“I daresay.” Fenwick set down his coffee-cup and took a cigarette proffered him by Mrs. Allis. “Only I’m sick of you people all wagging your heads and saying, ‘the subconscious’ every time you’re up against it. Why don’t you get busy and explain how the thing works?” “Ah, yes, why don’t you?” Mrs. Medford seized on Fenwick’s challenge as if it were her own. Allis pulled his moustache and spoke judicially. “I’m not a psychologist myself, as you very well know--not even a biologist. I don’t know that science has explained the technique of it yet, though they are working on this sort of thing all the time. Hysteria, secondary personality, dreams--all these things are being put under the microscope, and they’re finding out.” “I’d rather believe in spooks than in Freud, any day.” This was Carter, a gay soul. Allis ignored him. “I daresay you do know, though, that alienists are using automatic writing in their treatment of patients now. They find that some traumas, too deep-laid for hypnotism to probe to, can be brought to the surface by getting the patient to write automatically. That is one for the subconscious, anyhow.” “But--” this was Fanny Medford, brave on her own account--“what about the things that never were in your subconscious; couldn’t have been there? They get those too--indeed they do.” “I agree with Fanny and Mr. Fenwick,” said Maud Allis. “I don’t believe it’s the spirits of the dead; but neither do I believe that the psychologists have explained it yet. I’m open-minded.” “I’m open-minded, too,” laughed young Carter. “Ready to try anything. Except Nora’s ouija-board. That’s too darned easy.” A slim form in white came out of the shadows--Mrs. Conway, gray-eyed, ivory-cheeked, like a warm ghost. “Can’t you see,” she said, “that an open mind is the most dangerous thing there is? Because if your mind is really open, any evil thing can get in.” She put her arm round Fanny Medford’s waist, with a soft, sidelong gesture, though she faced our host, directly questioning him. Mrs. Medford stirred a little against the light encircling arm--barely noticing it, it seemed. Her face was flushed beneath her pearl powder. She addressed Allis and Carter, now standing abreast before the fireplace. “Have you ever tried automatic writing?” “No.” “Nor I,” cut in Mrs. Allis, “but I’m going to try sometime. Has anyone here tried it?” Maud Allis went on, looking round at her group. I shook my head, Fenwick and Carter theirs. Mrs. Conway merely said, “You forget I’m a Catholic.” “How about Mrs. Medford herself?” Young Carter marked us off on his fingers. “Oh, I--I’ve tried it, yes. But I can’t do it!” She bit her lip and turned away, and before we quite realized that she was crying she had made a soft plunge through the wide doorway into the next room. Maud Allis followed her, but returned in a few moments.