"I'd rather not," said Beatrice Faulkner. "In a way, Barry has asked me to keep you from this sort of thing, and I feel a certain responsibility----" "I understand," said Natalie; "and you needn't take any part. Just sit by and look on." "No, I'd rather not If you don't mind, I'll go to my room. I've letters to write, and I'm sure you'll get along better without a disturbing element." "I agree with Beatrice," Joyce said, after she had gone. "If you can do anything at all, you can do it better with only approving minds present. What are you going to do, anyway? I mean, how are you going to attempt it?" "I'm not sure, but I think I can go into a trance, like Orienta did----" "She didn't go into a trance." "Not exactly. But she had a sort of trancelike condition come over her. Well, come on in the studio, and I'll see." The two went into the big room, and Natalie sat down in a small chair, directly facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had died. She held in her hand the scratched and defaced etched picture of herself. "You sit beside me, Joyce. I somehow feel if you hold my hand it will help. Now I'll concentrate on the etching, and perhaps there will be a manifestation of some sort from Eric, or I may have a vision--of the truth." Interested, but not very hopeful of success, Joyce sat beside the girl, and they concentrated their thoughts on the empty chair in front of them and the man who used to use it. For ten minutes they sat in silence. Natalie quivered and occasional shudderings shook her slender frame, but there was no trance or vision. And then, just as Joyce was about to exclaim that she could bear it no longer, her nerves were giving way, they heard a sound that was exactly the same as the sighing groan that had reached their ears when Eric was dying. Startled, they gazed wildly at each other, then back to the great armchair. Was his spirit still hovering about the place it had last been in the flesh? Again they waited, and again they heard that ghastly sound. Faint, almost inaudible, but unmistakably the voice of the dying man. It seemed to say "Help!" but so low was the tone they could scarce be sure. And then the light went out and they were in utter darkness. Natalie gasped out a faint scream, and Joyce gripped her hand, with a whispered, "Hush! Don't scream! The servants will come in. I'll make a light." She rose and tremblingly made her way across the room to the main switch. It was turned off, and with a twist, she flashed on the light. Quickly she stepped out into the hall. There was no one there but Blake, and as the door had been closed, he had noticed nothing. He said nobody had passed through the hall. Upstairs Joyce ran, conscious only of a desire to find some one who would admit having turned off the light. She ran to Beatrice Faulkner's room and entered without knocking. "What is it?" said Mrs. Faulkner, looking up from the letter she was writing, "Oh, Joyce, what has happened?"