“Then let’s go to see my sister, Mrs. Jameson, who is in the drawing room. She sometimes does me the kindness to act as my hostess, as I am unmarried.” “I will be delighted,” said Backhouse coldly. They found the lady alone, sitting by the open pianoforte in a pensive attitude. She had been playing Scriabin and was overcome. The medium took in her small, tight, patrician features and porcelain-like hands, and wondered how Faull came by such a sister. She received him bravely, with just a shade of quiet emotion. He was used to such receptions at the hands of the sex, and knew well how to respond to them. “What amazes me,” she half whispered, after ten minutes of graceful, hollow conversation, “is, if you must know it, not so much the manifestation itself—though that will surely be wonderful—as your assurance that it will take place. Tell me the grounds of your confidence.” “I dream with open eyes,” he answered, looking around at the door, “and others see my dreams. That is all.” “But that’s beautiful,” responded Mrs. Jameson. She smiled rather absently, for the first guest had just entered. It was Kent-Smith, the ex-magistrate, celebrated for his shrewd judicial humour, which, however, he had the good sense not to attempt to carry into private life. Although well on the wrong side of seventy, his eyes were still disconcertingly bright. With the selective skill of an old man, he immediately settled himself in the most comfortable of many comfortable chairs. “So we are to see wonders tonight?” “Fresh material for your autobiography,” remarked Faull. “Ah, you should not have mentioned my unfortunate book. An old public servant is merely amusing himself in his retirement, Mr. Backhouse. You have no cause for alarm—I have studied in the school of discretion.” “I am not alarmed. There can be no possible objection to your publishing whatever you please.” “You are most kind,” said the old man, with a cunning smile. “Trent is not coming tonight,” remarked Mrs. Jameson, throwing a curious little glance at her brother. “I never thought he would. It’s not in his line.” “Mrs. Trent, you must understand,” she went on, addressing the ex- magistrate, “has placed us all under a debt of gratitude. She has decorated the old lounge hall upstairs most beautifully, and has secured the services of the sweetest little orchestra.” “But this is Roman magnificence.” “Backhouse thinks the spirits should be treated with more deference,” laughed Faull. “Surely, Mr. Backhouse—a poetic environment...” “Pardon me. I am a simple man, and always prefer to reduce things to elemental simplicity. I raise no opposition, but I express my opinion. Nature is one thing, and art is another.” “And I am not sure that I don’t agree with you,” said the ex-magistrate. “An occasion like this ought to be simple, to guard against the possibility of deception—if you will forgive my bluntness, Mr. Backhouse.”