It was horrible to Celia that the poor woman was speaking the jargon which she herself had taught to her. "I will speak to it," said Mme. Dauvray, and raising her voice a little, she asked: "Who are you that come to us from the spirit-world?" No answer came, but all the while Celia knew that Wethermill was stealing noiselessly across the floor towards that voice which spoke this professional patter with so simple a solemnity. "Answer!" she said. And the next moment she uttered a little shrill cry--a cry of enthusiasm. "Fingers touch my forehead--now they touch my cheek--now they touch my throat!" And upon that the voice ceased. But a dry, choking sound was heard, and a horrible scuffling and tapping of feet upon the polished floor, a sound most dreadful. They were murdering her--murdering an old, kind woman silently and methodically in the darkness. The girl strained and twisted against the pillar furiously, like an animal in a trap. But the coils of rope held her; the scarf suffocated her. The scuffling became a spasmodic sound, with intervals between, and then ceased altogether. A voice spoke--a man's voice--Wethermill's. But Celia would never have recognised it--it had so shrill and fearful an intonation. "That's horrible," he said, and his voice suddenly rose to a scream. "Hush!" Helene Vauquier whispered sharply. "What's the matter?" "She fell against me--her whole weight. Oh!" "You are afraid of her!" "Yes, yes!" And in the darkness Wethermill's voice came querulously between long breaths. "Yes, NOW I am afraid of her!" Helene Vauquier replied again contemptuously. She spoke aloud and quite indifferently. Nothing of any importance whatever, one would have gathered, had occurred. "I will turn on the light," she said. And through the chinks in the curtain the bright light shone. Celia heard a loud rattle upon the table, and then fainter sounds of the same kind. And as a kind of horrible accompaniment there ran the laboured breathing of the man, which broke now and then with a sobbing sound. They were stripping Mme. Dauvray of her pearl necklace, her bracelets, and her rings. Celia had a sudden importunate vision of the old woman's fat, podgy hands loaded with brilliants. A jingle of keys followed. "That's all," Helene Vauquier said. She might have just turned out the pocket of an old dress. There was the sound of something heavy and inert falling with a dull crash upon the floor. A woman laughed, and again it was Helene Vauquier. "Which is the key of the safe?" asked Adele. And Helene Vauquier replied:-- "That one." Celia heard some one drop heavily into a chair. It was Wethermill, and he buried his face in his hands. Helene went over to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder and shook him. "Do you go and get her jewels out of the safe," she said, and she spoke with a rough friendliness. "You promised you would blindfold the girl," he cried hoarsely. Helene Vauquier laughed.