“It’s a feeble habit to go to sleep after lunch,” he said, “but I really think I shall have a nap. I’ve got an astonishing inclination that way. Give me half an hour, will you, and then we’ll go down to the cats’ home, and get a large fat cat.” I guessed that Roupert had already given his cousin the dose of hyocampine, but just as the latter was pulling a chair round so that he need not face the light, he spoke. “Make a proper job of it, Frank,” he said, “and lie on the sofa. One always wakes feeling cramped if one goes to sleep in a chair.” Hampden’s eyelids were already drooping, but he shuffled heavily across to the sofa. “All right,” he mumbled, “sorry for being so rude, Mr.--Mr. Archdale, but I must have just forty--I wonder why forty----” And immediately he went to sleep. Roupert waited a moment, but Hampden did not stir again. Then he went out, and returned with Reid, who had been waiting in his bedroom. All explanations had already been made, and in silence we darkened the room by drawing the thick curtains across the window. Only a little light came in from their edges, but, as last night, the firelight flickered on the walls. Then Roupert locked the door, and we took our places round the table. “Into Thy hands, O Lord, we commend our spirits,” he said. Before many minutes were over the medium’s head dropped forward, and after a little struggle he went into trance. “The spirit of James Rolls,” said Roupert. In the silence that followed I could hear the slow breathing of Hampden as he slept in that remote unconsciousness. A chink of light from the window fell full on his face, and I could see it very distinctly. Then, I heard him breathing quicker, and a shudder passed through him, shaking the sofa where he lay. His face, hitherto serene and quiescent, began to twitch. “He can’t wake,” whispered Roupert. “I gave him the full dose.” Then, not from the door at all, but from the direction of the sofa there came an icy blast of wind, and simultaneously a shattering rap from the table. “Is that James Rolls?” asked Roupert. Three raps answered him. “Then in the name of God,” said Roupert, in a loud, steady voice, “come from where you are, and be made manifest.” Suddenly Hampden began to groan. His mouth worked, and he ground his teeth together. A horrible convulsion seized his face, a distortion of rending agony, like that which sometimes seizes on a dying man whose body clings desperately to the spirit that is emerging from it. A rattle and a strangled gulping came from his throat, and the foam gathered on his lips. “It is there that you are, James Rolls,” said Roupert in a loud voice of exultation. “In the name of God, come out!”