt, worn face illuminated by its human grin and dignified by its
earnest eyes, through the doorway, they both felt as if an old friend
had entered. His own greeting was equally cordial.

“Still exploring!” he cried, as he shook them by the hand. “We will hope
your new experiences will not be so nerve-racking as our last.”

“By Jove, padre!” said Roxton. “I’ve worn out the brim of my hat taking
it off to you since then.”

“Why, what did he do?” asked Mrs. Mailey.

“No, no!” cried Mason. “I tried in my poor way to guide a darkened soul.
Let us leave it at that. But that is exactly what we are here for now,
and what these dear people do every week of their lives. It was from Mr.
Mailey here that I learned how to attempt it.”

“Well, certainly we have plenty of practice,” said Mailey. “You have
seen enough of it, Mason, to know that.”

“But I can’t get the focus of this at all!” cried Malone. “Could you
clear my mind a little on the point? I accept for the moment your
hypothesis, that we are surrounded by material earth-bound spirits who
find themselves under strange conditions which they don’t understand,
and who want counsel and guidance. That more or less expresses it, does
it not?”

The Maileys both nodded their agreement.

“Well, their dead friends and relatives are presumably on the other side
and cognisant of their benighted condition. They know the truth. Could
they not minister to the wants of these afflicted ones far better than
we can?”

“It is a most natural question,” Mailey answered. “Of course we put that
objection to them and we can only accept their answer. They appear to be
actually anchored to the surface of this earth, too heavy and gross to
rise. The others are, presumably, on a spiritual level and far separated
from them. They explain that they are much nearer to us and that they
are cognisant of us, but not of anything higher. Therefore it is we who
can reach them best.”

“There was one poor dear dark soul----”

“My wife loves everybody and everything,” Mailey explained. “She is
capable of talking of the poor dear devil.”

“Well, surely they are to be pitied and loved!” cried the lady. “This
poor fellow was nursed along by us week by week. He had really come from
the depths. Then one day he cried in rapture, ‘My mother has come! My
mother is here!’ We naturally said, ‘But why did she not come before?’
‘How could she,’ said he, ‘when I was in so dark a place that she could
not see me?’”

“That’s very well,” said Malone, “but so far as I can follow your
methods it is some guide or control or higher spirit who regulates the
whole matter and brings the sufferer to you. If he can be cognisant, one
would think other higher spirits could also be.”

“No, for it is his particular mission,” said Mailey. “To show how marked
the divisions are I can remember one occasion when we had a dark soul
here. Our own people came through and did not know he was there until we
called their attention to it. When we said to the dark soul, ‘Don’t you
see our friends beside you?’ he answered, ‘I can see a light but nothing
else.’”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mr.
John Terbane from Victoria Station, where his mundane duties lay. He was
dressed now in civil garb and appeared as a pale, sad-faced,
clean-shaven, plump-featured man with dreamy, thoughtful eyes, but no
other indication of the remarkable uses to which he was put.

“Have you my record?” was his first question.

Mrs. Mailey, smiling, handed him an envelope. “We kept it all ready for
you but you can read it at home. You see,” she explained, “poor Mr.
Terbane is in trance and knows nothing of the wonderful work of which he
is the instrument, so after each sitting my husband and I draw up an
account for him.”

“Very much astonished I am when I read it,” said Terbane.

“And very proud, I should think,” added Mason.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Terbane answered humbly. “I don’t see
that the tool need be proud because the worker happens to use it. Yet
it is a privilege, of course.”

“Good old Terbane!” said Mailey, laying his hand affectionately on the
railwayman’s shoulder. “The better the medium the more unselfish. That
is my experience. The whole conception of a medium is one who gives
himself up for the use of others, and that is incompatible with
selfishness. Well, I suppose we had better get to work or Mr. Chang will
scold us.”

“Who is he?” asked Malone.

“Oh, you will soon make the acquaintance of Mr. Chang! We need not sit
round the table. A semicircle round the fire does very well. Lights
half-down. That is all right. You’ll make yourself comfortable, Terbane.
Snuggle among the cushions.”

The medium was in the corner of a comfortable sofa, and had fallen at
once into a doze. Both Mailey and Malone sat with note books upon their
knees awaiting developments.

They were not long in coming. Terbane suddenly sat up, his dreamy self
transformed into a very alert and masterful individuality. A subtle
change had passed over his face. An ambiguous smile fluttered upon his
lips, his eyes seemed more oblique and less open, his face projected.
The two hands were thrust into the sleeves of his blue lounge jacket.

“Good evening,” said he, speaking crisply and in short staccato
sentences. “New faces! Who these?”

“Good evening, Chang,” said the master of the house. “You know Mr.
Mason. This is Mr. Malone who studies our subject. This is Lord Roxton
who has helped me to-day.”

As each name was mentioned, Terbane made a sweeping Oriental gesture of
greeting, bringing his hand down from his forehead. His whole bearing
was superbly dignified and very different from the humble little man who
had sat down a few minutes before.

“Lord Roxton!” he repeated. “An English milord! I knew Lord--Lord
Macart. No! I cannot say it. Alas! I called him ‘foreign devil’ then.
Chang, too, had much to learn.”

“He is speaking of Lord Macartney. That would be over a hundred years
ago. Chang was a great living philosopher then,” Mailey explained.

“Not lose time!” cried the control. “Much to do to-day! Crowd waiting.
Some new, some old. I gather strange folk in my net. Now I go.” He sank
back among the cushions.

A minute elapsed, then he suddenly sat up.

“I want to thank you,” he said, speaking perfect English. “I came two
weeks ago. I have thought over all you said. The path is lighter.”

“Were you the spirit who did not believe in God?”

“Yes, yes! I said so in my anger. I was so weary--so weary. Oh, the
time, the endless time, the grey mist, the heavy weight of remorse!
Hopeless! Hopeless! And you brought me comfort, you and this great
Chinese spirit. You gave me the first kind words I have had since I
died!”

“When was it that you died?”

“Oh! It seems an eternity. We do not measure as you do. It is a long,
horrible dream without change or break.”

“Who was king in England?”

“Victoria was queen. I had attuned my mind to matter and so it clung to
matter. I did not believe in a future life. Now I know that I was all
wrong, but I could not adapt my mind to new conditions.”

“Is it bad where you are?”

“It is all--all grey. That is the awful part of it. One’s surroundings
are so horrible.”

“But there are many more. You are not alone.”

“No, but they know no more than I. They, too scoff and doubt and are
miserable.”

“You will soon get out.”

“For God’s sake, help me to do so!”

“Poor soul!” said Mrs. Mailey in her sweet, caressing voice, a voice
which could bring every animal to her side. “You have suffered much. But
do not think of yourself. Think of these others. Try to bring one of
them up and so you will best help yourself.”

“Thank you, lady, I will. There is one here whom I brought. He has heard
you. We will go on together. Perhaps some day we may find the light.”

“Do you like to be prayed for?”

“Yes, yes, indeed I do!”

“I will pray for you,” said Mason. “Could you say the ‘Our Father’ now?”
He uttered the old universal prayer, but before he had finished Terbane
had collapsed again among the cushions. He sat up again as Chang.

“He come on well,” said the control. “He give up time for others who
wait. That is good. Now I have hard case. Ow!”

He gave a comical cry of disapprobation and sank back.

Next moment he was up, his face long and solemn, his hands palm to palm.

“What is this?” he asked in a precise and affected voice. “I am at a
loss to know what right this Chinese person has to summon me here.
Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

“It is that we may perhaps help you.”

“When I desire help, sir, I ask for it. At present I do not desire it.
The whole proceeding seems to me to be a very great liberty. So far as
this Chinaman can explain it, I gather that I am the involuntary
spectator of some sort of religious service.”

“We are a spiritualistic circle.”

“A most pernicious sect. A most blasphemous proceeding. As a humble
parish priest I protest against such desecrations.”

“You are held back, friend, by those narrow views. It is you who suffer.
We want to relieve you.”

“Suffer? What do you mean, sir?”

“You realise that you have passed over?”

“You are talking nonsense!”

“Do you realise that you are dead?”

“How can I be dead when I am talking to you?”

“Because you are using this man’s body.”

“I have certainly wandered into an asylum.”

“Yes, an asylum for bad cases. I fear you are one of them. Are you happy
where you are?”

“Happy? No, sir. My present surroundings are perfectly inexplicable to
me.”

“Have you any recollection of being ill?”

“I was very ill indeed.”

“So ill that you died.”

“You are certainly out of your senses.”

“How do you know you are not dead?”

“Sir, I must give you some religious instruction. When one dies and has
led an honourable life, one assumes a glorified body and one associates
with the angels. I am now in exactly the same body as in life, and I am
in a very dull, drab place. Such companions as I have are not such as I
have been accustomed to associate with in life, and certainly no one
could describe them as angels. Therefore your absurd conjecture may be
dismissed.”

“Do not continue to deceive yourself. We wish to help you. You can never
progress until you realise your position.”

“Really you try my patience too far. Have I not said----?”

The medium fell back among the cushions. An instant later the Chinese
control, with his whimsical smile and his hands tucked away in his
sleeves, was talking to the circle.

“He good man--fool man--learn sense soon. Bring him again. Not waste
more time. Oh, my God! My God! Help! Mercy! Help!”

He had fallen full length upon the sofa, face upwards, and his cries
were so terrible that the little audience all sprang to their feet. “A
saw! A saw! Fetch a saw!” yelled the medium. His voice sank into a moan.

Even Mailey was agitated. The rest were horrified.

“Someone has obsessed him. I can’t understand it. It may be some strong
evil entity.”

“Shall I speak to him?” asked Mason.

“Wait a moment! Let it develop. We shall soon see.”

The medium writhed in agony. “Oh, my God! Why don’t you fetch a saw!” he
cried. “It’s here across my breast-bone. It is cracking! I feel it!
Hawkin! Hawkin! Pull me from under! Hawkin! Push up the beam! No, no,
that’s worse! And it’s on fire! Oh, horrible! Horrible!”

His cries were blood-curdling. They were all chilled with horror. Then
in an instant the Chinaman was blinking at them with his slanting eyes.

“What you think of that, Mister Mailey?”

“It was terrible, Chang. What was it?”

“It was for him,” nodding towards Malone. “He want newspaper story, I
give him newspaper story. He will understand. No time ’splain now. Too
many waiting. Sailor man come next. Here he comes!”

The Chinaman was gone, and a jovial, puzzled grin passed over the face
of the medium. He scratched his head.

“Well, damn me,” said he. “I never thought I would take orders from a
Chink, but he says ‘hist!’ and by crums you’ve got to hist and no back
talk either. Well, here I am. What did you want?”

“We wanted nothing.”

“Well, the Chink seemed to think you did, for he slung me in here.”

“It was you that wanted something. You wanted knowledge.”

“Well, I’ve lost my bearings, that’s true. I know I am dead ’cause I’ve
seen the gunnery lootenant, and he was blown to bits before my eyes. If
he’s dead I’m dead and all the rest of us, for we are over to the last
man. But we’ve got the laugh on our sky-pilot, for he’s as puzzled as
the rest of us. Damned poor pilot, I call him. We’re all taking our own
sounding now.”

“What was your ship?”

“The _Monmouth._”

“She that went down in battle with the German?”

“That’s right. South American waters. It was clean hell. Yes, it was
hell.” There was a world of emotion in his voice. “Well,” he added more
cheerfully, “I’ve heard our mates got level with them later. That is
so, sir, is it not?”

“Yes, they all went to the bottom.”

“We’ve seen nothing of them this side. Just as well, maybe. We don’t
forget nothing.”

“But you must,” said Mailey. “That’s what is the matter with you. That
is why the Chinese control brought you through. We are here to teach
you. Carry our message to your mates.”

“Bless your heart, sir, they are all here behind me.”

“Well, then, I tell you and them that the time for hard thoughts and
worldly strife is over. Your faces are to be turned forward, not back.
Leave this earth which still holds you by the ties of thought and let
all your desire be to make yourself unselfish and worthy of a higher,
more peaceful, more beautiful life. Can you understand?”

“I hear you, sir. So do they. We want steering, sir, for, indeed, we’ve
had wrong instructions, and we never expected to find ourselves cast
away like this. We had heard of heaven and we had heard of hell, but
this don’t seem to fit in with either. But this Chinese gent, says time
is up, and we can report again next week. I thank you, sir, for self and
company. I’ll come again.”

There was silence.

“What an incredible conversation!” gasped Malone. “If I were to put down
that man’s sailor talk and slang as emanating from a world of spirits,
what would the public say?”

Mailey shrugged his shoulders.

“Does it matter what the public says? I started as a fairly sensitive
person, and now a tank takes as much notice of small shot as I do of
newspaper attacks. They honestly don’t even interest me. Let us just
stick fast to truth as near as we can get it, and leave all else to find
its own level.”

“I don’t pretend to know much of these things,” said Roxton, “but what
strikes me most is that these folk are very decent ordinary people.
What? Why should they be wanderin’ about in the dark, and hauled up here
by this Chinaman when they’ve done no partic’lar harm in life?”

“It is the strong earth tie and the absence of any spiritual nexus in
each case,” Mailey explained. “Here is a clergyman with his mind
entangled with formulas and ritual. Here is a materialist who has
deliberately attuned himself to matter. Here is a seaman brooding over
revengeful thoughts. They are there by the million million.”

“Where?” asked Malone.

“Here,” Mailey answered. “Actually on the surface of the earth. Well,
you saw it for yourself, I understand, when you went down to
Dorsetshire. That was on the surface, was it not? That was a very gross
case, and that made it more visible and obvious, but it did not change
the general law. I believe that the whole globe is infested with the
earthbound, and that when a great cleansing comes, as is prophesied, it
will be for their benefit as much as for that of the living.”

Malone thought of the strange visionary Miromar and his speech at the
Spiritualistic Church on the first night of his quest.

“Do you then believe in some impending event?” he asked.

Mailey smiled. “That is rather a large subject to open up,” he said. “I
believe--But here is Mr. Chang again!”

The control joined in the conversation.

“I heard you. I sit and listen,” said he. “You speak now of what is to
come. Let it be! Let it be! The Time is not yet. You will be told when
it is good that you know. Remember this. All is best. Whatever come all
is best. God makes no mistakes. Now others here who wish your help, I
leave you.”

Several spirits came through in quick succession. One was an architect
who said that he had lived at Bristol. He had not been an evil man, but
had simply banished all thoughts of the future. Now he was in the dark
and needed guidance. Another had lived in Birmingham. He was an educated
man but a materialist. He refused to accept the assurances of Mailey,
and was by no means convinced that he was really dead. Then came a very
noisy and violent man of a crudely-religious and narrowly-intolerant
type, who spoke repeatedly of “the blood.”

“What is this ribald nonsense?” he asked several times.

“It is not nonsense. We are here to help,” said Mailey.

“Who wants to be helped by the devil?”

“Is it likely that the devil would wish to help souls in trouble?”

“It is part of his deceit. I tell you it is of the devil! Be warned! I
will take no further part in it.”

The placid, whimsical Chinaman was back like a flash. “Good man. Foolish
man,” he repeated once more. “Plenty time. He learn better some day. Now
I bring bad case--very bad case. Ow!”

He reclined his head in the cushion and did not raise it as the voice, a
feminine voice, broke out:

“Janet! Janet!”

There was a pause.

“Janet, I say! Where is the morning tea? Janet! This is intolerable! I
have called you again and again! Janet!” The figure sat up, blinking and
rubbing his eyes.

“What is this?” cried the voice. “Who are you? What right have you here?
Are you aware that this is my house?”

“No, friend, this is my house.”

“Your house! How can it be your house when this is my bedroom? Go away
this moment!”

“No, friend. You do not understand your position.”

“I will have you put out. What insolence! Janet! Janet! Will no one look
after me this morning?”

“Look round you, lady. Is this your bedroom?”

Terbane looked round with a wild stare.

“It is a room I never saw in my life. Where am I? What is the meaning of
it? You look like a kind lady. Tell me, for God’s sake, what is the
meaning of it? Oh, I am so terrified! So terrified! Where are John and
Janet?”

“What do you last remember?”

“I remember speaking severely to Janet. She is my maid, you know. She
has become so very careless. Yes, I was very angry with her. I was so
angry that I was ill. I went to bed feeling very ill. They told me that
I should not get excited. How can one help getting excited? Yes, I
remember being breathless. That was after the light was out. I tried to
call Janet. But why should I be in another room?”

“You passed over in the night?”

“Passed over? Do you mean I died?”

“Yes, lady, you died.”

There was a long silence. Then there came a shrill scream. “No, no, no!
It is a dream! A nightmare! Wake me! Wake me! How can I be dead? I was
not ready to die! I never thought of such a thing. If I am dead, why am
I not in heaven or hell? What is this room? This room is a real room.”

“Yes, lady, you have been brought here and allowed to use this man’s
body----”

“A man?” She convulsively felt the coat and passed her hand over the
face. “Yes, it is a man. Oh, I am dead! I am dead! What shall I do?”

“You are here that we may explain to you. You have been, I judge, a
worldly woman--a society woman. You have lived always for material
things.”

“I went to church. I was at St. Saviour’s every Sunday.”

“That is nothing. It is the inner daily life that counts. You were
material. Now you are held down to the world. When you leave this man’s
body you will be in your own body once more and in your old
surroundings. But no one will see you. You will remain there unable to
show yourself. Your body of flesh will be buried. You will still
persist, the same as ever.”

“What am I to do? Oh, what can I do?”

“You will take what comes in a good spirit and understand that it is for
your cleansing. We only clear ourselves of matter by suffering. All will
be well. We will pray for you.”

“Oh, do! Oh, I need it so! Oh my God!...” The voice trailed away.

“Bad case,” said the Chinaman, sitting up. “Selfish woman! Bad woman!
Live for pleasure. Hard on those around her. She have much to suffer.
But you put her feet on the path. Now my medium tired. Plenty waiting,
but no more to-day.”

“Have we done good, Chang?”

“Plenty good. Plenty good.”

“Where are all these people, Chang?”

“I tell you before.”

“Yes, but I want these gentlemen to hear.”

“Seven spheres round the world, heaviest below, lightest above. First
sphere is on the earth. These people belong to that sphere. Each sphere
is separate from the other. Therefore it is easier for you to speak with
these people than for those in any other sphere.”

“And easier for them to speak to us?”

“Yes. That why you should be plenty careful when you do not know to whom
you talk. Try the spirits.”

“What sphere do you belong to, Chang?”

“I came from Number Four sphere.”

“Which is the first really happy sphere?”

“Number Three. Summerland. Bible book called it the third heaven. Plenty
sense in Bible book, but people do not understand.”

“And the seventh heaven?”

“Ah! That is where the Christs are. All come there at last--you, me,
everybody.”

“And after that?”

“Too much question, Mr. Mailey. Poor old Chang not know so much as that.
Now good-bye! God bless you! I go.”

It was the end of the sitting of the rescue circle. A few minutes later
Terbane was sitting up smiling and alert, but with no apparent
recollection of anything which had occurred. He was pressed for time and
lived afar, so that he had to make his departure, unpaid save by the
blessing of those whom he had helped. Modest little unvenal man, where
will he stand when we all find our real places in the order of creation
upon the further side?

The circle did not break up at once. The visitors wanted to talk and the
Maileys to listen.

“What I mean,” said Roxton, “it’s doosed interestin’ and all that, but
there is a sort of variety-show element in it. What! Difficult to be
sure it’s really real, if you take what I mean.”

“That is what I feel also,” said Malone. “Of course on its face value it
is simply unspeakable. It is a thing so great that all ordinary
happenings become commonplace. That I grant. But the human mind is very
strange. I’ve read the case Moreton Prince examined, and Miss Beauchamp
and the rest; also the results of Charcot, the great Nancy hypnotic
school. They could turn a man into anything. The mind seems to be like a
rope which can be unravelled into its various threads. Then each thread
is a different personality which may take dramatic form, and act and
speak as such. That man is honest, and he could not normally produce
these effects. But how do we know that he is not self-hypnotised, and
that under those conditions one strand of him becomes Mr. Chang and
another becomes a sailor and another a society lady, and so forth?”

Mailey laughed. “Every man his own Cinquevalli,” said he, “but it is a
rational objection and has to be met.”

“We have traced some of the cases,” said Mrs. Mailey. “There is not a
doubt of it--names, addresses, everything.”

“Well, then we have to consider the question of Terbane’s normal
knowledge. How can you possibly know what he has learned? I should
think a railway-guard is particularly able to pick up such information.”

“You have seen one sitting,” Mailey answered. “If you had been present
at as many as we and noted the cumulative effect of the evidence you
would not be sceptical.”

“That is very possible,” Malone answered. “And I daresay my doubts are
very annoying to you. And yet one is bound to be brutally honest in a
case like this. Anyhow, whatever the ultimate cause, I have seldom spent
so thrilling an hour. Heavens! If it only _is_ true, and if you had a
thousand circles instead of one, what regeneration would result?”

“That will come,” said Mailey in his patient, determined fashion. “We
shall live to see it. I am sorry the thing has not forced conviction
upon you. However, you must come again.”

But it so chanced that a further experience became unnecessary.
Conviction came in a full flood and in a strange fashion that very
evening. Malone had hardly got back to the office, and was seated at his
desk drawing up some sort of account from his notes of all that had
happened in the afternoon, when Mailey burst into the room, his yellow
beard bristling with excitement. He was waving an _Evening News_ in his
hand. Without a word he seated himself beside Malone and turned the
paper over. Then he began to read:


     ACCIDENT IN THE CITY

     “This afternoon shortly after five o’clock, an old house, said to
     date from the fifteenth century, suddenly collapsed. It was
     situated between Lesser Colman Street and Elliott Square and next
     door to the Veterinary Society’s Headquarters. Some preliminary
     crackings warned the occupants and most of them had time to escape.
     Three of them, however, James Beale, William Moorson, and a woman
     whose name has not been ascertained, were caught by the falling
     rubbish. Two of these seem to have perished at once, but the third,
     James Beale, was pinned down by a large beam and loudly demanded
     help. A saw was brought, and one of the occupants of the house,
     Samuel Hawkin, showed great gallantry in an attempt to free the
     unfortunate man. Whilst he was sawing the beam, however, a fire
     broke out among the debris around him, and though he persevered
     most manfully, and continued until he was himself badly scorched,
     it was impossible for him to save Beale, who probably died from
     suffocation. Hawkin was removed to the London Hospital, and it is
     reported to-night that he is in no immediate danger.”

“That’s that!” said Mailey, folding up the paper. “Now Mr. Thomas
Didymus. I leave you to your conclusions,” and the enthusiast vanished
out of the office as precipitately as he had entered.[C]




CHAPTER XI

WHERE SILAS LINDEN COMES INTO HIS OWN


Silas Linden, prizefighter and fake-medium, had had some great days in
his life--days crowded with incidents for good or evil. There was the
time when he had backed Rosalind at 100 to 1 in the Oaks and had spent
twenty-four hours of brutal debauchery on the strength of it. There was
the day also when his favourite right upper-cut had connected in most
accurate and rhythmical fashion with the protruded chin of Bull Wardell
of Whitechapel, whereby Silas put himself in the way of a Lonsdale Cup
and a try for the championship. But never in all his varied career had
he such a day as this supreme one, so it is worth our while to follow
him to the end of it. Fanatical believers have urged that it is
dangerous to cross the path of spiritual things when the heart is not
clean. Silas Linden’s name might be added to their list of examples, but
his cup of sin was full and overflowing before the judgment fell.

He emerged from the room of Algernon Mailey with every reason to know
that Lord Roxton’s grip was as muscular as ever. In the excitement of
the struggle he had hardly realised his injuries, but now he stood
outside the door with his hand to his bruised throat and a hoarse stream
of oaths pouring through it. His breast was aching also where Malone had
planted his knee, and even the successful blow which had struck Mailey
down had brought retribution, for it had jarred that injured hand of
which he had complained to his brother. Altogether, if Silas Linden was
in a most cursed temper, there was a very good reason for his mood.

“I’ll get you one at a time,” he growled, looking back with his angry
pig’s eyes at the outer door of the flats. “You wait, my lads, and see!”
Then with sudden purpose he swung off down the street.

It was to the Bardsley Square Police Station that he made his way, and
he found the jovial, rubicund, black-moustached Inspector Murphy seated
at his desk.

“Well, what do _you_ want?” asked the Inspector in no very friendly
voice.

“I hear you got that medium right and proper.”

“Yes, we did. I learn he was your brother.”

“That’s neither here nor there. I don’t hold with such things in any
man. But you got your conviction. What is there for me in it?”

“Not a shilling!”

“What? Wasn’t it I that gave the information? Where would you have been
if I had not given you the office?”

“If there had been a fine we might have allowed you something. We would
have got something, too, Mr. Melrose sent him to gaol. There is nothing
for anybody.”

“So you say. I’m damned sure you and those two women got something out
of it. Why the hell should I give away my own brother for the sake of
the likes of you? You’ll find your own bird next time.”

Murphy was a choleric man with a sense of his own importance. He was not
to be bearded thus in his own seat of office. He rose with a very red
face.

“I’ll tell you what, Silas Linden, I could find my own bird and never
move out of this room. You had best get out of this quick, or you may
chance to stay here longer than you like. We’ve had complaints of your
treatment of those two children of yours, and the children’s protection
folk are taking an interest. Look out that we don’t take an interest,
too.”

Silas Linden flung out of the room with his temper hotter than ever, and
a couple of rum-and-waters on his way home did not help to appease him.
On the contrary, he had always been a man who grew more dangerous in his
cups. There were many of his trade who refused to drink with him.

Silas lived in one of a row of small brick houses named Bolton’s Court,
lying at the back of Tottenham Court Road. His was the end house of a
cul-de-sac, with the side wall of a huge brewery beyond. These dwellings
were very small, which was probably the reason why the inhabitants, both
adults and children, spent most of their time in the street. Several of
the elders were out now, and as Silas passed under the solitary
lamp-post, they scowled at his thick-set figure, for though the morality
of Bolton’s Court was of no high order, it was none the less graduated
and Silas was at zero. A tall Jewish woman, Rebecca Levi, thin, aquiline
and fierce-eyed, lived next to the prizefighter. She was standing at her
door now, with a child holding her apron.

“Mr. Linden,” she said as he passed, “them children of yours want more
care than they get. Little Margaret was in here to-day. That child don’t
get enough to eat.”

“You mind your own business, curse you!” growled Silas. “I’ve told you
before now not to push that long, sheeny beak of yours into my affairs.
If you was a man I’d know better how to speak to you.”

“If I was a man maybe you wouldn’t dare to speak to me so. I says it’s a
shame, Silas Linden, the way them children is treated. If it’s a
police-court case, I’ll know what to say.”

“Oh, go to hell!” said Silas, and kicked open his own unlatched door. A
big, frowsy woman with a shock of dyed hair and some remains of a florid
beauty, now long over-ripe, looked out from the sitting-room door.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said she.

“Who did you think it was? The Dook of Wellington?”

“I thought it was a mad bullock maybe got strayin’ down the lane, and
buttin’ down our door.”

“Funny, ain’t you?”

“Maybe I am, but I hain’t got much to be funny about. Not a shillin’ in
the ’ouse, nor so much as a pint o’ beer, and these damned children of
yours for ever upsettin’ me.”

“What have they been a-doin’ of?” asked Silas with a scowl. When this
worthy pair could get no change out of each other, they usually united
their forces against the children. He had entered the sitting-room and
flung himself down in the wooden armchair.

“They’ve been seein’ Number One again.”

“How d’ye know that?”

“I ’eard ’im say somethin’ to ’er about it. ‘Mother was there,’ ’e says.
Then afterwards ’e ’ad one o’ them sleepy fits.”

“It’s in the family.”

“Yes, it is,” retorted the woman. “If you ’adn’t sleepy fits you’d get
some work to do, like other men.”

“Oh, shut it, woman! What I mean is, that my brother Tom gets them fits,
and this lad o’ mine is said to be the livin’ image of his uncle. So he
had a trance, had he? What did you do?”

The woman gave an evil grin.

“I did what you did.”

“What, the sealin’-wax again?”

“Not much of it. Just enough to wake ’im. It’s the only way to break ’im
of it.”

Silas shrugged his shoulders.

“‘Ave a care, my lass! There is talk of the p’lice, and if they see
those burns, you and I may be in the dock together.”

“Silas Linden, you are a fool! Can’t a parent c’rect ’is own child?”

“Yes, but it ain’t _your_ own child, and stepmothers has a bad name,
see? There’s that Jew woman next door. She saw you when you took the
clothes’ rope to little Margery last washin’-day. She spoke to me about
it and again to-day about the food.”

“What’s the matter with the food? The greedy little bastards! They had a
’unch of bread each when I ’ad my dinner. A bit of real starvin’ would
do them no ’arm, and I would ’ave less sauce.”

“What, has Willie sauced you?”

“Yes, when ’e woke up.”

“After you’d dropped the hot sealin’-wax on him?”

“Well, I did it for ’is good, didn’t I? It was to cure ’im of a bad
’abit.”

“Wot did he say?”

“Cursed me good and proper, ’e did. All about his mother--wot ’is mother
would do to me. I’m dam’ well sick of ’is mother!”

“Don’t say too much about Amy. She was a good woman.”

“So you say now, Silas Linden, but by all accounts you ’ad a queer way
of showin’ it when she was alive.”

“Hold your jaw, woman! I’ve had enough to vex me to-day without you
startin’ your tantrums. You’re jealous of the grave. That’s wot’s the
matter with you.”

“And ’er brats can insult me as they like--me that ’as cared for you
these five years.”

“No, I didn’t say that. If he insulted you, it’s up to me to deal with
him. Where’s that strap? Go, fetch him in!”

The woman came across and kissed him.

“I’ve only you, Silas.”

“Oh hell! don’t muck me about. I’m not in the mood. Go and fetch Willie
in. You can bring Margery also. It takes the sauce out of her also, for
I think she feels it more than he does.”

The woman left the room, but was back in a moment.

“’E’s off again!” said she. “It fair gets on my nerves to see him. Come
’ere, Silas! ’Ave a look!”

They went together into the back kitchen. A small fire was smouldering
in the grate. Beside it, huddled up in a chair, sat a fair-haired boy of
ten. His delicate face was upturned to the ceiling. His eyes were
half-closed, and only the whites visible. There was a look of great
peace upon his thin, spiritual features. In the corner a poor little
cowed mite of a girl, a year or two younger, was gazing with sad,
frightened eyes at her brother.

“Looks awful, don’t ’e?” said the woman. “Don’t seem to belong to this
world. I wish to God ’e’d make a move for the other. ’E don’t do much
good ’ere.”

“Here, wake up!” cried Silas. “None of your foxin’! Wake up! D’ye hear?”
He shook him roughly by the shoulder, but the boy still slumbered on.
The backs of his hands, which lay upon his lap, were covered with bright
scarlet blotches.

“My word, you’ve dropped enough hot wax on him. D’you mean to tell me,
Sarah, it took all that to wake him?”

“Maybe I dropped one or two extra for luck. ’E does aggravate me so that
I can ’ardly ’old myself. But you wouldn’t believe ’ow little ’e can
feel when ’e’s like that. You can ’owl in ’is ear. It’s all lost on ’im.
See ’ere!”

She caught the lad by the hair and shook him violently. He groaned and
shivered. Then he sank back into his serene trance.

“Say!” cried Silas, stroking his stubbled chin as he looked thoughtfully
at his son, “I think there is money in this if it is handled to rights.
Wot about a turn on the halls, eh? ’The Boy Wonder or How is it Done?’
There’s a name for the bills. Then folk know his uncle’s name, so they
will be able to take him on trust.”

“I thought you was goin’ into the business yourself.”

“That’s a wash-out,” snarled Silas. “Don’t you talk of it. It’s
finished.”

“Been caught out already?”

“I tell you not to talk about it, woman!” the man shouted. “I’m just in
the mood to give you the hidin’ of your life, so don’t you get my goat,
or you’ll be sorry.” He stepped across and pinched the boy’s arm with
all his force. “By Cripes, he’s a wonder! Let us see how far it will
go.”

He turned to the sinking fire and with the tongs he picked out a
half-red ember. This he placed on the boy’s head. There was a smell of
burning hair, then of roasting flesh, and suddenly, with a scream of
pain, the boy came back to his senses.

“Mother! Mother!” he cried. The girl in the corner took up the cry. They
were like two lambs bleating together.

“Damn your mother!” cried the woman, shaking Margery by the collar of
her frail black dress. “Stop squallin’, you little stinker!” She struck
the child with her open hand across the face. Little Willie ran at her
and kicked her shins until a blow from Silas knocked him into the
corner. The brute picked up a stick and lashed the two cowering
children, while they screamed for mercy, and tried to cover their little
bodies from the cruel blows.

“You stop that!” cried a voice in the passage.

“It’s that blasted Jewess!” said the woman. She went to the kitchen
door. “What the ’ell are you doing in our ’ouse? ’Op it, quick, or it
will be the worse for you!”

“If I hear them children cry out once more, I’m off for the police.”

“Get out of it! ’Op it, I tell you!” The frowsy stepmother bore down in
full sail, but the lean, lank Jewess stood her ground. Next instant they
met. Mrs. Silas Linden screamed, and staggered back with blood running
down her face where four nails had left as many red furrows. Silas, with
an oath, pushed his wife out of the way, seized the intruder round the
waist, and slung her bodily through the door. She lay in the roadway
with her long gaunt limbs sprawling about like some half-slain fowl.
Without rising, she shook her clenched hands in the air and screamed
curses at Silas, who slammed the door and left her, while neighbours ran
from all sides to hear particulars of the fray. Mrs. Linden, staring
through the front blind, saw with some relief that her enemy was able
to rise and to limp back to her own door, whence she could be heard
delivering a long shrill harangue as to her wrongs. The wrongs of a Jew
are not lightly forgotten, for the race can both love and hate.

“She’s all right, Silas. I thought maybe you ’ad killed ’er.”

“It’s what she wants, the damned canting sheeny. It’s bad enough to have
her in the street without her daring to set foot inside my door. I’ll
cut the hide off that young Willie. He’s the cause of it all. Where is
he?”

“They ran up to their room. I heard them lock the door.”

“A lot of good that will do them.”

“I wouldn’t touch ’em now, Silas. The neighbours is all up and about and
we needn’t ask for trouble.”

“You’re right!” he grumbled. “It will keep till I come back.”

“Where are you goin’?”

“Down to the Admiral Vernon. There’s a chance of a job as sparrin’
partner to Long Davis. He goes into training on Monday and needs a man
of my weight.”

“Well, I’ll expect you when I see you. I get too much of that pub of
yours. I know what the Admiral Vernon means.”

“It means the only place in God’s earth where I get any peace or rest,”
said Silas.

“A fat lot I get--or ever ’ave ’ad since I married you.”

“That’s right. Grouse away!” he growled. “If grousin’ made a man happy,
you’d be the champion.” He picked up his hat and slouched off down the
street, his heavy tread resounding upon the great wooden flap which
covered the cellars of the brewery.

       *       *       *       *       *

Up in a dingy attic two little figures were seated on the side of a
wretched straw-stuffed bed, their arms enlacing each other, their cheeks
touching, their tears mingling. They had to cry in silence, for any
sound might remind the ogre downstairs of their existence. Now and again
one would break into an uncontrollable sob, and the other would whisper,
“Hush! Hush! Oh hush!” Then suddenly they heard the slam of the outer
door and that heavy tread booming over the wooden flap. They squeezed
each other in their joy. Perhaps when he came back he might kill them,
but for a few short hours at least they were safe from him. As to the
woman, she was spiteful and vicious, but she did not seem so deadly as
the man. In a dim way they felt that he had hunted their mother into her
grave and might do as much for them.

The room was dark save for the light which came through the single dirty
window. It cast a bar across the floor, but all round was black shadow.
Suddenly the little boy stiffened, clasped his sister with a tighter
grip, and stared rigidly into the darkness.

“She’s coming!” he muttered. “She’s coming!”

Little Margery clung to him.

“Oh, Willie, is it mother?”

“It is a light--a beautiful yellow light. Can you not see it, Margery?”

But the little girl, like all the world, was without vision. To her all
was darkness.

“Tell me, Willie,” she whispered, in a solemn voice. She was not really
frightened, for many times before had the dead mother returned in the
watches of the night to comfort her stricken children.

“Yes, yes, she is coming now. Oh, mother! Mother!”

“What does she say, Willie?”

“Oh, she is beautiful. She is not crying. She is smiling. It is like the
picture we saw of the angel. She looks so happy. Dear, dear mother! Now
she is speaking. ‘It is over,’ she says. ‘It is all over.’ She says it
again. Now she beckons with her hand. We are to follow. She has moved to
the door.”

“Oh, Willie, I dare not.”

“Yes, yes, she nods her head. She bids us fear nothing. Now she has
passed through the door. Come, Margery, come, or we shall lose her.”

The two little mites crept across the room and Willie unlocked the door.
The mother stood at the head of the stair beckoning them onwards. Step
by step they followed her down into the empty kitchen. The woman seemed
to have gone out. All was still in the house. The phantom still beckoned
them on.

“We are to go out.”

“Oh, Willie, we have no hats.”

“We must follow, Madge. She is smiling and waving.”

“Father will kill us for this.”

“She shakes her head. She says we are to fear nothing. Come!”

They threw open the door and were in the street. Down the deserted court
they followed the gleaming, gracious presence, and through a tangle of
low streets, and so out into the crowded rush of Tottenham Court Road.
Once or twice amid all that blind torrent of humanity, some man or
woman, blessed with the precious gift of discernment, would start and
stare as they were aware of an angel presence and of two little
white-faced children who followed behind, the boy with fixed, absorbed
gaze, the girl glancing ever in terror over her shoulder. Down the long
street they passed, then again amid the humbler dwellings, and so at
last to a quiet drab line of brick houses. On the step of one the spirit
had halted.

“We are to knock,” said Willie.

“Oh, Willie, what shall we say? We don’t know them.”

“We are to knock,” he repeated, stoutly. Rat-tat!

“It’s all right, Madge. She is clapping her hands and laughing.”

So it was that Mrs. Tom Linden, sitting lonely in her misery and
brooding over her martyr in gaol, was summoned suddenly to the door, and
found two little apologetic figures outside it. A few words, a rush of
woman’s instinct, and her arms were round the children. These battered
little skiffs, who had started their life’s voyage so sadly, had found a
harbour of peace where no storm should vex them more.

       *       *       *       *       *

There were some strange happenings in Bolton’s Court that night. Some
folk thought they had no relation to each other. One or two thought they
had. The British Law saw nothing and had nothing to say.

In the second last house, a keen, hawklike face peered from behind a
window-blind into the darkened street. A shaded candle was behind that
fearful face, dark as death, remorseless as the tomb. Behind Rebecca
Levi stood a young man whose features showed that he sprang from the
same Oriental race. For an hour--for a second hour--the woman had sat
without a word, watching, watching.... At the entrance to the court
there was a hanging lamp which cast a circle of yellow light. It was on
this pool of radiance that her brooding eyes were fixed.

Then suddenly she saw what she had waited for. She started and hissed
out a word. The young man rushed from the room and into the street. He
vanished through a side door into the brewery.

Drunken Silas Linden was coming home. He was in a gloomy, sulken state
of befuddlement. A sense of injury filled his mind. He had not gained
the billet he sought. His injured hand had been against him. He had hung
about the bar waiting for drinks and had got some, but not enough. Now
he was in a dangerous mood. Woe to the man, woman or child who crossed
his path! He thought savagely of the Jewess who lived in that darkened
house. He thought savagely of all his neighbours. They would stand
between him and his children, would they? He would show them. The very
next morning he would take them both out into the street and strap them
within an inch of their lives. That would show them all what Silas
Linden thought of their opinion. Why should he not do it now? If he were
to waken the neighbours up with the shrieks of his children, it would
show them once for all that they could not defy him with impunity. The
idea pleased him. He stepped more briskly out. He was almost at his door
when....

It was never quite clear how it was that the cellar-flap was not
securely fastened that night. The jury were inclined to blame the
brewery, but the coroner pointed out that Linden was a heavy man, that
he might have fallen on it if he were drunk, and that all reasonable
care had been taken. It was an eighteen-foot fall upon jagged stones,
and his back was broken. They did not find him till next morning, for,
curiously enough, his neighbour, the Jewess, never heard the sound of
the accident. The doctor seemed to think that death had not come
quickly. There were horrible signs that he had lingered. Down in the
darkness, vomiting blood and beer, the man ended his filthy life with a
filthy death.

One need not waste words or pity over the woman whom he had left.
Relieved from her terrible mate, she returned to that music-hall stage
from which he, by force of his virility and bull-like strength, had
lured her. She tried to regain her place with:

    “Hi! Hi! Hi! I’m the _dernier cri_,
     The girl with the cart-wheel hat,”

which was the ditty which had won her her name. But it became too
painfully evident that she was anything but the _dernier cri_, and that
she could never get back. Slowly she sank from big halls to small halls,
from small halls to pubs, and so ever deeper and deeper, sucked into the
awful, silent quicksands of life which drew her down and down until that
vacuous painted face and frowsy head were seen no more.




CHAPTER XII

THERE ARE HEIGHTS AND THERE ARE DEPTHS


The Institut Métapsychique was an imposing stone building in the Avenue
Wagram with a door like a baronial castle. Here it was that the three
friends presented themselves late in the evening. A footman showed them
into a reception-room where they were presently welcomed by Dr. Maupuis
in person. The famous authority on psychic science was a short broad man
with a large head, a clean-shaven face, and an expression in which
worldly wisdom and kindly altruism were blended. His conversation was in
French with Mailey and Roxton, who both spoke the language well, but he
had to fall back upon broken English with Malone, who could only utter
still more broken French in reply. He expressed his pleasure at their
visit, as only a graceful Frenchman can, said a few words as to the
wonderful qualities of Panbek, the Galician medium, and finally led the
way downstairs to the room in which the experiments were to be
conducted. His air of vivid intelligence and penetrating sagacity had
already shown the strangers how preposterous were those theories which
tried to explain away his wonderful results by the supposition that he
was a man who was the easy victim of impostors.

Descending a winding stair they found themselves in a large chamber
which looked at first glance like a chemical laboratory, for shelves
full of bottles, retorts, test-tubes, scales and other apparatus lined
the walls. It was more elegantly furnished, however, than a mere
workshop, and a large massive oak table occupied the centre of the room
with a fringe of comfortable chairs. At one end of the room was a large
portrait of Professor Crookes, which was flanked by a second of
Lombroso, while between them was a remarkable picture of one of Eusapia
Palladino’s séances. Round the table there was gathered a group of men
who were talking in low tones, too much absorbed in their own
conversation to take much notice of the newcomers.

“Three of these are distinguished visitors like yourselves,” said Dr.
Maupuis. “Two others are my laboratory assistants, Dr. Sauvage and Dr.
Buisson. The others are Parisians of note. The Press is represented
to-day by Monsieur Forte, sub-editor of the _Matin_. The tall, dark man
who looks like a retired general you probably know.... Not? That is
Professor Charles Richet, our honoured _doyen_, who has shown great
courage in this matter, though he has not quite reached the same
conclusion as you, Monsieur Mailey. But that also may come. You must
remember that we have to show policy, and that the less we mix this with
religion, the less trouble we shall have with the Church, which is still
very powerful in this country. The distinguished-looking man with the
high forehead is the Count de Grammont. The gentleman with the head of a
Jupiter and the white beard is Flammarion, the astronomer. Now,
gentleman,” he added, in a louder voice, “if you will take your places
we shall get to work.”

They sat at random round the long table, the three Britons keeping
together. At one end a large photographic camera was reared aloft. Two
zinc buckets also occupied a prominent position upon a side table. The
door was locked and the key given to Professor Richet. Dr. Maupuis sat
at one end of the table with a small middle-aged man, moustached,
bald-headed and intelligent, upon his right.

“Some of you have not met Monsieur Panbek,” said the doctor. “Permit me
to present him to you. Monsieur Panbek, gentlemen, has placed his
remarkable powers at our disposal for scientific investigation, and we
all owe him a debt of gratitude. He is now in his forty-seventh year, a
man of normal health, of a neuroarthritic disposition. Some
hyper-excitability of his nervous system is indicated, and his reflexes
are exaggerated, but his blood-pressure is normal. The pulse is now at
seventy-two, but rises to one hundred under trance conditions. There are
zones of marked hyper-æsthesia on his limbs. His visual field and
pupillary reaction is normal. I do not know that there is anything to
add.”

“I might say,” remarked Professor Richet, “that the hyper-sensibility is
moral as well as physical. Panbek is impressionable and full of emotion,
with the temperament of the poet and all those little weaknesses, if we
may call them so, which the poet pays as a ransom for his gifts. A great
medium is a great artist and is to be judged by the same standards.”

“He seems to me, gentlemen, to be preparing you for the worst,” said the
medium with a charming smile, while the company laughed in sympathy.

“We are sitting in the hopes that some remarkable materialisations which
we have recently had may be renewed in such a form that we may get a
permanent record of them.” Dr. Maupuis was talking in his dry,
unemotional voice. “These materialisations have taken very unexpected
forms of late, and I would beg the company to repress any feelings of
fear, however strange these forms may be, as a calm and judicial
atmosphere is most necessary. We shall now turn out the white light and
begin with the lowest degree of red light until the conditions will
admit of further illumination.”

The lamps were controlled from Dr. Maupuis’ seat at the table. For a
moment they were plunged in utter darkness. Then a dull red glow came in
the corner, enough to show the dim outlines of the men round the table.
There was no music and no religious atmosphere of any sort. The company
conversed in whispers.

“This is different to your English procedure,” said Malone.

“Very,” Mailey answered. “It seems to me that we are wide open to
anything which may come. It’s all wrong. They don’t realise the danger.”

“What danger can there be?”

“Well, from my point of view, it is like sitting at the edge of a pond
which may have harmless frogs in it, or may have man-eating crocodiles.
You can’t tell what may come.”

Professor Richet, who speaks excellent English, overheard the words.

“I know your views, Mr. Mailey,” said he. “Don’t think that I treat them
lightly. Some things which I have seen make me appreciate your
comparison of the frog and the crocodile. In this very room I have been
conscious of the presence of creatures which could, if moved to anger,
make our experiments seem rather hazardous. I believe with you that evil
people here might bring an evil reflection into our circle.”

“I am glad, sir, that you are moving in our direction,” said Mailey,
for like everyone else he regarded Richet as one of the world’s great
men.

“Moving, perhaps, and yet I cannot claim to be altogether with you yet.
The latent powers of the human incarnate spirit may be so wonderful that
they may extend to regions which seem at present to be quite beyond
their scope. As an old materialist, I fight every inch of the ground,
though I admit that I have lost several lines of trenches. My
illustrious friend Challenger still holds his front intact, as I
understand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Malone, “and yet I have some hopes----”

“Hush!” cried Maupuis in an eager voice.

There was dead silence. Then there came a sound of uneasy movement with
a strange flapping vibration.

“The bird!” said an awestruck whisper.

There was silence and then once again came the sound of movement and an
impatient flap.

“Have you all ready, Réne?” asked the doctor.

“All is ready.”

“Then shoot!”

The flash of the luminant mixture filled the room, while the shutter of
the camera fell. In that sudden glare of light the visitors had a
momentary glimpse of a marvellous sight. The medium lay with his head
upon his hands in apparent insensibility. Upon his rounded shoulders
there was perched a huge bird of prey--a large falcon or an eagle. For
one instant the strange picture was stamped upon their retinas even as
it was upon the photographic plate. Then the darkness closed down again,
save for the two red lamps, like the eyes of some baleful demon lurking
in the corner.

“My word!” gasped Malone. “Did you see it?”

“A crocodile out of the pond,” said Mailey.

“But harmless,” added Professor Richet. “The bird has been with us
several times. He moves his wings, as you have heard, but otherwise is
inert. We may have another and a more dangerous visitor.”

The flash of the light had, of course, dispelled all ectoplasm. It was
necessary to begin again. The company may have sat for a quarter of an
hour when Richet touched Mailey’s arm.

“Do you smell anything, Monsieur Mailey?”

Mailey sniffed the air.

“Yes, surely, it reminds me of our London Zoo.”

“There is another more ordinary analogy. Have you been in a warm room
with a wet dog?”

“Exactly,” said Mailey. “That is a perfect description. But where is the
dog?”

“It is not a dog. Wait a little! Wait!”

The animal smell became more pronounced. It was overpowering. Then
suddenly Malone became conscious of something moving round the table. In
the dim red light he was aware of a mis-shapen figure, crouching,
ill-formed, with some resemblance to man. He silhouetted it against the
dull radiance. It was bulky, broad, with a bullet-head, a short neck,
heavy, clumsy shoulders. It slouched slowly round the circle. Then it
stopped, and a cry of surprise, not unmixed with fear, came from one of
the sitters.

“Do not be alarmed,” said Dr. Maupuis’ quiet voice. “It is the
Pithecanthropus. He is harmless.” Had it been a cat which had strayed
into the room the scientist could not have discussed it more calmly.

“It has long claws. It laid them on my neck,” cried a voice.

“Yes, yes. He means it as a caress.”

“You may have my share of his caresses!” cried the sitter in a quavering
voice.

“Do not repulse him. It might be serious. He is well disposed. But he
has his feelings, no doubt, like the rest of us.”

The creature had resumed its stealthy progress. Now it turned the end of
the table and stood behind the three friends. Its breath came in quick
puffs at the back of their necks. Suddenly Lord Roxton gave a loud
exclamation of disgust.

“Quiet! Quiet!” said Maupuis.

“It’s licking my hand!” cried Roxton.

An instant later Malone was aware of a shaggy head extended between Lord
Roxton and himself. With his left hand he could feel long, coarse hair.
It turned towards him, and it needed all his self-control to hold his
hand still when a long soft tongue caressed it. Then it was gone.

“In heaven’s name, what is it?” he asked.

“We have been asked not to photograph it. Possibly the light would
infuriate it. The command through the medium was definite. We can only
say that it is either an ape-like man or a man-like ape. We have seen it
more clearly than to-night. The face is Simian, but the brow is
straight; the arms long, the hands huge, the body covered with hair.”

“Tom Linden gave us something better than that,” whispered Mailey. He
spoke low but Richet caught the words.

“All nature is the field of our study, Mr. Mailey. It is not for us to
choose. Shall we classify the flowers but neglect the fungi?”

“But you admit it is dangerous.”

“The X-rays were dangerous. How many martyrs lost their arms, joint by
joint, before those dangers were realised. And yet it was necessary. So
it is with us. We do not know yet what it is that we are doing. But if
we can indeed show the world that this Pithecanthropus can come to us
from the Invisible, and depart again as it came, then the knowledge is
so tremendous that even if he tore us to pieces with those formidable
claws, it would none the less be our duty to go forward with our
experiments.”

“Science can be heroic,” said Mailey. “Who can deny it? And yet I have
heard these very scientific men tell us that we imperil our reason when
we try to get in touch with spiritual forces. Gladly would we sacrifice
our reason, or our lives, if we could help mankind. Should we not do as
much for spiritual advance as they for material?”

The lights had been turned up and there was a pause for relaxation
before the great experiment of the evening was attempted. The men broke
into little groups, chatting in hushed tones over their recent
experience. Looking round at the comfortable room with its up-to-date
appliances, the strange bird and the stealthy monster seemed like
dreams. And yet they had been very real, as was shown presently by the
photographer, who had been allowed to leave and now rushed excitedly
from the adjacent dark room waving the plate which he had just developed
and fixed. He held it up against the light, and there, sure enough, was
the bald head of the medium sunk between his hands, and crouching
closely over his shoulders the outline of that ominous figure. Dr.
Maupuis rubbed his little fat hands with glee. Like all pioneers he had
endured much persecution from the Parisian Press, and every fresh
phenomenon was another weapon for his own defence.

“_Nous marchons! Hein! Nous marchons!_” he kept on repeating, while
Richet, lost in thought, answered mechanically:

“_Oui, mon ami, vous marchez!_”

The little Galician was sitting nibbling a biscuit with a glass of red
wine before him. Malone went round to him and found that he had been in
America and could talk a little English.

“Are you tired? Does it exhaust you?”

“In moderation, no. Two sittings a week. Behold my allowance. The doctor
will allow no more.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“It comes to me like dreams. A little here--a little there.”

“Has the power always been with you?”

“Yes, yes, ever since a child. And my father, and my uncle. Their talk
was of visions. For me, I would go and sit in the woods and strange
animals would come round me. It did me such a surprise when I found that
the other children could not see them.”

“_Est ce que vous êtes prêtes?_” asked Dr. Maupuis.

“_Parfaitement_,” answered the medium, brushing away the crumbs. The
doctor lit a spirit-lamp under one of the zinc buckets.

“We are about to co-operate in an experiment, gentlemen, which should,
once and for all, convince the world as to the existence of these
ectoplasmic forms. Their nature may be disputed, but their objectivity
will be beyond doubt from now onwards unless my plans miscarry. I would
first explain these two buckets to you. This one, which I am warming,
contains paraffin, which is now in process of liquefaction. This other
contains water. Those who have not been present before must understand
that Panbek’s phenomena occur usually in the same order, and that at
this stage of the evening we may expect the apparition of the old man.
To-night we lie in wait for the old man, and we shall, I hope,
immortalise him in the history of psychic research. I resume my seat,
and I switch on the red light, Number Three, which allows of greater
visibility.”

The circle was now quite visible. The medium’s head had fallen forward
and his deep snoring showed that he was already in trance. Every face
was turned towards him, for the wonderful process of materialisation was
going on before their very eyes. At first it was a swirl of light,
steam-like vapour which circled round his head. Then there was a waving,
as of white diaphanous drapery, behind him. It thickened. It coalesced.
It hardened in outline and took definite shape. There was a head. There
were shoulders. Arms grew out from them. Yes, there could not be a doubt
of it--there was a man, an old man, standing behind the chair. He moved
his head slowly from side to side. He seemed to be peering in indecision
towards the company. One could imagine that he was asking himself,
“Where am I, and what am I here for?”

“He does not speak, but he hears and has intelligence,” said Dr.
Maupuis, glancing over his shoulder at the apparition. “We are here,
sir, in the hope that you will aid us in a very important experiment.
May we count upon your co-operation?”

The figure bowed its head in assent.

“We thank you. When you have attained your full power, you will, no
doubt, move away from the medium.”

The figure again bowed, but remained motionless. It seemed to Malone
that it was growing denser every moment. He caught glimpses of the face.
It was certainly an old man, heavy-faced, long-nosed, with a curiously
projecting lower lip. Suddenly with a brusque movement it stood clear
from Panbek and stepped out into the room.

“Now, sir,” said Maupuis in his precise fashion. “You will perceive the
zinc bucket upon the left. I would beg you to have the kindness to
approach it and to plunge your right hand into it.”

The figure moved across. He seemed interested in the buckets, for he
examined them with some attention. Then he dipped one of his hands into
that which the doctor had indicated.

“Excellent!” cried Maupuis, his voice shrill with excitement. “Now, sir,
might I ask you to have the kindness to dip the same hand into the cold
water of the other bucket.”

The form did so.

“Now, sir, you would bring our experiment to complete success if you
would lay your hand upon the table, and while it is resting there you
would yourself dematerialise and return into the medium.”

The figure bowed its comprehension and assent. Then it slowly advanced
towards the table, stooped over it, extended its hand--and vanished. The
heavy breathing of the medium ceased, and he moved uneasily as if about
to wake. Maupuis turned on the white light, and threw up his hands with
a loud cry of wonder and joy which was echoed by the company.

On the shining wooden surface of the table there lay a delicate
yellow-pink glove of paraffin, broad at the knuckles, thin at the wrist,
two of the fingers bent down to the palm. Maupuis was beside himself
with delight. He broke off a small bit of wax from the wrist and handed
it to an assistant, who hurried from the room.

“It is final!” he cried. “What can they say now? Gentlemen, I appeal to
you. You have seen what occurred. Can any of you give any rational
explanation of that paraffin mould, save that it was the result of
dematerialisation of the hand within it?”

“I can see no other solution,” Richet answered. “But you have to do with
very obstinate and very prejudiced people. If they cannot deny it, they
will probably ignore it.”

“The Press is here and the Press represents the public,” said Maupuis.
“For the Press Engleesh, Monsieur Malone,” he went on in his broken way.
“Is it that you can see any answer?”

“I can see none,” Malone answered.

“And you, monsieur?” addressing the representative of the _Matin_.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

“For us who had the privilege of being present it was indeed
convincing,” said he, “and yet you will certainly be met with
objections. They will not realise how fragile this thing is. They will
say that the medium brought it on his person and laid it upon the
table.”

Maupuis clapped his hands triumphantly. His assistant had just brought
him a slip of paper from the next room.

“Your objection is already answered,” he cried, waving the paper in the
air. “I had foreseen it and I had put some cholesterine among the
paraffin in the zinc pail. You may have observed that I broke off a
corner of the mould. It was for purpose of chemical analysis. This has
now been done. It is here and cholesterine has been detected.”

“Excellent!” said the French journalist. “You have closed the last hole.
But what next?”

“What we have done once we can do again,” Maupuis answered. “I will
prepare a number of these moulds. In some cases I will have fists and
hands. Then I will have plaster casts made from them. I will run the
plaster inside the mould. It is delicate, but it can be done. I will
have dozens of them so created, and I will send them broadcast to every
capital in the world that people may see with their own eyes. Will that
not at last convince them of the reality of our conclusions?”

“Do not hope for too much, my poor friend,” said Richet, with his hand
upon the shoulder of the enthusiast. “You have not yet realised the
enormous _vis inertiæ_ of the world. But as you have said, ‘_Vous
marchez--vous marchez toujours_.’”

“And our march is regulated,” said Mailey. “There is a gradual release
to accommodate it to the receptivity of mankind.”

Richet smiled and shook his head.

“Always transcendental, Monsieur Mailey! Always seeing more than meets
the eye and changing science into philosophy! I fear you are
incorrigible. Is your position reasonable?”

“Professor Richet,” said Mailey, very earnestly, “I would beg you to
answer the same question. I have a deep respect for your talents and
complete sympathy with your caution, but have you not come to the
dividing of the ways? You are now in the position that you admit--you
must admit--that our intelligent apparition in human form, built up from
the substance which you have yourself named ectoplasm, can walk the room
and carry out instructions while the medium lay senseless under our
eyes, and yet you hesitate to assert that spirit has an independent
existence. Is that reasonable?”

Richet smiled and shook his head. Without answering, he turned to bid
farewell to Dr. Maupuis, and to offer him his congratulations. A few
minutes later the company had broken up and our friends were in a taxi
speeding towards their hotel.

Malone was deeply impressed with what he had seen, and he sat up half
the night drawing up a full account of it for the Central News, with the
names of those who had endorsed the results--honourable names which no
one in the world could associate with folly or deception.

“Surely, surely, this will be a turning-point and an epoch.” So ran his
dream. Two days later he opened the great London dailies one after the
other. Columns about football. Columns about golf. A full page as to the
value of shares. A long and earnest correspondence in _The Times_ about
the habits of the lapwing. Not one word in any of them as to the wonders
which he had seen and reported. Mailey laughed at his dejected face.

“A mad world, my masters,” said he. “A crazy world! But the end is not
yet!”[D]




CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH PROFESSOR CHALLENGER GOES FORTH TO BATTLE


Professor Challenger was in a bad humour, and when that was so his
household were made aware of it. Neither were the effects of his wrath
confined to those around him, for most of those terrible letters which
appeared from time to time in the Press, flaying and scarifying some
unhappy opponent, were thunderbolt flashes from an offended Jove who sat
in sombre majesty in his study-throne on the heights of a Victoria flat.
Servants would hardly dare to enter the room where, glooming and
glowering, the maned and bearded head looked up from his papers as a
lion from a bone. Only Enid could dare him at such a time, and even she
felt occasionally that sinking of the heart which the bravest of tamers
may experience as he unbars the gate of the cage. She was not safe from
the acridity of his tongue, but at least she need not fear physical
violence, which was well within the possibilities for others.

Sometimes these Berserk fits of the famous Professor arose from material
causes. “Hepatic, sir, hepatic!” he would explain in extenuation after
some aggravated assault. But on this particular occasion he had a very
definite cause for discontent. It was Spiritualism!

He never seemed to get away from the accursed superstition--a thing
which ran counter to the whole work and philosophy of his lifetime. He
attempted to pooh-pooh it, to laugh at it, to ignore it with contempt,
but the confounded thing would insist upon obtruding itself once more.
On Monday he would write it finally off his books, and before Saturday
he would be up to his neck in it again. And the thing was so absurd! It
seemed to him that his mind was being drawn from the great pressing
material problems of the Universe in order to waste itself upon Grimm’s
fairy tales or the ghosts of a sensational novelist.

Then things grew worse. First Malone, who had in his simple fashion been
an index figure representing the normal clear-headed human being, had in
some way been bedevilled by these people and had committed himself to
their pernicious views. Then Enid, his ewe-lamb, his one real link with
humanity, had also been corrupted. She had agreed with Malone’s
conclusions. She had even hunted up a good deal of evidence of her own.
In vain he had himself investigated a case and proved beyond a shadow of
a doubt that the medium was a designing villain who brought messages
from a widow’s dead husband in order to get the woman into his power. It
was a clear case and Enid admitted it. But neither she nor Malone would
allow any general application. “There are rogues in every line of life,”
they would say. “We must judge every movement by the best and not by the
worst.”

All this was bad enough, but worse still was in store. He had been
publicly humiliated by the Spiritualists--and that by a man who admitted
that he had had no education and would in any other subject in the world
have been seated like a child at the Professor’s feet. And yet in
public debate ... but the story must be told.

Be it known then that Challenger, greatly despising all opposition and
with no knowledge of the real strength of the case to be answered, had,
in a fatal moment, actually asserted that he would descend from Olympus
and would meet in debate any representative whom the other party should
select. “I am well aware,” he wrote, “that by such condescension I, like
any other man of science of equal standing, run the risk of giving a
dignity to these absurd and grotesque aberrations of the human brain
which they could otherwise not pretend to claim, but we must do our duty
to the public, and we must occasionally turn from our serious work and
spare a moment in order to sweep away those ephemeral cobwebs which
might collect and become offensive if they were not dispersed by the
broom of Science.” Thus, in a most self-confident fashion, did Goliath
go forth to meet his tiny antagonist, an ex-printer’s assistant and now
the editor of what Challenger would describe as an obscure print devoted
to matters of the spirit.

The particulars of the debate are public property, and it is not
necessary to tell in any great detail that painful event. It will be
remembered that the great man of Science went down to the Queen’s Hall
accompanied by many rationalist sympathisers who desired to see the
final destruction of the visionaries. A large number of these poor
deluded creatures also attended, hoping against hope that their champion
might not be entirely immolated upon the altar of outraged Science.
Between them the two factions filled the hall, and glared at each other
with as much enmity as did the Blues and the Greens a thousand years
before in the Hippodrome of Constantinople. There on the left of the
platform were the solid ranks of those hard and unbending rationalists
who look upon the Victorian agnostics as credulous, and refresh their
faith by the periodical perusal of the _Literary Gazette_ and the
_Freethinker_.

There, too, was Dr. Joseph Baumer, the famous lecturer upon the
absurdities of religion, together with Mr. Edward Mould, who has
insisted so eloquently upon man’s claim to ultimate putridity of the
body and extinction of the soul. On the other side Mailey’s yellow beard
flamed like an oriflamme. His wife sat on one side of him and Mervin,
the journalist, on the other, while dense ranks of earnest men and women
from the Queen Square Spiritual Alliance, from the Psychic College, from
the Stead Bureau, and from the outlying churches, assembled in order to
encourage their champion in his hopeless task. The genial faces of
Bolsover, the grocer, with his Hammersmith friends, Terbane, the railway
medium, the Reverend Charles Mason with his ascetic features, Tom
Linden, now happily released from bondage, Mrs. Linden, the Crewe
circle, Dr. Atkinson, Lord Roxton, Malone, and many other familiar faces
were to be picked out amid that dense wall of humanity. Between the two
parties, solemn and stolid and fat, sat Judge Gaverson of the King’s
Bench, who had consented to preside. It was an interesting and
suggestive fact that in this critical debate at which the very core or
vital centre of real religion was the issue, the organised churches were
entirely aloof and neutral. Drowsy and semi-conscious, they could not
discern that the live intellect of the nation was really holding an
inquisition upon their bodies to determine whether they were doomed to
the extinction towards which they were rapidly drifting, or whether a
resuscitation in other forms was among the possibilities of the future.

In front, on one side, with his broad-browed disciples behind him, sat
Professor Challenger, portentous and threatening, his Assyrian beard
projected in his most aggressive fashion, a half-smile upon his lips,
and his eyelids drooping insolently over his intolerant grey eyes. On
the corresponding position on the other side was perched a drab and
unpretentious person over whose humble head Challenger’s hat would have
descended to the shoulders. He was pale and apprehensive, glancing
across occasionally in apologetic and deprecating fashion at his leonine
opponent. Yet those who knew James Smith best were the least alarmed,
for they were aware that behind his commonplace and democratic
appearance there lay a knowledge of his subject, practical and
theoretical, such as few living men possessed. The wise men of the
Psychical Research Society are but children in psychic knowledge when
compared with such practicing Spiritualists as James Smith--men whose
whole lives are spent in various forms of communion with the unseen.
Such men often lose touch with the world in which they dwell and are
useless for its everyday purposes, but the editorship of a live paper
and the administration of a wide-spread scattered community had kept
Smith’s feet solid upon earth, while his excellent natural faculties,
incorrupted by useless education, had enabled him to concentrate upon
the one field of knowledge which offers in itself a sufficient scope for
the greatest human intellect. Little as Challenger could appreciate it,
the contest was really one between a brilliant discursive amateur and a
concentrated highly-specialised professional.

It was admitted on all sides that Challenger’s opening half-hour was a
magnificent display of oratory and argument. His deep organ voice--such
a voice as only a man with a fifty-inch chest can produce--rose and fell
in a perfect cadence which enchanted his audience. He was born to sway
any assembly--an obvious leader of mankind. In turn he was descriptive,
humorous and convincing. He pictured the natural growth of animism among
savages cowering under the naked sky, unable to account for the beat of
the rain or the roar of the thunder, and seeing a benevolent or
malicious intelligence behind those operations of Nature which Science
had now classified and explained.

Hence on false premises was built up that belief in spirits or invisible
beings outside ourselves, which by some curious atavism was re-emerging
in modern days among the less educated strata of mankind. It was the
duty of Science to resist retrogressive tendencies of the sort, and it
was a sense of that duty which had reluctantly drawn him from the
privacy of his study to the publicity of this platform. He rapidly
sketched the movement as depicted by its maligners. It was a most
unsavoury story as he told it, a story of cracking toe joints, of
phosphorescent paint, of muslin ghosts, of a nauseous sordid commission
trade betwixt dead men’s bones on one side, and widows’ tears upon the
other. These people were the hyenas of the human race who battened upon
the graves. (Cheers from the rationalists and ironical laughter from the
Spiritualists.) They were not all rogues. (“Thank you, Professor!” from
a stentorian opponent.) But the others were fools (laughter). Was it
exaggeration to call a man a fool who believed that his grandmother
could rap out absurd messages with the leg of a dining-room table? Had
any savages descended to so grotesque a superstition? These people had
taken dignity from death and had brought their own vulgarity into the
serene oblivion of the tomb. It was a hateful business. He was sorry to
have to speak so strongly, but only the knife or the cautery could deal
with so cancerous a growth. Surely man need not trouble himself with
grotesque speculations as to the nature of life beyond the grave. We had
enough to do in this world. Life was a beautiful thing. The man who
appreciated its real duties and beauties would have sufficient to employ
him without dabbling in pseudo sciences which had their roots in frauds,
exposed already a hundred times and yet finding fresh crowds of foolish
devotees whose insane credulity and irrational prejudice made them
impervious to all argument.

Such is a most bald and crude summary of this powerful opening argument.
The materialists roared their applause; the Spiritualists looked angry
and uneasy, while their spokesman rose, pale but resolute, to answer the
ponderous onslaught.

His voice and appearance had none of those qualities which made
Challenger magnetic, but he was clearly audible and made his points in a
precise fashion like a workman who is familiar with his tools. He was so
polite and so apologetic at first that he gave the impression of having
been cowed. He felt that it was almost presumptuous upon one who had so
little advantage of education to measure mental swords for an instant
with so renowned an antagonist, one whom he had long revered. It seemed
to him, however, that in the long list of the Professor’s
accomplishments--accomplishments which had made him a household word
throughout the world--there was one missing, and unhappily it was just
this one upon which he had been tempted to speak. He had listened to
that speech with admiration so far as its eloquence was concerned, but
with surprise, and he might almost say with contempt, when he analysed
the assertions which were contained in it. It was clear that the
Professor had prepared his case by reading all the anti-Spiritualist
literature which he could lay his hands upon--a most tainted source of
information--while neglecting the works of those who spoke from
experience and conviction.

All this talk of cracking joints and other fraudulent tricks was
mid-Victorian in its ignorance, and as to the grandmother talking
through the leg of a table he, the speaker, could not recognise it as a
fair description of Spiritualistic phenomena. Such comparisons reminded
one of the jokes about the dancing frogs which impeded the recognition
of Volta’s early electrical experiments. They were unworthy of Professor
Challenger. He must surely be aware that the fraudulent medium was the
worst enemy of Spiritualism, that he was denounced by name in the
psychic journals whenever he was discovered, and that such exposures
were usually made by the Spiritualists themselves who had spoken of
“human hyenas” as indignantly as his opponent had done. One did not
condemn banks because forgers occasionally used them for nefarious
purposes. It was wasting the time of so chosen an audience to descend to
such a level of argument. Had Professor Challenger denied the religious
implications of Spiritualism while admitting the phenomena, it might
have been harder to answer him, but in denying everything he had placed
himself in an absolutely impossible position. No doubt Professor
Challenger had read the recent work of Professor Richet, the famous
physiologist. That work extended over thirty years. Richet had verified
all the phenomena.

Perhaps Professor Challenger would inform the audience what personal
experience he had himself had which gave him the right to talk of
Richet, or Lombroso, or Crookes, as if they were superstitious savages.
Possibly his opponent had conducted experiments in private of which the
world knew nothing. In that case he should give them to the world. Until
he did so it was unscientific and really indecent to deride men hardly
inferior in scientific reputation to himself, who actually had done such
experiments and laid them before the public.

As to the self-sufficiency of this world, a successful Professor with a
eupeptic body might take such a view, but if one found oneself with
cancer of the stomach in a London garret, one might question the
doctrine that there was no need to yearn for any state of being save
that in which we found ourselves.

It was a workmanlike effort illustrated with facts, dates and figures.
Though it rose to no height of eloquence it contained much which needed
an answer. And the sad fact emerged that Challenger was not in a
position to answer. He had read up his own case but had neglected that
of his adversary, accepting too easily the facile and specious
presumptions of incompetent writers who handled a matter which they had
not themselves investigated. Instead of answering, Challenger lost his
temper. The lion began to roar. He tossed his dark mane and his eyes
glowed, while his deep voice reverberated through the hall. Who were
these people who took refuge behind a few honoured but misguided names?
What right had they to expect serious men of science to suspend their
labours in order to waste time in examining their wild surmises? Some
things were self-evident and did not require proof. The onus of proof
lay with those who made the assertions. If this gentleman, whose name is
unfamiliar, claims that he can raise spirits, let him call one up now
before a sane and unprejudiced audience. If he says that he receives
messages, let him give us the news in advance of the general agencies.
(“It has often been done!” from the Spiritualists.) “So you say, but I
deny it. I am too accustomed to your wild assertions to take them
seriously.” (Uproar, and Judge Gaverson upon his feet.) If he claims
that he has higher inspiration, let him solve the Peckham Rye murder. If
he is in touch with angelic beings, let him give us a philosophy, which
is higher than mortal mind can evolve. This false show of science, this
camouflage of ignorance, this babble about ectoplasm and other mythical
products of the psychic imagination was mere obscurantism, the bastard
offspring of superstition and darkness. Wherever the matter was probed
one came upon corruption and mental putrescence. Every medium was a
deliberate impostor. (“You are a liar!” in a woman’s voice from the
neighbourhood of the Lindens.) The voices of the dead had uttered
nothing but childish twaddle. The asylums were full of the supporters of
the cult and would be fuller still if everyone had his due.

It was a violent but not an effective speech. Evidently the great man
was rattled. He realised that there was a case to be met and that he had
not provided himself with the material wherewith to meet it. Therefore
he had taken refuge in angry words and sweeping assertions which can
only be safely made when there is no antagonist present to take
advantage of them. The Spiritualists seemed more amused than angry. The
materialists fidgeted uneasily in their seats. Then James Smith rose for
his last innings. He wore a mischievous smile. There was quiet menace in
his whole bearing.

He must ask, he said, for a more scientific attitude from his
illustrious opponent. It was an extraordinary fact that many scientific
men, when their passions and prejudices were excited, showed a ludicrous
disregard for all their own tenets. Of these tenets there was none more
rigid than that a subject should be examined before it was condemned. We
have seen of late years, in such matters as wireless or heavier-than-air
machines, that the most unlikely things may come to pass. It is most
dangerous to say _a priori_ that a thing is impossible. Yet this was the
error into which Professor Challenger had fallen. He had used the fame
which he had rightly won in subjects which he had mastered in order to
cast discredit upon a subject which he had not mastered. The fact that a
man was a great physiologist and physicist did not in itself make him an
authority upon psychic science.

It was perfectly clear that Professor Challenger had not read the
standard works upon the subject on which he posed as an authority. Could
he tell the audience what the name of Schrenck Notzing’s medium was? He
paused for a reply. Could he then tell the name of Dr. Crawford’s
medium? Not? Could he tell them who had been the subject of Professor
Zollner’s experiments at Leipzig? What, still silent! But these were the
essential points of the discussion. He had hesitated to be personal, but
the Professor’s robust language called for corresponding frankness upon
his part. Was the Professor aware that this ectoplasm which he derided
had been examined lately by twenty German professors--the names were
here for reference--and that all had testified to its existence? How
could Professor Challenger deny that which these gentlemen asserted?
Would he contend that they also were criminals or fools? The fact was
that the Professor had come to this hall entirely ignorant of the facts
and was now learning them for the first time. He clearly had no
perception that Psychic Science had any laws whatever, or he would not
have formulated such childish requests as that an ectoplasmic figure
should manifest in full light upon this platform when every student was
aware that ectoplasm was soluble in light. As to the Peckham Rye murder
it had never been claimed that the angel world was an annex to Scotland
Yard. It was mere throwing of dust in the eyes of the public for a man
like Professor Challenger----

It was at this moment that the explosion occurred. Challenger had
wriggled in his chair. Challenger had tugged at his beard. Challenger
had glared at the speaker. Now he suddenly sprang to the side of the
chairman’s table with the bound of a wounded lion. That gentleman had
been lying back half asleep with his fat hands clutched across his ample
paunch, but at this sudden apparition he gave a convulsive start which
nearly carried him into the orchestra.

“Sit down, sir! Sit down!” he cried.

“I refuse to sit down,” roared Challenger. “Sir, I appeal to you as
chairman! Am I here to be insulted? These proceedings are intolerable. I
will stand it no longer. If my private honour is touched I am justified
in taking the matter into my own hands.”

Like many men who override the opinions of others, Challenger was
exceedingly sensitive when anyone took a liberty with his own. Each
successive incisive sentence of his opponent had been like a barbed
bandarillo in the flanks of a foaming bull. Now, in speechless fury, he
was shaking his huge hairy fist over the chairman’s head in the
direction of his adversary, whose derisive smile stimulated him to more
furious plunges with which he butted the fat president along the
platform. The assembly had in an instant become a pandemonium. Half the
rationalists were scandalised, while the other half shouted “Shame!
Shame!” as a sign of sympathy with their champion. The Spiritualists had
broken into derisive shouts, while some rushed forward to protect their
champion from physical assault.

“We must get the old dear out,” said Lord Roxton to Malone. “He’ll be
had for manslaughter if we don’t. What I mean, he’s not
responsible--he’ll sock someone and be lagged for it.”

The platform had become a seething mob while the auditorium was little
better. Through the crush Malone and Roxton elbowed their way until they
reached Challenger’s side, and partly by judicious propulsion, partly by
artful persuasion they got him, still bellowing his grievances, out of
the building. There was a perfunctory vote to the chairman, and the
meeting broke up in riot and confusion. “The whole episode,” remarked
_The Times_ next morning, “was a deplorable one, and forcibly
illustrates the danger of public debates where the subjects are such as
to inflame the prejudices of either speakers or audience. Such terms as
‘Microcephalous idiot!’ or ‘Simian survival!’ when applied by a
world-renowned Professor to an opponent, illustrate the lengths to which
such disputants may permit themselves to go.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus by a long interpolation we have got back to the fact that Professor
Challenger was in the worst of humours as he sat with the
above-mentioned copy of _The Times_ in his hand and a heavy scowl upon
his brow. And yet it was that very moment that the injudicious Malone
had chosen in order to ask him the most intimate question which one man
can address to another.

Yet perhaps it is hardly fair to our friend’s diplomacy to say that he
had “chosen” the moment. He had really called in order to see for
himself that a man for whom, in spite of his eccentricities, he had a
deep reverence and affection, had not suffered from the events of the
night before. On that point he was speedily reassured.

“Intolerable!” roared the Professor, in a tone so unchanged that he
might have been at it all night. “You were there yourself, Malone. In
spite of your inexplicable and misguided sympathy for the fatuous views
of these people, you must admit that the whole conduct of the
proceedings was intolerable, and that my righteous protest was more than
justified. It is possible that when I threw the chairman’s table at the
President of the Psychic College, I passed the bounds of decorum, but
the provocation had been excessive. You will remember that this Smith or
Brown person--his name is most immaterial--dared to accuse me of
ignorance and of throwing dust in the eyes of the audience.”

“Quite so,” said Malone, soothingly. “Never mind, Professor. You got in
one or two pretty hard knocks yourself.”

Challenger’s grim features unbent and he rubbed his hands with glee.

“Yes, yes, I fancy that some of my thrusts went home. I imagine that
they will not be forgotten. When I said that the asylums would be full
if every man of them had his due, I could see them wince. They all
yelped, I remember, like a kennelful of puppies. It was their
preposterous claim that I should read their hare-brained literature
which caused me to display some little heat. But I hope, my boy, that
you have called round this morning in order to tell me that what I said
last night has had some effect upon your own mind, and that you have
reconsidered these views which are, I confess, a considerable tax upon
our friendship.”

Malone took his plunge like a man.

“I had something else in my mind when I came here,” said he. “You must
be aware that your daughter Enid and I have been thrown together a good
deal of late. To me, sir, she has become the one woman in the world, and
I shall never be happy until she is my wife. I am not rich, but a good
sub-editorship has been offered to me and I could well afford to marry.
You have known me for some time and I hope you have nothing against me.
I trust, therefore, that I may count upon your approval in what I am
about to do.”

Challenger stroked his beard and his eyelids drooped dangerously over
his eyes.

“My perceptions,” said he, “are not so dull that I should have failed to
observe the relations which have been established between my daughter
and yourself. This question, however, has become entangled with that
other which we were discussing. You have both, I fear, imbibed this
poisonous fallacy which I am more and more inclined to devote my life to
extirpating. If only on the ground of eugenics, I could not give my
sanction to a union which was built up on such a foundation. I must ask
you, therefore, for a definite assurance that your views have become
more sane. I shall ask the same from her.”

And so Malone suddenly found himself also enrolled among the noble army
of martyrs. It was a hard dilemma, but he faced it like the man that he
was.

“I am sure, sir, that you would not think the better of me if I allowed
my views as to truth, whether they be right or wrong, to be swayed by
material considerations. I cannot change my opinions even to win Enid. I
am sure that she would take the same view.”

“Did you not think I had the better last night?”

“I thought your address was very eloquent.”

“Did I not convince you?”

“Not in the face of the evidence of my own senses.”

“Any conjuror could deceive your senses.”

“I fear, sir, that my mind is made up on this point.”

“Then my mind is made up also,” roared Challenger, with a sudden glare.
“You will leave this house, sir, and you will return when you have
regained your sanity.”

“One moment!” said Malone. “I beg, sir, that you will not be
precipitate. I value your friendship too much to risk the loss of it if
it can, in any way, be avoided. Possibly if I had your guidance, I would
better understand these things that puzzle me. If I should be able to
arrange it would you mind being present personally at one of these
demonstrations so that your own trained powers of observation may throw
a light upon the things that have puzzled me.”

Challenger was enormously open to flattery. He plumed and preened
himself now like some great bird.

“If, my dear Malone, I can help you to get this taint--what shall we
call it?--_microbus spiritualensis_--out of your system, I am at your
service. I shall be happy to devote a little of my spare time to
exposing those specious fallacies to which you have fallen so easy a
victim. I would not say that you are entirely devoid of brains, but that
your good nature is liable to be imposed upon. I warn you that I shall
be an exacting enquirer and bring to the investigation those laboratory
methods of which it is generally admitted that I am a master.”

“That is what I desire.”

“Then you will prepare the occasion and I shall be there. But meanwhile
you will clearly understand that I insist upon a promise that this
connection with my daughter shall go no further.”

Malone hesitated.

“I give my promise for six months,” he said at last.

“And what will you do at the end of that time?”

“I will decide when the time comes,” Malone answered diplomatically, and
so escaped from a dangerous situation with more credit than at one time
seemed probable.

It chanced that as he emerged upon the landing, Enid, who had been
engaged in her morning’s shopping, appeared in the lift. Malone’s easy
Irish conscience allowed him to think that the six months need not start
on the instant, so he persuaded Enid to descend in the lift with him. It
was one of those lifts which are handled by whoever uses them, and on
this occasion it so happened that, in some way best known to Malone, it
stuck between the landing-stages, and in spite of several impatient
rings it remained stuck for a good quarter of an hour. When the
machinery resumed its functions, and when Enid was able at last to
reach her home and Malone the street, the lovers had prepared themselves
to wait for six months with every hope of a successful end to their
experiment.[E]




CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH CHALLENGER MEETS A STRANGE COLLEAGUE


Professor Challenger was not a man who made friends easily. In order to
be his friend you had also to be his dependent. He did not admit of
equals. But as a patron he was superb. With his Jovian air, his colossal
condescension, his amused smile, his general suggestion of the god
descending to the mortal, he could be quite overpowering in his
amiability. But he needed certain qualities in return. Stupidity
disgusted him. Physical ugliness alienated him. Independence repulsed
him. He coveted the man whom all the world would admire but who in turn
would admire the superman above him. Such a man was Dr. Ross Scotton,
and for this reason he had been Challenger’s favourite pupil.

And now he was sick unto death. Dr. Atkinson of St. Mary’s, who has
already played some minor part in this record, was attending him, and
his reports were increasingly depressing. The illness was that dread
disease, disseminated sclerosis, and Challenger was aware that Atkinson
was no alarmist when he said that a cure was a most remote and unlikely
possibility.

It seemed a terrible instance of the unreasonable nature of things that
a young man of science, capable before he reached his prime of two such
works as “The Embryology of the Sympathetic Nervous System” and “The
Fallacy of the Obsonic Index,” should be dissolved into his chemical
elements with no personal or spiritual residue whatever. And yet the
Professor shrugged his huge shoulders, shook his massive head and
accepted the inevitable. Every fresh message was worse than the last,
and, finally, there was an ominous silence. Challenger went down once to
his young friend’s lodging in Gower Street. It was a racking experience,
and he did not repeat it. The muscular cramps, which are characteristic
of the complaint were tying the sufferer into knots, and he was biting
his lips to shut down the screams which might have relieved his agony at
the expense of his manhood. He seized his mentor by the hand as a
drowning man seizes a plank.

“Is it really as you have said? Is there no hope beyond the six months
of torture which I see lying before me? Can you with all your wisdom and
knowledge see no spark of light or life in the dark shadow of eternal
dissolution?”

“Face it, my boy, face it!” said Challenger. “Better to look facts in
the face than to console oneself with fancies.”

Then the lips parted and the long-pent scream burst forth. Challenger
rose and rushed from the room.

But now an amazing development occurred. It began by the appearance of
Miss Delicia Freeman.

One morning there came a knock at the door of the Victoria flat. The
austere and taciturn Austin looking out at the level of his eyes
perceived nothing at all. On glancing downwards, however, he was aware
of a small lady, whose delicate face and bright bird-like eyes were
turned upwards to his own.

“I want to see the Professor,” said she, diving into her handbag for a
card.

“Can’t see you,” said Austin.

“Oh, yes, he can,” the small lady answered serenely. There was not a
newspaper office, a statesman’s sanctum, or a political chancellory
which had ever presented a barrier strong enough to hold her back where
she believed that there was good work to be done.

“Can’t see you,” repeated Austin.

“Oh, but really I must, you know,” said Miss Freeman, and made a sudden
dive past the butler. With unerring instinct she made for the door of
the sacred study, knocked, and forthwith entered.

The lion head looked up from behind a desk littered with papers. The
lion eyes glared.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” the lion roared. The small lady
was, however, entirely unabashed. She smiled sweetly at the glowering
face.

“I am so glad to make your acquaintance,” she said. “My name is Delicia
Freeman.”

“Austin!” shouted the Professor. The butler’s impassive face appeared
round the angle of the door. “What is this, Austin? How did this person
get here?”

“I couldn’t keep her out,” wailed Austin. “Come miss, we’ve had enough
of it.”

“No, no! You must not be angry--you really must not,” said the lady
sweetly. “I was told that you were a perfectly terrible person, but
really you are rather a dear.”

“Who are you? What do you want? Are you aware that I am one of the most
busy men in London?”

Miss Freeman fished about in her bag once more. She was always fishing
in that bag, extracting sometimes a leaflet on Armenia, sometimes a
pamphlet on Greece, sometimes a note on Zenana Missions, and sometimes
a psychic manifesto. On this occasion it was a folded bit of
writing-paper which emerged.

“From Dr. Ross Scotton,” she said.

It was hastily folded and roughly scribbled--so roughly as to be hardly
legible. Challenger bent his heavy brows over it.

     “Please, dear friend and guide, listen to what this lady says. I
     know it is against all your views. And yet I had to do it. You said
     yourself that I had no hope. I have tested it and it works. I know
     it seems wild and crazy. But any hope is better than no hope. If
     you were in my place you would have done the same. Will you not
     cast out prejudice and see for yourself? Dr. Felkin comes at 3.


                                  “J. ROSS SCOTTON.”


Challenger read it twice over and sighed. The brain was clearly involved
in the lesion: “He says I am to listen to you. What is it? Cut it as
short as you can.”

“It’s a spirit doctor,” said the lady.

Challenger bounded in his chair.

“Good God, am I never to get away from this nonsense!” he cried. “Can
they not let this poor devil lie quiet on his deathbed but they must
play their tricks upon him?”

Miss Delicia clapped her hands and her quick little eyes twinkled with
joy.

“It’s _not_ his deathbed. He is going to get well.”

“Who said so?”

“Dr. Felkin. He never is wrong.”

Challenger snorted.

“Have you seen him lately?” she asked.

“Not for some weeks.”

“But you wouldn’t recognise him. He is nearly cured.”

“Cured! Cured of diffused sclerosis in a few weeks!”

“Come and see.”

“You want me to aid and abet in some infernal quackery. The next thing,
I should see my name on this rascal’s testimonials. I know the breed. If
I did come I should probably take him by the collar and throw him down
the stair.”

The lady laughed heartily.

“He would say with Aristides: ‘Strike but hear me.’ You will hear him
first, however, I am sure. Your pupil is a real chip of yourself. He
seems quite ashamed of getting well in such an unorthodox way. It was I
who called Dr. Felkin in against his wish.”

“Oh, you did, did you? You took a great deal upon yourself.”

“I am prepared to take any responsibility, so long as I _know_ I am
right. I spoke to Dr. Atkinson. He knows a little of psychic matters. He
is far less prejudiced than most of you scientific gentlemen. He took
the view that when a man was dying in any case it could matter little
what you did. So Dr. Felkin came.”

“And pray how did this quack doctor proceed to treat the case?”

“That is what Dr. Ross Scotton wants you to see.” She looked at a watch
which she dragged from the depths of the bag. “In an hour he will be
there. I’ll tell your friend you are coming. I am sure you would not
disappoint him. Oh!” She dived into the bag again. “Here is a recent
note upon the Bessarabian question. It is much more serious than people
think. You will just have time to read it before you come. So good-bye,
dear Professor, and _au revoir_!”

She beamed at the scowling lion and departed.

But she had succeeded in her mission, which was a way she had. There was
something compelling in the absolutely unselfish enthusiasm of this
small person who would, at a moment’s notice, take on anyone from a
Mormon elder to an Albanian brigand, loving the culprit and mourning the
sin. Challenger came under the spell, and shortly after three he stumped
his way up the narrow stair and blocked the door of the humble bedroom
where his favourite pupil lay stricken. Ross Scotton lay stretched upon
the bed in a red dressing-gown, and his teacher saw, with a start of
surprised joy, that his face had filled out and that the light of life
and hope had come back into his eyes.

“Yes, I’m beating it!” he cried. “Ever since Felkin held his first
consultation with Atkinson I have felt the life force stealing back into
me. Oh, chief, it is a fearful thing to lie awake at night and feel
these cursed microbes nibbling away at the very roots of your life! I
could almost hear them at it. And the cramps when my body--like a badly
articulated skeleton--would all get twisted into one rigid tangle! But
now, except some dyspepsia and urticaria of the palms, I am free from
pain. And all on account of this dear fellow here who has helped me.”

He motioned with his hand as if alluding to someone present. Challenger
looked round with a glare, expecting to find some smug charlatan behind
him. But no doctor was there. A frail young woman, who seemed to be a
nurse, quiet, unobtrusive, and with a wealth of brown hair, was dozing
in a corner. Miss Delicia, smiling demurely, stood in the window.

“I am glad you are better, my dear boy,” said Challenger. “But do not
tamper with your reason. Such a complaint has its natural systole and
diastole.”

“Talk to him, Dr. Felkin. Clear his mind for him,” said the invalid.

Challenger looked up at the cornice and round at the skirting. His pupil
was clearly addressing some doctor in the room and yet none was visible.
Surely his aberration had not reached the point when he thought that
actual floating apparitions were directing his cure.

“Indeed, it needs some clearing,” said a deep and virile voice at his
elbow. He bounded round. It was the frail young woman who was talking.

“Let me introduce you to Dr. Felkin,” said Miss Delicia, with a
mischievous laugh.

“What tomfoolery is this!” cried Challenger.

The young woman rose and fumbled at the side of her dress. Then she made
an impatient gesture with her hand.

“Time was, my dear colleague, when a snuff-box was as much part of my
equipment as my phlebotomy case. I lived before the days of Laennec, and
we carried no stethoscope, but we had our little chirurgical battery,
none the less. But the snuff-box was a peace-offering, and I was about
to offer it to you, but, alas! it has had its day.”

Challenger stood with staring eyes and dilated nostrils while this
speech was delivered. Then he turned to the bed.

“Do you mean to say that this is your doctor--that you take the advice
of this person?”

The young girl drew herself up very stiffly.

“Sir, I will not bandy words with you. I perceive very clearly that you
are one of those who have been so immersed in material knowledge that
you have had no time to devote to the possibilities of the spirit.”

“I certainly have no time for nonsense,” said Challenger.

“My dear chief!” cried a voice from the bed. “I beg you to bear in mind
how much Dr. Felkin has already done for me. You saw how I was a month
ago, and you see how I am now. You would not offend my best friend.”

“I certainly think, Professor, that you owe dear Dr. Felkin an apology,”
said Miss Delicia.

“A private lunatic asylum!” snorted Challenger. Then, playing up to his
part, he assumed the ponderous elephantine irony which was one of his
most effective weapons in dealing with recalcitrant students.

“Perhaps, young lady--or shall I say elderly and most venerable
Professor?--you will permit a mere raw earthly student, who has no more
knowledge than this world can give, to sit humbly in a corner and
possibly to learn a little from your methods and your teachings.” The
speech was delivered with his shoulders up to his ears, his eyelids over
his eyes, and his palms extended in front--an alarming statue of
sarcasm. Dr. Felkin, however, was striding, with heavy and impatient
steps, about the room and took little notice.

“Quite so! Quite so!” he said carelessly. “Get into the corner and stay
there. Above all stop talking, as this case calls for all my faculties.”
He turned with a masterful air towards the patient. “Well, well, you are
coming along. In two months you will be in the class-room.”

“Oh, it is impossible!” cried Ross Scotton, with a half sob.

“Not so. I guarantee it. I do not make false promises.”

“I’ll answer for that,” said Miss Delicia. “I say, dear Doctor, do tell
us who you were when you were alive.”

“Tut! tut! The unchanging woman. They gossiped in my time and they
gossip still. No, no! We will have a look at our young friend here.
Pulse! The intermittent beat has gone. That is something gained.
Temperature ... obviously normal. Blood-pressure--still higher than I
like. Digestion--much to be desired. What you moderns call a
hunger-strike would not be amiss. Well, the general conditions are
tolerable. Let us see the local centre of the mischief. Pull your shirt
down, sir! Lie on your face. Excellent!” She passed her fingers with
great force and precision down the upper part of the spine, and then dug
in her knuckles with a sudden force which made the sufferer yelp. “That
is better! There is--as I have explained--a slight want of alignment in
the cervical vertebræ which has, as I perceive it, the effect of
lessening the foramina through which the nerve roots emerge. This has
caused compression, and as these nerves are really the conductors of
vital force, it has upset the whole equilibrium of the parts supplied.
My eyes are the same as your clumsy X-rays, and I clearly perceive that
the position is almost restored and the fatal constriction removed. I
hope, sir,” to Challenger, “that I make the pathology of this
interesting case intelligible to you.”

Challenger grunted his general hostility and disagreement.

“I will clear up any little difficulties which may linger in your mind.
But, meantime, my dear lad, you are a credit to me and I rejoice in your
progress. You will present my compliments to my colleague of earth, Dr.
Atkinson, and tell him that I can suggest nothing more. The medium is a
little weary, poor girl, so I will not remain longer to-day.”

“But you said you would tell us who you were.”

“Indeed, there is little to say. I was a very undistinguished
practitioner. I sat under the great Abernethy in my youth and perhaps
imbibed something of his methods. When I passed over in early middle age
I continued my studies and was permitted, if I could find some suitable
means of expression, to do something to help humanity. You understand,
of course, that it is only by serving and self-abnegation that we
advance in the higher world. This is my service, and I can only thank
kind Fate that I was able to find in this girl a being whose vibrations
so correspond with my own that I can easily assume control of her body.”

“And where is she?” asked the patient.

“She is waiting beside me and will presently re-enter her own frame. As
to you, sir,” turning to Challenger, “you are a man of character and
learning, but you are clearly embedded in that materialism which is the
special curse of your age. Let me assure you that the medical
profession, which is supreme upon earth for the disinterested work of
its members, has yielded too much to the dogmatism of such men as you,
and has unduly neglected that spiritual element in man which is far more
important than your herbs and your minerals. There is a life-force, sir,
and it is in the control of this life-force that the medicine of the
future lies. If you shut your mind to it it can only mean that the
confidence of the public will turn to those who are ready to adopt every
means of cure, whether they have the approval of your authorities or
not.”

Never could young Ross Scotton forget that scene. The Professor, the
master, the supreme chief, he who had to be addressed with bated breath,
sat with half-opened mouth and staring eyes, leaning forward in his
chair, while in front of him the slight young woman, shaking her mop of
brown hair and wagging an admonitory forefinger, spoke to him as a
father speaks to a refractory child. So intense was her power that
Challenger, for the instant, was constrained to accept the situation. He
gasped and grunted, but no retort came to his lips. The girl turned away
and sat down on a chair.

“He is going,” said Miss Delicia.

“But not yet gone,” replied the girl with a smile. “Yes, I must go, for
I have much to do. This is not my only medium of expression and I am due
in Edinburgh in a few minutes. But be of good heart, young man. I will
set my assistant with two extra batteries to increase your vitality so
far as your system will permit. As to you, sir,” to Challenger, “I would
implore you to beware of the egotism of brain and the self-concentration
of intellect. Store what is old, but be ever receptive to what is new,
and judge it not as you may wish it, but as God has designed it.”

She gave a deep sigh and sank back in her chair. There was a minute of
dead silence while she lay with her head upon her breast. Then with
another sigh and a shiver she opened a pair of very bewildered blue
eyes.

“Well, has he been?” she asked in a gentle feminine voice.

“Indeed, yes!” cried the patient. “He was great. He says I shall be in
the class-room in two months.”

“Splendid! Any directions for me?”

“Just the special message as before. But he is going to put on two new
spirit batteries if I can stand it.”

“My word, he won’t be long now!” Suddenly the girl’s eyes lit on
Challenger and she stopped in confusion.

“This is Nurse Ursula,” said Miss Delicia. “Nurse, let me present you to
the famous Professor Challenger.”

Challenger was great in his manner towards women, especially if the
particular woman happened to be a young and pretty girl. He advanced now
as Solomon may have advanced to the Queen of Sheba, took her hand and
patted her hair with patriarchal assurance.

“My dear, you are far too young and charming for such deceit. Have done
with it for ever. Be content to be a bewitching nurse and resign all
claim to the higher functions of doctor. Where, may I ask, did you pick
up all this jargon about cervical vertebræ and posterior foramina?”

Nurse Ursula looked helplessly round as one who finds herself suddenly
in the clutches of a gorilla.

“She does not understand a word you say!” cried the man on the bed. “Oh,
chief, you must make an effort to face the real situation! I know what a
readjustment it means. In my small way I have had to undergo it myself.
But, believe me, you see everything through a prism instead of through
plate-glass until you understand the spiritual factor.”

Challenger continued his paternal attentions though the frightened lady
had begun to shrink from him.

“Come now,” said he, “who was the clever doctor with whom you acted as
nurse--the man who taught you all these fine words? You must feel that
it is hopeless to deceive me. You will be much happier, dear child, when
you have made a clean breast of it all, and when we can laugh together
over the lecture which you inflicted upon me.”

An unexpected interruption came to check Challenger’s exploration of the
young woman’s conscience or motives. The invalid was sitting up, a vivid
red patch against his white pillows, and he was speaking with an energy
which was in itself an indication of his coming cure.

“Professor Challenger!” he cried, “you are insulting my best friend.
Under this roof at least she shall be safe from the sneers of scientific
prejudice. I beg you to leave the room if you cannot address Nurse
Ursula in a more respectful manner.”

Challenger glared, but the peacemaking Delicia was at work in a moment.

“You are far too hasty, dear Dr. Ross Scotton!” she cried. “Professor
Challenger has had no time to understand this. You were just as
sceptical yourself at first. How can you blame him?”

“Yes, yes, that is true,” said the young doctor. “It seemed to me to
open the door to all the quackery in the Universe--indeed it does, but
the fact remains.”

“‘One thing I know that whereas I was blind now I see.’” quoted Miss
Delicia. “Ah, Professor, you may raise your eyebrows and shrug your
shoulders, but we’ve dropped something into your big mind this afternoon
which will grow and grow until no man can see the end of it.” She dived
into the bag. “There is a little slip here ‘Brain _versus_ Soul.’ I do
hope, dear Professor, that you will read it and then pass it on.”




CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH TRAPS ARE LAID FOR A GREAT QUARRY


Malone was bound in honour not to speak of love to Enid Challenger, but
looks can speak, and so their communications had not broken down
completely. In all other ways he adhered closely to the agreement,
though the situation was a difficult one. It was the more difficult
since he was a constant visitor to the Professor, and now that the
irritation of the debate was over, a very welcome one. The one object of
Malone’s life was to get the great man’s sympathetic consideration of
those psychic subjects which had gained such a hold upon himself. This
he pursued with assiduity, but also with great caution, for he knew that
the lava was thin and that a fiery explosion was always possible. Once
or twice it came and caused Malone to drop the subject for a week or two
until the ground seemed a little more firm.

Malone developed a remarkable cunning in his approaches. One favourite
device was to consult Challenger upon some scientific point--on the
zoological importance of the Straits of Banda, for example, or the
Insects of the Malay Archipelago, and lead him on until Challenger in
due course would explain that our knowledge on the point was due to
Alfred Russel Wallace. “Oh, really! To Wallace the Spiritualist!” Malone
would say in an innocent voice, on which Challenger would glare and
change the topic.

Sometimes it was Lodge that Malone would use as a trap. “I suppose you
think highly of him.”

“The first brain in Europe,” said Challenger.

“He is the greatest authority on ether, is he not?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Of course, I only know him by his psychic works.”

Challenger would shut up like a clam. Then Malone would wait a few days
and remark casually: “Have you ever met Lombroso!”

“Yes, at the Congress at Milan.”

“I have been reading a book of his.”

“Criminology, I presume?”

“No, it was called ‘After Death--What?’”

“I have not heard of it.”

“It discusses the psychic question.”

“Ah, a man of Lombroso’s penetrating brain would make short work of the
fallacies of these charlatans.”

“No, it is written to support them.”

“Well, even the greatest mind has its inexplicable weakness.” Thus with
infinite patience and cunning did Malone drop his little drops of reason
in the hope of slowly wearing away the casing of prejudice, but no very
visible effects could be seen. Some stronger measure must be adopted and
Malone determined upon direct demonstration. But how, when, and where?
Those were the all-important points upon which he determined to consult
Algernon Mailey. One spring afternoon found him back in that
drawing-room where he had once rolled upon the carpet in the embrace of
Silas Linden. He found the Rev. Charles Mason, and Smith, the hero of
the Queen’s Hall debate, in deep consultation with Mailey upon a subject
which may seem much more important to our descendants that those topics
which now bulk large in the eyes of the public. It was no less than
whether the psychic movement in Britain was destined to take a
Unitarian or a Trinitarian course. Smith had always been in favour of
the former, as had the old leaders of the movement and the present
organised Spiritualist Churches. On the other hand, Charles Mason was a
loyal son of the Anglican Church, and was the spokesman of a host of
others, including such weighty names as Lodge and Barrett among the
laymen, or Wilberforce, Haweis and Chambers among the clergy, who clung
fast to the old teachings while admitting the fact of spirit
communication. Mailey stood between the two parties, and, like the
zealous referee in a boxing-match who separates the two combatants, he
always took a chance of getting a knock from each. Malone was only too
glad to listen, for now that he realised that the future of the world
might be bound up in this movement, every phase of it was of intense
interest to him. Mason was holding forth in his earnest, but
good-humoured, way as he entered.

“The people are not ready for a great change. It is not necessary. We
have only to add our living knowledge, and direct communion of the
saints to the splendid liturgy and traditions of the Church, and you
will have a driving-force which will revitalise all religion. You can’t
pull a thing up from the roots like that. Even the early Christians
found that they could not, and so they made all sorts of concessions to
the religions around them.”

“Which was exactly what ruined them,” said Smith. “That was the real end
of the Church in its original strength and purity.”

“It lasted, anyhow.”

“But it was never the same from the time that villain Constantine laid
his hands on it.”

“Oh, come!” said Mailey. “You must not write down the first Christian
emperor as a villain.”

But Smith was a forthright, uncompromising, bull-doggy antagonist. “What
other name will you give to a man who murdered half his own family?”

“Well, his personal character is not the question. We were talking of
the organisation of the Christian Church.”

“You don’t mind my frankness, Mr. Mason?”

Mason smiled his jolly smile. “So long as you grant me the existence of
the New Testament I don’t care what you do. If you were to prove that
our Lord was a myth, as that German Drews tried to do, it would not in
the least affect me so long as I could point to that body of sublime
teaching. It must have come from somewhere, and I adopt it and say,
‘That is my creed.’”

“Oh, well, there is not so much between us on that point,” said Smith.
“If there is any better teaching I have not seen it. It is good enough
to go on with, anyhow. But we want to cut out the frills and
superfluities. Where did they all come from? They were compromises with
many religions, so that our friend C. could get uniformity in his
world-wide Empire. He made a patchwork quilt of it. He took an Egyptian
ritual--vestments, mitre, crozier, tonsure, marriage ring--all Egyptian.
The Easter ceremonies are pagan and refer to the vernal equinox.
Confirmation is mithraism. So is baptism, only it was blood instead of
water. As to the sacrificial meal....”

Mason put his fingers in his ears. “This is some old lecture of yours,”
he laughed. “Hire a hall, but don’t obtrude it in a private house. But
seriously, Smith, all this is beside the question. If it is true it will
not affect my position at all, which is that we have a great body of
doctrine which is working well, and which is regarded with veneration by
many people, your humble servant included, and that it would be wrong
and foolish to scrap it. Surely you must agree.”

“No, I don’t,” Smith answered, setting his obstinate jaw. “You are
thinking too much of the feelings of your blessed church-goers. But you
have also to think of the nine people out of ten who never enter into a
church. They have been choked off by what they, including your humble
servant, consider to be unreasonable and fantastic. How will you gain
them while you continue to offer them the same things, even though you
mix spirit-teaching with it? If, however, you approach these agnostic or
atheistic ones, and say to them: ‘I quite agree that all this is unreal
and is tainted by a long history of violence and reaction. But here we
have something pure and new. Come and examine it!’ In that way I could
coax them back into a belief in God and in all the fundamentals of
religion without their having to do violence to their reason by
accepting your theology.”

Mailey had been tugging at his tawny beard while he listened to these
conflicting counsels. Knowing the two men he was aware that there was
not really much between them, when one got past mere words, for Smith
revered the Christ as a God-like man, and Mason as a man-like God, and
the upshot was much the same. At the same time he knew that their more
extreme followers on either side were in very truth widely separated, so
that compromise became impossible.

“What I can’t understand,” said Malone, “is why you don’t ask your
spirit friends these questions and abide by their decisions.”

“It is not so simple as you think,” Mailey answered. “We all carry on
our earthly prejudices after death, and we all find ourselves in an
atmosphere which more or less represents them. Thus each would echo his
old views at first. Then in time the spirit broadens out and it ends in
a universal creed which includes only the brotherhood of man and the
fatherhood of God. But that takes time. I have heard most furious bigots
talking through the veil.”

“So have I, for that matter,” said Malone, “and in this very room. But
what about the materialists? They at least cannot remain unchanged.”

“I believe their mind influences their state and that they lie inert for
ages sometimes, under their own obsession that nothing can occur. Then
at last they wake, realise their own loss of time, and, finally, in many
cases get to the head of the procession, since they are often men of
fine character and influenced by lofty motives, however mistaken in
their views.”

“Yes, they are often among the salt of the earth,” said the clergyman
heartily.

“And they offer the very best recruits for our movement,” said Smith.
“There comes such a reaction when they find by the evidence of their own
senses that there really is intelligent force outside themselves, that
it gives them an enthusiasm that makes them ideal missionaries. You
fellows who have a religion and then add to it cannot even imagine what
it means to the man who has a complete vacuum and suddenly finds
something to fill it. When I meet some poor earnest chap feeling out
into the darkness I just yearn to put it into his hand.”

At this stage tea and Mrs. Mailey appeared together. But the
conversation did not flag. It is one of the characteristics of those who
explore psychic possibilities that the subject is so many-sided and the
interest so intense that when they meet together they plunge into the
most fascinating exchange of views and experiences. It was with some
difficulty that Malone got the conversation round to that which had been
the particular object of his visit. He could have found no group of men
more fit to advise him, and all were equally keen that so great a man as
Challenger should have the best available.

Where should it be? On that they were unanimous. The large séance room
of the Psychic College was the most select, the most comfortable, in
every way the best appointed in London. When should it be? The sooner
the better. Every Spiritualist and every medium would surely put any
engagement aside in order to help on such an occasion.

“Who should the medium be? Ah! There was the rub. Of course, the
Bolsover circle would be ideal. It was private and unpaid, but Bolsover
was a man of quick temper and Challenger was sure to be very insulting
and annoying. The meeting might end in riot and fiasco. Such a chance
should not be taken. Was it worth while to take him over to Paris? But
who would take the responsibility of letting loose such a bull in Dr.
Maupuis’ china-shop?

“He would probably seize Pithecanthropus by the throat and risk every
life in the room,” said Mailey. “No, no, it would never do.”

“There is no doubt that Banderby is the strongest physical medium in
England,” said Smith. “But we all know what his personal character is.
You could not rely upon him.”

“Why not?” asked Malone. “What’s the matter with him?”

Smith raised his hand to his lips.

“He has gone the way that many a medium has gone before him.”

“But surely,” said Malone, “that is a strong argument against our cause.
How can a thing be good if it leads to such a result?”

“Do you consider poetry to be good?”

“Why, of course I do!”

“Yet Poe was a drunkard, and Coleridge an addict, and Byron a rake, and
Verlaine a degenerate. You have to separate the man from the thing. The
genius has to pay a ransom for his genius in the instability of his
temperament. A great medium is even more sensitive than a genius. Many
are beautiful in their lives. Some are not. The excuse for them is
great. They practise a most exhausting profession and stimulants are
needed. Then they lose control. But their physical mediumship carries on
all the same.”

“Which reminds me of a story about Banderby,” said Mailey. “Perhaps you
have not seen him, Malone. He is a funny figure at any time--a little,
round, bouncing man who has not seen his own toes for years. When drunk
he is funnier still. A few weeks ago I got an urgent message that he was
in the bar of a certain hotel, and too far gone to get home unassisted.
A friend and I set forth to rescue him. We got him home after some
unsavoury adventures, and what would the man do but insist upon holding
a séance. We tried to restrain him, but the trumpet was on a side-table,
and he suddenly switched off the light. In an instant the phenomena
began. Never were they more powerful. But they were interrupted by
Princeps, his control, who seized the trumpet and began belabouring him
with it. ‘You rascal! You drunken rascal! How dare you! How dare you!’
The trumpet was all dinted with the blows. Banderby ran bellowing out
of the room, and we took our departure.”

“Well, it wasn’t the medium that time, at any rate,” said Mason. “But
about Professor Challenger--it would never do to risk the chance.”

“What about Tom Linden?” asked Mrs. Mailey.

Mailey shook his head.

“Tom has never been quite the same since his imprisonment. These fools
not only persecute our precious mediums, but they ruin their powers. It
is like putting a razor into a damp place and then expecting it to have
a fine edge.”

“What! Has he lost his powers?”

“Well, I would not go so far as that. But they are not so good as they
were. He sees a disguised policeman in every sitter and it distracts
him. Still he is dependable so far as he goes. Yes, on the whole we had
better have Tom.”

“And the sitters?”

“I expect Professor Challenger may wish to bring a friend or two of his
own.”

“They will form a horrible block of vibrations. We must have some of our
own sympathetic people to counteract it. There is Delicia Freeman. She
would come. I would come myself. You would come, Mason?”

“Of course I would.”

“And you, Smith?”

“No, no! I have my paper to look after, three services, two burials, one
marriage, and five meetings all next week.”

“Well, we can easily get one or two more. Eight is Linden’s favourite
number. So now, Malone, you have only to get the great man’s consent and
the date.”

“And the spirit confirmation,” said Mason, seriously. “We must take our
partners into consultation.”

“Of course we must, padre. That is the right note to strike. Well,
that’s settled, Malone, and we can only await the event.”

As it chanced, a very different event was awaiting Malone that evening,
and he came upon one of those chasms which unexpectedly open across the
path of life. When, in his ordinary routine, he reached the office of
the _Gazette_, he was informed by the commissionaire that Mr. Beaumont
desired to see him. Malone’s immediate superior was the old Scotch
subeditor, Mr. McArdle, and it was rare indeed for the supreme editor to
cast a glimpse down from that peak whence he surveyed the kingdoms of
the world, or to show any cognisance of his humble fellow-workers upon
the slopes beneath him. The great man, clean-shaven, prosperous and
capable, sat in his palatial sanctum amid a rich assortment of old oak
furniture and sealing-wax-red leather. He continued his letter when
Malone entered, and only raised his shrewd, grey eyes after some minutes
interval.

“Ah, Mr. Malone, good evening! I have wanted to see you for some little
time. Won’t you sit down? It is in reference to these articles on
psychic matters which you have been writing. You opened them in a tone
of healthy scepticism, tempered by humour, which was very acceptable
both to me and to our public. I regret, however, to observe that your
view changed as you proceeded, and that you have now assumed a position
in which you really seem to condone some of these practises. That, I
need not say, is not the policy of the _Gazette_, and we should have
discontinued the articles had it not been that we had announced a
series by an impartial investigator. We have had to continue, but the
tone must change.”

“What do you wish me to do, sir?”

“You must get the funny side of it again. That is what our public loves.
Poke fun at it all. Call up the maiden aunt and make her talk in an
amusing fashion. You grasp my meaning?”

“I am afraid, sir, it has ceased to seem funny in my eyes. On the
contrary, I take it more and more seriously.”

Beaumont shook his solemn head.

“So, unfortunately, do our subscribers.” He had a small pile of letters
upon the desk beside him and he took one up.

“Look at this. ‘I had always regarded your paper as a God-fearing
publication, and I would remind you that such practises as your
correspondent seems to condone are expressly forbidden both in Leviticus
and Deuteronomy. I should share your sin if I continued to be a
subscriber.’”

“Bigoted ass!” muttered Malone.

“So he may be, but the penny of a bigoted ass is as good as any other
penny. Here is another letter: ‘Surely in this age of free-thought and
enlightenment you are not helping a movement which tries to lead us back
to the exploded idea of angelic and diabolic intelligences outside
ourselves. If so, I must ask you to cancel my subscription.’”

“It would be amusing, sir, to shut these various objectors up in a room
and let them settle it among themselves.”

“That may be, Mr. Malone, but what I have to consider is the circulation
of the _Gazette_.”

“Don’t you think, sir, that possibly you underrate the intelligence of
the public, and that behind these extremists of various sorts there is
a vast body of people who have been impressed by the utterances of so
many great and honourable witnesses? Is it not our duty to keep these
people abreast of the real facts without making fun of them?”

Mr. Beaumont shrugged his shoulders.

“The Spiritualists must fight their own battle. This is not a propaganda
newspaper, and we make no pretense to lead the public on religious
beliefs.”

“No, no, I only meant as to the actual facts. Look how systematically
they are kept in the dark. When, for example, did one ever read an
intelligent article upon ectoplasm in any London paper? Who would
imagine that this all-important substance has been examined and
described and endorsed by men of science with innumerable photographs to
prove their words?”

“Well, well,” said Beaumont, impatiently. “I am afraid I am too busy to
argue the question. The point of this interview is that I have had a
letter from Mr. Cornelius to say that we must at once take another
line.”

Mr. Cornelius was the owner of the _Gazette_, having become so, not from
any personal merit, but because his father left him some millions, part
of which he expended upon this purchase. He seldom was seen in the
office himself, but occasionally a paragraph in the paper recorded that
his yacht had touched at Mentone and that he had been seen at the Monte
Carlo tables, or that he was expected in Leicestershire for the season.
He was a man of no force of brain or character, though occasionally he
swayed public affairs by a manifesto printed in larger type upon his own
front page. Without being dissolute, he was a free liver, living in a
constant luxury which placed him always on the edge of vice and
occasionally over the border. Malone’s hot blood flushed to his head as
he thought of this trifler, this insect, coming between mankind and a
message of instruction and consolation descending from above. And yet
those clumsy, childish fingers could actually turn the tap and cut off
the divine stream, however much it might break through in other
quarters.

“So that is final, Mr. Malone,” said Beaumont, with the manner of one
who ends an argument.

“Quite final!” said Malone. “So final that it marks the end of my
connection with your paper. I have a six month’s contract. When it ends,
I go!”

“Please yourself, Mr. Malone.” Mr. Beaumont went on with his writing.

Malone, with the flush of battle still upon him, went into McArdle’s
room and told him what had happened. The old Scotch sub-editor was very
perturbed.

“Eh, man, it’s that Irish blood of yours. A drop o’ Scotch is a good
thing, either in your veins or at the bottom o’ a glass. Go back, man,
and say you have reconseedered!”

“Not I! The idea of this man Cornelius, with his pot-belly and red face,
and--well, you know all about his private life--the idea of such a man
dictating what folk are to believe, and asking me to make fun of the
holiest thing on this earth!”

“Man, you’ll be ruined!”

“Well, better men than I have been ruined over this cause. But I’ll get
another job.”

“Not if Cornelius can stop you. If you get the name of an insubordinate
dog there is no place for you in Fleet Street.”

“It’s a damned shame!” cried Malone. “The way this thing has been
treated is a disgrace to journalism. It’s not Britain alone. America is
worse. We seem to have the lowest, most soulless folk that ever lived on
the Press--good-hearted fellows too, but material to a man. And these
are the leaders of the people! It’s awful!”

McArdle put a fatherly hand upon the young man’s shoulder.

“Weel, weel, lad, we take the world as we find it. We didn’t make it and
we’re no reesponsible. Give it time! Give it time! We’re a’ in such a
hurry. Gang hame, noo, think it over, remember your career, that young
leddy of yours, and then come back and eat the old pie that all of us
have to eat if we are to keep our places in the world.”




CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH CHALLENGER HAS THE EXPERIENCE OF HIS LIFETIME


So now the nets were set and the pit was dug and the hunters were all
ready for the great quarry, but the question was whether the creature
would allow himself to be driven in the right direction. Had Challenger
been told that the meeting was really held in the hope of putting
convincing evidence before him as to the truth of spirit intercourse
with the aim of his eventual conversion, it would have roused mingled
anger and derision in his breast. But the clever Malone, aided and
abetted by Enid, still put forward the idea that his presence would be a
protection against fraud, and that he would be able to point out to them
how and why they had been deceived. With this thought in his mind,
Challenger gave a contemptuous and condescending consent to the proposal
that he should grace with his presence a proceeding which was, in his
opinion, more fitted to the stone cabin of a neolithic savage than to
the serious attention of one who represented the accumulated culture and
wisdom of the human race.

Enid accompanied her father, and he also brought with him a curious
companion who was strange both to Malone and to the rest of the company.
This was a large, raw-boned Scottish youth, with a freckled face, a huge
figure, and a taciturnity which nothing could penetrate. No question
could discover where his interests in psychic research might lie, and
the only positive thing obtained from him was that his name was Nicholl.
Malone and Mailey went together to the rendezvous at Holland Park, where
they found awaiting them Delicia Freeman, the Rev. Charles Mason, Mr.
and Mrs. Ogilvy of the College, Mr. Bolsover of Hammersmith, and Lord
Roxton, who had become assiduous in his psychic studies, and was rapidly
progressing in knowledge. There were nine in all, a mixed, inharmonious
assembly, from which no experienced investigator could expect great
results. On entering the séance room Linden was found seated in the
arm-chair, his wife beside him, and was introduced collectively to the
company, most of whom were already his friends. Challenger took up the
matter at once with the air of a man who will stand no nonsense.

“Is this the medium?” he asked, eyeing Linden with much disfavour.

“Yes.”

“Has he been searched?”

“Not yet.”

“Who will search him?”

“Two men of the company have been selected.”

Challenger sniffed his suspicions.

“Which men?” he asked.

“It is suggested that you and your friend, Mr. Nicholl, shall do so.
There is a bedroom next door.”

Poor Linden was marched off between them in a manner which reminded him
unpleasantly of his prison experiences. He had been nervous before but
this ordeal and the overpowering presence of Challenger made him still
more so. He shook his head mournfully at Mailey when he reappeared.

“I doubt we will get nothing to-day. Maybe it would be wise to postpone
the sitting,” said he.

Mailey came round and patted him on the shoulder, while Mrs. Linden took
his hand.

“It’s all right, Tom,” said Mailey. “Remember that you have a bodyguard
of friends round you who won’t see you ill used.” Then Mailey spoke to
Challenger in a sterner way than was his wont. “I beg you to remember,
sir, that a medium is as delicate an instrument as any to be found in
your laboratories. Do not abuse it. I presume that you found nothing
compromising upon his person?”

“No, sir, I did not. And as a result he assures us that we will get
nothing to-day.”

“He says so because your manner has disturbed him. You must treat him
more gently.”

Challenger’s expression did not promise any amendment. His eyes fell
upon Mrs. Linden.

“I understand that this person is the medium’s wife. She should also be
searched.”

“That is a matter of course,” said the Scotsman Ogilvy. “My wife and
your daughter will take her out. But I beg you, Professor Challenger, to
be as harmonious as you can, and to remember that we are all as
interested in the results as you are, so that the whole company will
suffer if you should disturb the conditions.”

Mr. Bolsover, the grocer, rose with as much dignity as if he were
presiding at his favourite temple.

“I move,” said he, “that Professor Challenger be searched.”

Challenger’s beard bristled with anger.

“Search me! What do you mean, sir?”

Bolsover was not to be intimidated.

“You are here not as our friend but as our enemy. If you was to prove
fraud it would be a personal triumph for you--see? Therefore I, for one,
says as you should be searched.”

“Do you mean to insinuate, sir, that I am capable of cheating?”
trumpeted Challenger.

“Well, Professor, we are all accused of it in turn,” said Mailey
smiling. “We all feel as indignant as you are at first, but after a time
you get used to it. I’ve been called a liar, a lunatic--goodness knows
what. What does it matter?”

“It is a monstrous proposition,” said Challenger, glaring all round him.

“Well, sir,” said Ogilvy, who was a particularly pertinacious Scot. “Of
course, it is open to you to walk out of the room and leave us. But if
you sit, you must sit under what we consider to be scientific
conditions. It is not scientific that a man who is known to be bitterly
hostile to the movement should sit with us in the dark with no check as
to what he may have in his pockets.”

“Come, come!” cried Malone. “Surely we can trust to the honour of
Professor Challenger.”

“That’s all very well,” said Bolsover. “I did not observe that Professor
Challenger trusted so very much to the honour of Mr. and Mrs. Linden.”

“We have cause to be careful,” said Ogilvy. “I can assure you that there
are frauds practised on mediums just as there are frauds practised by
mediums. I could give you plenty of examples. No, sir, you will have to
be searched.”

“It won’t take a minute,” said Lord Roxton. “What I mean young Malone
here and I could give you a once over in no time.”

“Quite so, come on!” said Malone.

And so Challenger, like a red-eyed bull with dilating nostrils, was led
from the room. A few minutes later, all preliminaries being completed,
they were seated in the circle and the séance had begun.

But already the conditions had been destroyed. Those meticulous
researchers who insist upon tying up a medium until the poor creature
resembles a fowl trussed for roasting, or who glare their suspicions at
him before the lights are lowered, do not realise that they are like
people who add moisture to gunpowder and then expect to explode it. They
ruin their own results, and then when those results do not occur imagine
that their own astuteness, rather than their own lack of understanding,
has been the cause.

Hence it is that at humble gatherings all over the land, in an
atmosphere of sympathy and of reverence, there are such happenings as
the cold man of “Science” is never privileged to see.

All the sitters felt churned up by the preliminary altercation, but how
much more did it mean to the sensitive centre of it all! To him the room
was filled with conflicting rushes and eddies of psychic power, whirling
this way or that, and as difficult for him to navigate as the rapids
below Niagara. He groaned in his despair. Everything was mixed and
confused. He was beginning as usual with his clairvoyance, but names
buzzed in his etheric ears without sequence or order. The word “John”
seemed to predominate, so he said so. Did “John” mean anything to
anyone? A cavernous laugh from Challenger was the only reply. Then he
had the surname of Chapman. Yes, Mailey had lost a friend named Chapman.
But it was years ago, and there seemed no reason for his presence, nor
could he furnish his Christian name. “Budworth”--no; no one would own to
a friend named Budworth. Definite messages came across, but they seemed
to have no reference to the present company. Everything was going
amiss, and Malone’s spirits sank to zero. Challenger sniffed so loudly
that Ogilvy remonstrated.

“You make matters worse, sir, when you show your feelings,” said he. “I
can assure you that in ten years of constant experience I have never
known the medium so far out, and I attribute it entirely to your own
conduct.”

“Quite so,” said Challenger with satisfaction.

“I am afraid it is no use, Tom,” said Mrs. Linden. “How are you feeling
now, dear? Would you wish to stop?”

But Linden, under all his gentle exterior, was a fighter. He had in
another form those same qualities which had brought his brother within
an ace of the Lonsdale Belt.

“No, I think, maybe, it is only the mental part that is confused. If I
am in trance I’ll get past that. The physicals may be better. Anyhow
I’ll try.”

The lights were turned lower until they were a mere crimson glimmer. The
curtain of the cabinet was drawn. Outside it on the one side, dimly
outlined to his audience, Tom Linden, breathing stertorously in his
trance, lay back in a wooden arm-chair. His wife kept watch and ward at
the other side of the cabinet.

But nothing happened.

Quarter of an hour passed. Then another quarter of an hour. The company
was patient, but Challenger had begun to fidget in his seat. Everything
seemed to have gone cold and dead. Not only was nothing happening, but
somehow all expectation of anything happening seemed to have passed
away.

“It’s no use!” cried Mailey at last.

“I fear not,” said Malone.

The medium stirred and groaned; he was waking up. Challenger gave an
ostentatious yawn.

“Is not this a waste of time?” he asked.

Mrs. Linden was passing her hand over the medium’s head and brow. His
eyes had opened.

“Any results?” he asked.

“It’s no use, Tom. We shall have to postpone.”

“I think so, too,” said Mailey.

“It is a great strain upon him under these adverse conditions,” remarked
Ogilvy, looking angrily at Challenger.

“I should think so,” said the latter with a complacent smile.

But Linden was not to be beaten.

“The conditions are bad,” said he. “The vibrations are all wrong. But
I’ll try inside the cabinet. It concentrates the force.”

“Well, it’s the last chance,” said Mailey. “We may as well try it.”

The arm-chair was lifted inside the cloth tent and the medium followed,
drawing the curtain behind him.

“It condenses the ectoplasmic emanations,” Ogilvy explained.

“No doubt,” said Challenger. “At the same time, in the interests of
truth, I must point out that the disappearance of the medium is most
regrettable.”

“For goodness sake don’t start wrangling again,” cried Mailey with
impatience. “Let us get some results, and then it will be time enough to
discuss their value.”

Again there was a weary wait. Then came some hollow groanings from
inside the cabinet. The Spiritualists sat up expectantly.

“That’s ectoplasm,” said Ogilvy. “It always causes pain on emission.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the curtains were torn open
with sudden violence and a rattling of all the rings. In the dark
aperture there was outlined a vague white figure. It advanced slowly and
with hesitation into the centre of the room. In the red-tinted gloom all
definite outline was lost, and it appeared simply as a moving white
patch in the darkness. With the deliberation which suggested fear it
came, step by step, until it was opposite the Professor.

“Now!” he bellowed in his stentorian voice.

There was a shout, a scream, a crash. “I’ve got him!” roared someone.
“Turn up the lights!” yelled another. “Be careful! You may kill the
medium!” cried a third. The circle was broken. Challenger rushed to the
switch and put on all the lights. The place was so flooded with radiance
that it was some seconds before the bewildered and half-blinded
spectators could see the details.

When they had recovered their sight and their balance, the spectacle was
a deplorable one for the majority of the company. Tom Linden, looking
white, dazed, and ill, was seated upon the ground. Over him stood the
huge young Scotsman who had borne him to earth; while Mrs. Linden,
kneeling beside her husband, was glaring up at his assailant. There was
silence as the company surveyed the scene. It was broken by Professor
Challenger.

“Well, gentlemen, I presume that there is no more to be said. Your
medium has been exposed as he deserved to be. You can see now the nature
of your ghosts. I must thank Mr. Nicholl, who, I may remark, is the
famous football player of that name, for the prompt way in which he has
carried out his instructions.”

“I collared him low,” said the tall youth. “He was easy.”

“You did it very effectively. You have done public service by helping to
expose a heartless cheat. I need not say that a prosecution will
follow.”

But Mailey now intervened and with such authority that Challenger was
forced to listen.

“Your mistake is not unnatural, sir, though the course which you adopted
in your ignorance is one which might well have been fatal to the
medium.”

“My ignorance, indeed! If you speak like that I warn you that I will
look upon you not as dupes, but as accomplices.”

“One moment, Professor Challenger. I would ask you one direct question,
and I ask for an equally direct reply. Was not the figure which we all
saw before this painful episode a white figure?”

“Yes, it was.”

“You see now that the medium is entirely dressed in black. Where is the
white garment?”

“It is immaterial to me where it is. No doubt his wife and himself are
prepared for all eventualities. They have their own means of secreting
the sheet, or whatever it may have been. These details can be explained
in the police court.”

“Examine now. Search the room for anything white.”

“I know nothing of the room. I can only use my common sense. The man is
exposed masquerading as a spirit. Into what corner or crevice he has
thrust his disguise is a matter of small importance.”

“On the contrary, it is a vital matter. What you have seen has not been
an imposture, but has been a very real psychic phenomenon.”

Challenger laughed.

“Yes, sir, a very real phenomenon. You have seen a transfiguration which
is the half-way state of materialisation. You will kindly realise that
spirit guides, who conduct such affairs, care nothing for your doubts
and suspicions. They set themselves to get certain results, and if they
are prevented by the infirmities of the circle from getting them one way
they get them in another without consulting your prejudice or
convenience. In this case being unable, owing to the evil conditions
which you have yourself created, to build up an ectoplasmic form, they
wrapped the unconscious medium in an ectoplasmic covering and sent him
forth from the cabinet. He is as innocent of imposture as you are.”

“I swear to God,” said Linden, “that from the time I entered the cabinet
until I found myself upon the floor I knew nothing.” He had staggered to
his feet and was shaking all over in his agitation, so that he could not
hold the glass of water which his wife had brought him.

Challenger shrugged his shoulders.

“Your excuses,” he said, “only open up fresh abysses of credulity. My
own duty is obvious, and it will be done to the uttermost. Whatever you
have to say will, no doubt, receive such consideration as it deserves
from the magistrate.” Then Professor Challenger turned to go as one who
has triumphantly accomplished that for which he came. “Come, Enid!” said
he.

And now occurred a development so sudden, so unexpected, so dramatic,
that no one present will ever cease to have it in vivid memory.

No answer was returned to Challenger’s call.

Everyone else had risen to their feet. Only Enid remained in her chair.
She sat with her head on one shoulder, her eyes closed, her hair partly
loosened--a model for a sculptor.

“She is asleep,” said Challenger. “Wake up, Enid. I am going.”

There was no response from the girl. Mailey was bending over her.

“Hush! Don’t disturb her! She is in trance.”

Challenger rushed forward. “What have you done? Your infernal
hankey-pankey has frightened her. She has fainted.”

Mailey had raised her eyelid.

“No, no, her eyes are turned up. She is in trance. Your daughter, sir,
is a powerful medium.”

“A medium! You are raving. Wake up, girl! Wake up!”

“For God’s sake leave her! You may regret it all your life if you don’t.
It is not safe to break abruptly into the mediumistic trance.”

Challenger stood in bewilderment. For once his presence of mind had
deserted him. Was it possible that his child stood on the edge of some
mysterious precipice and that he might push her over?

“What shall I do?” he asked helplessly.

“Have no fear. All will be well. Sit down! Sit down, all of you. Ah! she
is about to speak.”

The girl had stirred. She had sat straight in her chair. Her lips
trembled. One hand was outstretched.

“For him!” she cried, pointing to Challenger. “He must not hurt my Medi.
It is a message. For him.”

There was breathless silence among the persons who had gathered round
the girl.

“Who speaks?” asked Mailey.

“Victor speaks, Victor. He shall not hurt my Medi. I have a message. For
him!”

“Yes, yes. What is the message?”

“His wife is here.”

“Yes!”

“She says that she has been once before. That she came through this
girl. It was after she was buried. She knock and he hear her knocking,
but not understand.”

“Does this mean anything to you, Professor Challenger?”

His great eyebrows were bunched over his suspicious, questioning eyes,
and he glared like a beast at bay from one to the other of the faces
round him. There was a trick--a vile trick. They had suborned his own
daughter. It was damnable. He would expose them, every one. No, he had
no questions to ask. He could see through it all. She had been won over.
He could not have believed it of her, and yet it must be so. She was
doing it for Malone’s sake. A woman would do anything for a man she
loved. Yes, it was damnable. Far from being softened he was more
vindictive than ever. His furious face, his broken words, expressed his
convictions.

Again the girl’s arm shot out, pointing in front of her.

“Another message!”

“To whom?”

“To him. The man who wanted to hurt my Medi. He must not hurt my Medi. A
man here--two men--wish to give him a message.”

“Yes, Victor, let us have it.”

“First man’s name is....” The girl’s head slanted and her ear was
upturned, as if listening. “Yes, yes, I have it! It is
Al--Al--Aldridge.”

“Does that mean anything to you?”

Challenger staggered. A look of absolute wonder had come upon his face.

“Who is the second man?” he asked.

“Ware. Yes, that is it. Ware.”

Challenger sat down suddenly. He passed his hand over his brow. He was
deadly pale. His face was clammy with sweat.

“Do you know them?”

“I knew two men of those names.”

“They have messages for you,” said the girl.

Challenger seemed to brace himself for a blow.

“Well, what is it?”

“Too private. Not speak, all these people here.”

“We shall wait outside,” said Mailey. “Come, friends, let the Professor
have his message.”

They moved towards the door leaving the man seated in front of his
daughter. An unwonted nervousness seemed suddenly to seize him. “Malone,
stay with me!”

The door closed and the three were left together.

“What is the message?”

“It is about a powder.”

“Yes, yes.”

“A grey powder?”

“Yes.”

“The message that men want to say is: ‘You did not kill us.’”

“Ask them then--ask them--how did they die?” His voice was broken and
his great frame was quivering with his emotion.

“They die disease.”

“What disease?”

“New--new.... What that?... Pneumonia.”

Challenger sank back in his chair with an immense sigh of relief. “My
God!” he cried, wiping his brow. Then:

“Call in the others, Malone.”

They had waited on the landing and now streamed into the room.
Challenger had risen to meet them. His first words were to Tom Linden.
He spoke like a shaken man whose pride for the instant was broken.

“As to you, sir, I do not presume to judge you. A thing has occurred to
me which is so strange, and also so certain, since my own trained senses
have attested it, that I am not prepared to deny any explanation which
has been offered of your previous conduct. I beg to withdraw any
injurious expressions I may have used.”

Tom Linden was a true Christian in his character. His forgiveness was
instant and sincere.

“I cannot doubt that my daughter has some strange power which bears out
much which you, Mr. Mailey, have told me. I was justified in my
scientific scepticism, but you have to-day offered me some
incontrovertible evidence.”

“We all go through the same experience, Professor. We doubt, and then in
turn we are doubted.”

“I can hardly conceive that my word will be doubted upon such a point,”
said Challenger, with dignity. “I can truly say that I have had
information to-night which no living person upon this earth was in a
position to give. So much is beyond all question.”

“The young lady is better,” said Mrs. Linden.

Enid was sitting up and staring round her with bewildered eyes.

“What has happened, Father? I seem to have been asleep.”

“All right, dear. We will talk of that later. Come home with me now. I
have much to think over. Perhaps you will come back with us, Malone. I
feel that I owe you some explanation.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When Professor Challenger reached his flat, he gave Austin orders that
he was on no account to be disturbed, and he led the way into his
library, where he sat in his big arm-chair with Malone upon his left and
his daughter upon his right. He had stretched out his great paw and
enclosed Enid’s small hand.

“My dear,” he said, after a long silence, “I cannot doubt that you are
possessed of a strange power, for it has been shown to me to-night with
a fullness and a clearness which is final. Since you have it I cannot
deny that others may have it also, and the general idea of mediumship
has entered within my conceptions of what is possible. I will not
discuss the question, for my thoughts are still confused upon the
subject, and I will need to thrash the thing out with you, young Malone,
and with your friends, before I can get a more definite idea. I will
only say that my mind has received a shock, and that a new avenue of
knowledge seems to have opened up before me.”

“We shall be proud indeed,” said Malone, “if we can help you.”

Challenger gave a wry smile.

“Yes, I have no doubt that a headline in your paper, ‘Conversion of
Professor Challenger’ would be a triumph. I warn you that I have not got
so far.”

“We certainly would do nothing premature and your opinions may remain
entirely private.”

“I have never lacked the moral courage to proclaim my opinions when they
are formed, but the time has not yet come. However, I have received two
messages to-night, and I can only ascribe to them an extra-corporeal
origin. I take it for granted, Enid, that you were indeed insensible.”

“I assure you, Father, that I knew nothing.”

“Quite so. You have always been incapable of deceit. First there came a
message from your mother. She assured me that she had indeed produced
those sounds which I heard and of which I have told you. It is clear now
that you were the medium and that you were not in sleep but in trance.
It is incredible, inconceivable, grotesquely wonderful--but it would
seem to be true.”

“Crookes used almost those very words,” said Malone. “He wrote that it
was all ‘perfectly impossible and absolutely true.’”

“I owe him an apology. Perhaps I owe a good many people an apology.”

“None will ever be asked for,” said Malone. “These people are not made
that way.”

“It is the second case which I would explain.” The Professor fidgeted
uneasily in his chair. “It is a matter of great privacy--one to which I
have never alluded, and which no one on earth could have known. Since
you heard so much you may as well hear all.

“It happened when I was a young physician, and it is not too much to say
that it cast a cloud over my life--a cloud which has only been raised
to-night. Others may try to explain what has occurred by telepathy, by
subconscious mind action, by what they will, but I cannot doubt--it is
impossible to doubt--that a message has come to me from the dead.

“There was a new drug under discussion at that time. It is useless to
enter into details which you would be incapable of appreciating. Suffice
it that it was of the datura family which supplies deadly poisons as
well as powerful medicines. I had received one of the earliest
specimens, and I desired my name to be associated with the first
exploration of its properties. I gave it to two men, Ware and Aldridge.
I gave it in what I thought was a safe dose. They were patients, you
understand, in my ward in a public hospital. Both were found dead in the
morning.

“I had given it secretly. None knew of it. There was no scandal for they
were both very ill, and their death seemed natural. But in my own heart
I had fears. I believed that I had killed them. It has always been a
dark background to my life. You heard yourselves to-night that it was
from the disease, and not from the drug that they died.”

“Poor Dad!” whispered Enid, patting the great hirsute hand. “Poor Dad!
What you must have suffered!”

Challenger was too proud a man to stand pity, even from his own
daughter. He pulled away his hand.

“I worked for science,” he said. “Science must take risks. I do not know
that I am to blame. And yet--and yet--my heart is very light to-night.”




CHAPTER XVII

WHERE THE MISTS CLEAR AWAY


Malone had lost his billet and had found his way in Fleet Street blocked
by the rumour of his independence. His place upon the staff had been
taken by a young and drunken Jew, who had at once won his spurs by a
series of highly humorous articles upon psychic matters, peppered with
assurances that he approached the subject with a perfectly open and
impartial mind. His final device of offering five thousand pounds if the
spirits of the dead would place the three first horses in the coming
Derby, and his demonstration that ectoplasm was in truth the froth of
bottled porter artfully concealed by the medium, are newspaper stunts
which are within the recollection of the reader.

But the path which closed on one side had opened on the other.
Challenger, lost in his daring dreams and ingenious experiments, had
long needed an active, clear-headed man to manage his business
interests, and to control his world-wide patents. There were many
devices, the fruits of his life’s work, which brought in income, but had
to be carefully watched and guarded. His automatic alarm for ships in
shallow waters, his device for deflecting a torpedo, his new and
economical method of separating nitrogen from the air, his radical
improvements in wireless transmission and his novel treatment of
pitchblende, were all moneymakers. Enraged by the attitude of
Cornelius, the Professor placed the management of all these in the hands
of his prospective son-in-law, who diligently guarded his interests.

Challenger himself had altered. His colleagues, and those about him,
observed the change without clearly perceiving the cause. He was a
gentler, humbler and more spiritual man. Deep in his soul was the
conviction that he, the champion of scientific method and of truth, had,
in fact, for many years been unscientific in his methods and a
formidable obstruction to the advance of the human soul through the
jungle of the unknown. It was this self-condemnation which had wrought
the change in his character. Also, with characteristic energy, he had
plunged into the wonderful literature of the subject, and as, without
the prejudice which had formerly darkened his brain, he read the
illuminating testimony of Hare, de Morgan, Crookes, Lombroso, Barrett,
Lodge and so many other great men, he marvelled that he could ever for
one instant have imagined that such a consensus of opinion could be
founded upon error. His violent and whole-hearted nature made him take
up the psychic cause with the same vehemence, and even occasionally the
same intolerance with which he had once denounced it, and the old lion
bared his teeth and roared back at those who had once been his
associates. His remarkable article in the _Spectator_ began, “The obtuse
incredulity and stubborn unreason of the prelates who refused to look
through the telescope of Galileo and to observe the moons of Jupiter,
has been far transcended in our own days by those noisy
controversialists, who rashly express extreme opinions upon those
psychic matters which they have never had either the time, or the
inclination to examine”; while in a final sentence he expressed his
conviction that his opponents, “did not in truth represent the thought
of the twentieth century, but might rather be regarded as mental fossils
dug from some early Pliocene horizon.” Critics raised their hands in
horror, as is their wont, against the robust language of the article,
though violence of attack has for so many years been condoned in the
case of those who are in opposition. So we may leave Challenger, his
black mane slowly turning to grey, but his great brain growing ever
stronger and more virile as it faced such problems as the future had in
store--a future which had ceased to be bounded by the narrow horizon of
death, and which now stretched away into the infinite possibilities and
developments of continued survival of personality, character and work.

       *       *       *       *       *

The marriage had taken place. It was a quiet function, but no prophet
could ever have foretold the guests whom Enid’s father had assembled in
the Whitehall Rooms. They were a happy crowd, all welded together by the
opposition of the world, and united in one common knowledge. There was
the Rev. Charles Mason, who had officiated at the ceremony, and if ever
a saint’s blessing consecrated a union, so it had been that morning. Now
in his black garb with his cheery, toothsome smile, he was moving about
among the crowd carrying peace and kindliness with him. The
yellow-bearded Mailey, the old warrior, scarred with many combats and
eager for more, stood beside his wife, the gentle squire who bore his
weapons and nerved his arm. There was Dr. Maupuis from Paris, trying to
make the waiter understand that he wanted coffee, and being presented
with toothpicks, while the gaunt Lord Roxton viewed his efforts with
cynical amusement. There, too, was the good Bolsover with several of
the Hammersmith circle, and Tom Linden with his wife, and Smith, the
fighting bull-dog from the north, and Dr. Atkinson, and Mervin the
psychic editor with his kind wife, and the two Ogilvies, and little Miss
Delicia with her bag and her tracts, and Dr. Ross Scotton, now
successfully cured, and Dr. Felkin who had cured him so far as his
earthly representative, Nurse Ursula, could fill his place. All these
and many more were visible to our two-inch spectrum of colour, and
audible to our four octaves of sound. How many others, outside those
narrow limitations, may have added their presence and their
blessing--who shall say?

       *       *       *       *       *

One last scene before we close the record. It was in a sitting-room of
the Imperial Hotel at Folkestone. At the window sat Mr. and Mrs. Edward
Malone gazing westwards down Channel at an angry evening sky. Great
purple tentacles, threatening forerunners from what lay unseen and
unknown beyond the horizon, were writhing up towards the zenith. Below
the little Dieppe boat was panting eagerly homewards. Far out the great
ships were keeping mid-channel as scenting danger to come. The vague
threat of that menacing sky acted subconsciously upon the minds of both
of them.

“Tell me, Enid,” said Malone, “of all our wonderful psychic experiences,
which is now most vivid in your mind?”

“It is curious that you should ask, Ned, for I was thinking of it at
that moment. I suppose it was the association of ideas with that
terrible sky. It was of Miromar I was thinking, the strange mystery man
with his words of doom.”

“And so was I.”

“Have you heard of him since?”

“Once and once only. It was on a Sunday morning in Hyde Park. He was
speaking to a little group of men. I mixed with the crowd and listened.
It was the same warning.”

“How did they take it? Did they laugh?”

“Well, you have seen and heard him. You could not laugh, could you?”

“No, indeed. But you don’t take it seriously, Ned, do you? Look at the
solid old earth of England. Look at our great hotel and the people on
the Lees, and the stodgy morning papers and all the settled order of a
civilised land. Do you really think that anything could come to destroy
it all?”

“Who knows? Miromar is not the only one who says so.”

“Does he call it the end of the world?”

“No, no, it is the rebirth of the world--of the true world, the world as
God meant it to be.”

“It is a tremendous message. But what is amiss? Why should so dreadful a
Judgment fall?”

“It is the materialism, the wooden formalities of the churches, the
alienation of all spiritual impulses, the denial of the Unseen, the
ridicule of this new revelation--these are the causes according to him.”

“Surely the world has been worse before now?”

“But never with the same advantages--never with the education and
knowledge and so-called civilisation, which should have led it to higher
things. Look how everything has been turned to evil. We got the
knowledge of airships. We bomb cities with them. We learn how to steam
under the sea. We murder seamen with our new knowledge. We gain command
over chemicals. We turn them into explosives or poison gases. It goes
from worse to worse. At the present moment every nation upon earth is
plotting secretly how it can best poison the others. Did God create the
planet for this end, and is it likely that He will allow it to go on
from bad to worse?”

“Is it you or Miromar who is talking now?”

“Well, I have myself been brooding over the matter, and all my thoughts
seem to justify his conclusions. I read a spirit message which Charles
Mason wrote. It was: ‘The most dangerous condition for a man or a nation
is when his intellectual side is more developed than his spiritual.’ Is
that not exactly the condition of the world to-day?”

“And how will it come?”

“Ah, there I can only take Miromar’s word for it. He speaks of a
breaking of all the phials. There is war, famine, pestilence,
earthquake, flood, tidal waves--all ending in peace and glory
unutterable.”

The great purple streamers were right across the sky. A dull crimson
glare, a lurid angry glow, was spreading in the west. Enid shuddered as
she watched it.

“One thing we have learned,” said he. “It is that two souls, where real
love exists, go on and on without a break through all the spheres. Why,
then, should you and I fear death, or anything which life or death can
bring?”

She smiled and put her hand in his.

“Why, indeed?” said she.


THE END




APPENDIX


NOTE ON CHAPTER II

CLAIRVOYANCE IN SPIRITUALISTIC CHURCHES

This phenomenon, as exhibited in Spiritualistic churches or temples, as
the Spiritualists usually call them, varies very much in quality. So
uncertain is it that many congregations have given it up entirely, as it
had become rather a source of scandal than of edification. On the other
hand there are occasions, the conditions being good, the audience
sympathetic and the medium in good form, when the results are nothing
short of amazing. I was present on one occasion when Mr. Tom Tyrell of
Blackburn, speaking in a sudden call at Doncaster--a town with which he
was unfamiliar--got not only the descriptions but even the names of a
number of people which were recognised by the different individuals to
whom he pointed. I have known Mr. Vout Peters also to give forty
descriptions in a foreign city (Liége) where he had never been before,
with only one failure which was afterwards explained. Such results are
far above coincidence. What their true _raison d’être_ may be has yet to
be determined. It has seemed to me sometimes that the vapour which
becomes visible as a solid in ectoplasm, may in its more volatile
condition fill the hall, and that a spirit coming within it may show up
as an invisible shooting star comes into view when it crosses the
atmosphere of the earth. No doubt the illustration is only an analogy
but it may suggest a line of thought.

I remember being present on two occasions in Boston, Massachusetts, when
clergymen gave clairvoyance from the steps of the altar, and with
complete success. It struck me as an admirable reproduction of those
apostolic conditions when they taught “not only by words but also by
power.” All this has to come back into the Christian religion before it
will be revitalised and restored to its pristine power. It cannot,
however, be done in a day. We want less faith and more knowledge.


NOTE ON CHAPTER IX

EARTHBOUND SPIRITS

This chapter may be regarded as sensational, but as a fact there is no
incident in it for which chapter and verse may not be given. The
incident of Nell Gwynne, mentioned by Lord Roxton, was told me by
Colonel Cornwallis West as having occurred in a country house of his
own. Visitors had met the wraith in the passages and had afterwards,
when they saw the portrait of Nell Gwynne which hung in a sitting-room,
exclaimed, “Why, there is the woman I met.”

The adventure of the terrible occupant of the deserted house is taken
with very little change from the experience of Lord St. Audries in a
haunted house near Torquay. This gallant soldier told the story himself
in _The Weekly Dispatch_ (Dec., 1921), and it is admirably retold in
Mrs. Violet Tweedale’s “Phantoms of the Dawn.” As to the conversation
carried on between the clergyman and the earthbound spirit, the same
authoress has described a similar one when recording the adventures of
Lord and Lady Wynford in Glamis Castle (“Ghosts I Have Seen,” p. 175).

Whence such a spirit draws its stock of material energy is an unsolved
problem. It is probably from some mediumistic individual in the
neighbourhood. In the extremely interesting case quoted by the Rev.
Charles Mason in the narrative and very carefully observed by the
Psychic Research Society of Reykjavik in Iceland, the formidable
earthbound creature proclaimed how it got its vitality. The man was in
life a fisherman of rough and violent character who had committed
suicide. He attached himself to the medium, followed him to the séances
of the Society, and caused indescribable confusion and alarm, until he
was exorcised by some such means as described in the story. A long
account appeared in the “Proceedings of the American Society of Psychic
Research,” and also in the organ of the Psychic College, “Psychic
Science,” for January, 1925. Iceland, it may be remarked, is very
advanced in psychic science, and in proportion to its population or
opportunities is probably ahead of any other country. The Bishop of
Reykjavik is President of the Psychic Society, which is surely a lesson
to our own prelates whose disassociation from the study of such matters
is little less than a scandal. The matter relates to the nature of the
soul and to its fate in the Beyond, yet there are I believe fewer
students of the matter among our spiritual guides than among any other
profession.


NOTE ON CHAPTER X

RESCUE CIRCLES

The scenes in this chapter are drawn very closely either from personal
experience or from the reports of careful and trustworthy experimenters.
Among the latter are Mr. Tozer of Melbourne, and Mr. McFarlane of
Southsea, both of whom have run methodical circles for the purpose of
giving help to earthbound spirits. Detailed accounts of experiences
which I have personally had in the former circles are to be found in
chapters IV and VI: of my “Wanderings of a Spiritualist.” I may add that
in my own domestic circle, under my wife’s mediumship, we have been
privileged to bring hope and knowledge to some of these unhappy beings.

Full reports of a number of these dramatic conversations are to be found
in the last hundred pages of the late Admiral Usborne Moore’s “Glimpses
of the Next State.” It should be said that the Admiral was not
personally present at these sittings, but that they were carried out by
people in whom he had every confidence, and that they were confirmed by
sworn affidavits of the sitters. “The high character of Mr. Leander
Fisher,” says the Admiral, “is sufficient voucher for their
authenticity.” The same may be said of Mr. E. G. Randall, who has
published many such cases. He is one of the leading lawyers of Buffalo,
while Mr. Fisher is a Professor of Music in that city.

The natural objection is that, granting the honesty of the
investigators, the whole experience may be in some way subjective and
have no relation to real facts. Dealing with this the Admiral says: “I
made enquiries as to whether any of the spirits thus brought to
understand that they had entered a new state of consciousness had been
satisfactorily identified. The reply was that many had been discovered,
but after several had been verified it was considered useless to go on
searching for the relatives and places of abode in earth life of the
remainder. Such enquiries involved much time and labour, and always
ended with the same result.” In one of the cases cited (_op. cit._ p.
524) there is the prototype of the fashionable woman who died in her
sleep as depicted in the text. In all these instances the returning
spirit did not realise that its earth life was over.

The case of the clergyman and of the sailor from the “Monmouth” both
occurred in my presence at the circle of Mr. Tozer.

The dramatic case where the spirit of a man (it was the case of several
men in the original) manifested at the very time of the accident which
caused their death, and where the names were afterwards verified in the
newspaper report, is given by Mr. E. G. Randall. Another example given
by that gentleman may be added for the consideration of those who have
not realised how cogent is the evidence, and how necessary for us to
reconsider our views of death. It is in “The Dead Have Never Died” (p.
104).

“I recall an incident that will appeal to the purely materialistic. I
was one of my father’s executors, and after his dissolution and the
settlement of his estate, speaking to me from the next plane, he told me
one night that I had overlooked an item that he wanted to mention to me.

“I replied: ‘Your mind was ever centred on the accumulation of money.
Why take up the time that is so limited with the discussion of your
estate. It has already been divided.’

“‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I know that, but I worked too hard for my money to
have it lost, and there is an asset remaining that you have not
discovered.’

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘if that be true, tell me about it.’

“He answered: ‘Some years before I left I loaned a small sum of money to
Susan Stone, who resided in Pennsylvania, and I took from her a
promissory note upon which, under the laws of that State, I was entitled
to enter a judgment at once without suit. I was somewhat anxious about
the loan, so, before its maturity, I took the note and filed it with the
prothonotary at Erie, Pennsylvania, and he entered judgment, which
became a lien on her property. In my books of account there was no
reference to that note or judgment. If you will go to the prothonotary’s
office in Erie, you will find the judgment on record, and I want you to
collect it. There are many things that you don’t know about, and this is
one of them.’

“I was much surprised at the information thus received, and naturally
sent for a transcript of that judgment. I found it entered Oct. 21,
1896, and with that evidence of the indebtedness I collected from the
judgment debtor seventy dollars with interest. I question if anyone knew
of that transaction besides the makers of the note and the prothonotary
at Erie. Certainly I did not know about it. I had no reason to suspect
it. The psychic present at that interview could not have known about the
matter, and I certainly collected the money. My father’s voice was
clearly recognisable on that occasion, as it has been on hundreds of
others, and I cite this instance for the benefit of those who measure
everything from a monetary standpoint.”

The most striking, however, of all these posthumous communications are
to be found in “Thirty Years Among the Dead,” by Dr. Wickland of Los
Angeles. This, like many other valuable books of the sort, can only be
obtained in Great Britain at the Psychic Bookshop in Victoria Street, S.
W.

Dr. Wickland and his heroic wife have done work which deserves the very
closest attention from the alienists of the world. If he makes his
point, and the case is a strong one, he not only revolutionises all our
ideas about insanity, but he cuts deep also into our views of
criminology, and may well show that we have been punishing as criminals
people who were more deserving of commiseration than of censure.

Having framed the view that many cases of mania were due to obsession
from undeveloped entities, and having found out by some line of enquiry,
which is not clear to me, that such entities are exceedingly sensitive
to static electricity when it is passed through the body which they have
invaded, he founded his treatment with remarkable results upon this
hypothesis. The third factor in his system was the discovery that such
entities were more easily dislodged if a vacant body was provided for
their temporary reception. Therein lies the heroism of Mrs. Wickland, a
very charming and cultivated lady, who sits in hypnotic trance beside
the subject ready to receive the invader when he is driven forth. It is
through the lips of this lady that the identity and character of the
undeveloped spirit are determined.

The subject having been strapped to the electric chair--the strapping is
very necessary as many are violent maniacs--the power is turned on. It
does not affect the patient, since it is static in its nature, but it
causes acute discomfort to the parasitical spirit, who rapidly takes
refuge in the unconscious form of Mrs. Wickland. Then follow the amazing
conversations which are chronicled in this volume. The spirit is
cross-questioned by the doctor, is admonished, instructed, and finally
dismissed either in the care of some ministering spirit who
superintends the proceedings, or relegated to the charge of some sterner
attendant who will hold him in check should he be unrepentant.

To the scientist who is unfamiliar with psychic work such a bald
statement sounds wild, and I do not myself claim that Dr. Wickland has
finally made out his case, but I do say that our experiences at rescue
circles bear out the general idea, and that he has admittedly cured many
cases which others have found intractable. Occasionally there is very
cogent confirmation. Thus in the case of one female spirit who bitterly
bewailed that she had not taken enough carbolic acid the week before,
the name and address being correctly given (_op. cit._ p. 39).

It is not apparently everyone who is open to this invasion, but only
those who are in some peculiar way psychic sensitives. The discovery,
when fully made out, will be one of the root facts of the psychology and
jurisprudence of the future.


NOTE ON CHAPTER XII

The experience of the young Frenchman and the letters or messages quoted
are extracts from a long series in the curious little book called “Le
Livre Pratique des Esprits.” It has been introduced because I have
endeavoured, in drawing a sketch of Spiritualism as I have known it, to
introduce the less pleasing shadows which intrude occasionally into the
light. Such practices, I need not say, would be condemned by any
ordinary Spiritualist, but it cannot be denied that their possibility is
disquieting and opens up unpleasant lines of speculation. They are,
however, so exceptional that it may well be doubted whether the
Frenchman was not self-deceived even if he was not drawing upon his
imagination.


NOTE ON CHAPTER XIII

DR. MAUPUIS’ EXPERIMENT

The Dr. Maupuis of the narrative is, as every student of psychic
research will realise, the late Dr. Geley, whose splendid work on this
subject will ensure his permanent fame. His was a brain of the first
order, coupled with a moral courage which enabled him to face with
equanimity the cynicism and levity of his critics. With rare judgment he
never went further than the facts carried him, and yet never flinched
from the furthest point which his reason and the evidence would justify.
By the munificence of Mr. Jean Meyer he had been placed at the head of
the Institut Métapsychique, admirably equipped for scientific work, and
he got the full value out of that equipment. When a British Jean Meyer
makes his appearance he will get no return for his money if he does not
choose a progressive brain to drive his machine. The great endowment
left to the Stanford University of California has been practically
wasted, because those in charge of it were not Geleys or Richets.

The account of Pithecanthropus is taken from the “Bulletin de
l’Institut Métapsychique.” A well-known lady has described to me how the
creature pressed between her and her neighbours, and how she placed her
hand upon his shaggy skin. An account of this séance is to be found in
Geley’s “L’Ectoplasmie et la Clairvoyance” (Felix Alcau), p. 345. On
page 296 is a photograph of the strange bird of prey upon the medium’s
head. It would take the credulity of a MacCabe to imagine that all this
is imposture.

These various animal types may assume very bizarre forms. In an
unpublished manuscript by Colonel Ochorowitz, which I have been
privileged to see, some new developments are described which are not
only formidable but also unlike any creature with which we are
acquainted.

Since animal forms of this nature have materialised under the mediumship
both of Kluski and of Guzik, their formation would seem to depend rather
upon one of the sitters than upon either of the mediums, unless we can
disconnect them entirely from the circle. It is usually an axiom among
Spiritualists that the spirit visitors to a circle represent in some way
the mental and spiritual tendency of the circle. Thus in nearly forty
years of experience I have never heard an obscene or blasphemous word at
a séance because such séances have been run in a reverent and religious
fashion. The question therefore may arise whether sittings which are
held for purely scientific and experimental purposes, without the least
recognition of their extreme religious significance, may not evoke less
desirable manifestations of psychic force. The high character, however,
of men like Richet and Geley ensure that the general tendency shall be
good.

It might be argued that a subject with such possibilities had better be
left alone. The answer seems to be that these manifestations are,
fortunately, very rare, whereas the daily comfort of spirit intercourse
illumines thousands of lives. We do not abandon exploration because the
land explored contains some noxious creatures. To abandon the subject
would be to hand it over to such forces of evil as chose to explore it
while depriving ourselves of that knowledge which would aid us in
understanding and counteracting their results.

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FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Appendix.

[B] See Appendix on Chapter IX.

[C] See Appendix.

[D] See Appendix.

[E] See Appendix.



       Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

   Monsieur Forte, sub-editer=> Monsieur Forte, sub-editor {pg 199}

 “And you, monsieur?” addressing the representative of the _Matin_.=>
“And you, monsieur?” addressing the representative of the _Matin_. {pg
                                 209}

      practicing Spirtualists=> practicing Spiritualists {pg 216}

             unerring insinct=> unerring instinct {pg 232}

  Profesor Challenger has had=> Professor Challenger has had {pg 242}

But about Professer Challenger=> But about Professor Challenger {pg 251}

                raison d’etre=> raison d’être {pg 280}