“Now, Julia, it's no use bringing up this stuff of yours again. I've told you fifty times already that I don't believe it in the slightest. Since you went in for this table-turning, and spirit-rapping, and planchette, and all the rest of the wretched business, you've hardly been sane on the subject. I daresay you adored Derek when he was here. No doubt you think you're justified in all this _séance_ business, trying to get in touch with him, and the rest of it. But frankly, it leaves me as it leaves every other sensible person—completely sceptical.” Miss Fordingbridge was evidently well-accustomed to this kind of reception when she broached the topic. She ignored her brother's protest and continued as though he had not interrupted her. “I remember quite well how you laughed at me when I came back from that wonderful _séance_ and told you how I had been assured that Derek was still alive. That was five years ago, but I can recall it perfectly. And I know it was true. And if you had been there yourself, and had heard it with your own ears, you'd have believed it too. You couldn't have disbelieved. It was far too convincing. After the medium went into a trance, the control spoke to me. And it told me all about Derek—what regiment he'd been in; when he was captured; how he'd disappeared; how anxious I'd been about him; and how we'd lost all trace of him. You'd have been quite convinced yourself, if you'd been there and heard it all.” “I _am_ quite convinced,” her brother replied drily. “That's to say I'm quite convinced that they'd looked up Derek's name in the casualty lists and got together all the data they could gather beforehand. I expect you gave away a good deal yourself by your questions, too. You're about the easiest person to pump, if one goes about it in the right way.” Miss Fordingbridge smiled in a superior fashion, as though she knew that she held a trump card still. “Would it convince you if I said that I'd seen Derek?” “Some more of their confounded mummery? No, it wouldn't convince me. A child could deceive you, Jay. You _want_ to be deceived. You can't bear the idea that Derek's dead—that's what vitiates this stuff that you dignify by the name of evidence.” “Vulgar abuse never hurts a spiritualist. We're used to it,” Miss Fordingbridge replied with simple dignity. “But you're wrong as usual, Paul. It wasn't at a _séance_ that I saw Derek. It was here, at Lynden Sands. And it was last night.” From the expression on her brother's face it was clear that he hardly knew how to take this news. “You saw him here, last night? In a dream, I suppose?” “No, not in a dream. I met him by appointment down at that rock on the beach—the one we used to call Neptune's Seat. And I saw him close enough to make no mistake—as close as I am to you this moment. And I talked to him, too. It's Derek; there's no doubt about it.”