In spite of himself he felt slightly more excited than he had thought he would be; it was one thing to be philosophical at a prospect of three days’ distance; and another when the gates of death actually rise in sight. He wondered in what mood he would see his own rooms again. Then he yawned slightly—and was a little pleased that it was natural to yawn.
There was a rustle outside; the door opened, and Lady Laura slipped in.
“Forgive me, Mr. Baxter,” she said. “I wanted to have just a word with you first. Please sit down a moment.”
She seemed a little anxious and upset, thought Laurie, as he sat down and looked at her in her evening dress with the emblematic chain more apparent than ever. Her frizzed hair sat as usual on the top of her head, and her pince-nez glimmered at him across the hearthrug like the eyes of a cat.
“It is this,” she said hurriedly. “I felt I must just speak to you. I wasn’t sure whether you quite realized the … the dangers of all this. I didn’t want you to … to run any risks in my house. I should feel responsible, you know.”
She laughed nervously.
“Risks? Would you mind explaining?” said Laurie.
“There … there are always risks, you know.”
“What sort?”
“Oh … you know … nerves, and so on. I … I have seen people very much upset at séances, more than once.”
Laurie smiled.
“I don’t think you need be afraid, Lady Laura. It’s awfully kind of you; but, do you know, I’m ashamed to say that, if anything, I’m rather bored.”
The pince-nez gleamed.
“But—but don’t you believe it? I thought Mr. Vincent said—”
“Oh yes, I believe it; but, you know, it seems to me so natural now. Even if nothing happens tonight, I don’t think I shall believe it any the less.”
She was silent an instant.
“You know there are other risks,” she said suddenly.
“What? Are things thrown about?”
“Please don’t laugh at it, Mr. Baxter. I am quite serious.”
“Well—what kind do you mean?”
Again she paused.
“It’s very awful,” she said; “but, you know, people’s nerves do break down entirely sometimes, even though they’re not in the least afraid. I saw a case once—”
She stopped.
“Yes?”
“It—it was a very awful case. A girl—a sensitive—broke down altogether under the strain. She’s in an asylum.”
“I don’t think that’s likely for me,” said Laurie, with a touch of humor in his voice. “And, after all, you run these risks, don’t you—and Mrs. Stapleton?”
“Yes; but you see we’re not sensitives. And even I—”
“Yes?”
“Well, even I feel sometimes rather overcome. … Mr. Baxter, do you quite realize what it all means?”
“I think so. To tell the truth—”
He stopped.
“Yes; but the thing itself is really overwhelming. … There’s—there’s an extraordinary power sometimes. You know I was with Maud Stapleton when she saw her father—”
She stopped again.
“Yes?”
“I saw him too, you know. … Oh! there was no possibility of fraud. It was with Mr. Vincent. It—it was rather terrible.”
“Yes?”
“Maud fainted. … Please don’t tell her I told you, Mr. Baxter; she wouldn’t like you to know that. And then other things happen sometimes which aren’t nice. Do you think me a great coward? I—I think I’ve got a fit of nerves tonight.”
Laurie could see that she was trembling.
“I think you’re very kind,” he said, “to take the trouble to tell me all this. But indeed I was quite ready to be startled. I quite understand what you mean—but—”
“Mr. Baxter, you can’t understand unless you’ve experienced it. And, you know, the other day here you knew nothing at all: you were not conscious. Now tonight you’re to keep awake; Mr. Vincent’s going to arrange to do what he can about that. And—and I don’t quite like it.”
“Why, what on earth can happen?” asked Laurie, bewildered.
“Mr. Baxter, I suppose you realize that it’s you that they—whoever they are—are interested in? There’s no kind of doubt that you’ll be the center tonight. And I did just want you to understand fully that there are risks. I shouldn’t like to think—”
Laurie stood up.
“I understand perfectly,” he said. “Certainly, I always knew there were risks. I hold myself responsible, and no one else. Is that quite clear?”
The wire of the front-door bell suddenly twitched in the hall, and a peal came up the stairs.
“He’s come,” said the other. “Come upstairs, Mr. Baxter. Please don’t say a word of what I’ve said.”
She hurried out, and he after her, as the footman came up from the lower regions.
The drawing room presented an unusual appearance to Laurie as he came in. All the small furniture had been moved away to the side where the windows looked into the street, and formed there what looked like an amateur barricade. In the center of the room, immediately below the electric light, stood a solid small round table with four chairs set round it as if for bridge. There was on the side further from the street a kind of anteroom communicating with the main room by a high, wide archway nearly as large as the room to which it gave access; and within this, full in sight, stood a curious erection, not unlike a confessional, seated within for one, roofed, walled, and floored with thin wood. The front of this was open, but screened partly by two curtains that seemed to hang from a rod within. The rest of the little extra room was entirely empty except for the piano that stood closed in the corner.
There were two persons standing rather disconsolately on the vacant hearthrug—Mrs. Stapleton and the clergyman whom Laurie had met on his last visit here. Mr. Jamieson wore an expression usually associated with funerals, and Mrs. Stapleton’s face was full of suppressed excitement.
“Dearest, what a time you’ve been! Was that Mr. Vincent?”
“I think so,” said Lady Laura.
The two men nodded to one another, and an instant later the medium
