“Quite so,” Harrison said without conviction. He foresaw, with a little qualm of uneasiness, that his failure to produce the lady might prove a difficulty in any controversy that might follow with Vernon and Lady Ulrica. If he definitely committed himself to a theory that could be upheld or discredited by the investigation of verifiable facts, he would be at an immense disadvantage should the facts go against him--as, he was ready to admit to himself, they very possibly might. He realised that in his excitement he had been too hasty. “Of course, G.,” he said on a faintly expostulating note, “of course, I may have been rather premature in assuming that this--er--visitor of ours was staying at the hotel. I--I don’t in any way insist on that. It’s our first chance and perhaps our best one; but there are other alternatives. We can begin with this scarf. That’s our solid ground of evidence. What we have to do is to trace the owner.” “Exactly,” Greatorex agreed thoughtfully. Harrison noticed the sound of a qualification in his friend’s reply. “Well, isn’t it?” he asked. “Yes, oh yes; that’s all right,” Greatorex agreed. “I was only wondering why, after all, we should bother any more about it?” Harrison was too clever a man to attempt evasions. He saw quite clearly that if he pretended some more or less plausible excuse such as being annoyed by the trespass, Greatorex would see through him. And he would not risk that. Instead, he took what seemed a perfectly safe line. “To be quite honest, G.,” he said, “I am fully anticipating that Vernon will claim this--this experience, as being a spiritualistic phenomenon. And--and--well, I’ll admit that that attitude annoys me. It’s so childish. This seems to me a--a perfectly fair instance of the sort of thing that these credulous people take hold of and transform into what they call proof. Properly garbled, as no doubt it will be, this silly little incident will presently be figuring in the Proceedings of the S.P.R. as ‘new evidence.’ Vernon could dress it up to look as circumstantial as the evidence in a police-court--give all our names and addresses, and make out affidavits for us to sign--affidavits that would not contain a single mis-statement of fact so far as we can see, but taken altogether would have an entirely false significance. You know how the....” He broke off suddenly in the middle of his sentence. “What the devil’s that?” he asked sharply. He had paused in his walk, as was his habit when he wished to elaborate an argument, and they had not yet left the bank of the lake for the path through the plantation. What had so abruptly diverted his attention was the beginning of a sound in that airless night, a sound that, as they waited and listened, waxed from the first insistent whispering with which it had begun, to a fierce rustling that seemed to swell almost to a roar, before it died again to the hushed sibilance of the outset. “What the devil is it?” Greatorex muttered.