Lindsay began to pace the length of the long room. "What is happening? Has the old ramshackle time-machine finally broken a spring so that, in this last revolution, it hauls, out of the past, these pictures of two decades ago? Or is it that there are superimposed one on the other two revolving worlds--theirs and ours--and _theirs_ or _ours_ has stopped an instant, so that I can glance into _theirs_? I feel as though I were in the dark of a camera obscura gazing into their brightness. Or have those two years in the air permanently broken my psychology; so that through that rift I shall always have the power to look into strange worlds? Or am I just piercing another dimension?" Mrs. Spash had been following him with her faded, calm old eyes. Apparently she guessed these questions were not addressed to her. She kept silence. "I've racked my brain. I lie awake nights and tear the universe to pieces. I outguess guessing and outconjecture conjecture. My thoughts fly to the end of space. My wonder invades the very citadel of fancy. My surmises storm the last outpost of reality. But it beats me. I can't get it." Lindsay stopped. Mrs. Spash made no comment. Apparently her twenty years' training among artists had prepared her for monologues of this sort. She listened; but it was obvious that she did not understand; did not expect to understand. "Does she want me to stay _here_ or go _there_?" Lindsay demanded of the air. "If _here_, what does she want me to do? If _there_--where is _there_? If _there_, what does she want me to do _there_? Is her errand concerned with the living or the dead? If the living, who? If the dead, who? Where to find them? How to find them?" He turned his glowing eyes on Mrs. Spash. "I only know two things. She wants me to do something. She wants me to do it soon. Oh, I suppose I know another thing-- If I don't do it soon, it will be too late." Mrs. Spash was still following him with her placid, blue, old gaze. "There, there!" she said soothingly. "Now don't you get too excited, Mr. Lindsay. It'll all come to you." "But how--" Lindsay objected. "And when--" "I don't know--but she'll tell you somehow. She's cute-- She's awful cute. You mark my words, she'll find a way." "That's the reason I don't have you in the house yet, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay explained. "Oh, you don't have to tell me that," Mrs. Spash announced, triumphant because of her own perspicuity. "It's only that I have a feeling that she can do it more easily if we're alone. That's why I send you home at night. She comes oftenest in the evening when I'm alone. They all do. Oh, it's quite a procession some nights. They come one after another, all trying--" He paused. "Sometimes this room is so full of their torture that I-- You know, it all began before I came here. It began in an apartment in New York. It was in Jeffrey Lewis' old rooms. He tried to tell me first, you see."