Moir was late that evening, and when he did arrive he brought with him, rather to our surprise, a small, stout Frenchman, whom he introduced as Monsieur Paul Le Duc. I say to our surprise, for we held a theory that any intrusion into our spiritual circle deranged the conditions, and introduced an element of suspicion. We knew that we could trust each other, but all our results were vitiated by the presence of an outsider. However, Moir soon reconciled us to the innovation. Monsieur Paul Le Duc was a famous student of occultism, a seer, a medium, and a mystic. He was travelling in England with a letter of introduction to Moir from the President of the Parisian brothers of the Rosy Cross. What more natural than that he should bring him to our little séance, or that we should feel honoured by his presence? He was, as I have said, a small, stout man, undistinguished in appearance, with a broad, smooth, clean-shaven face, remarkable only for a pair of large, brown, velvety eyes, staring vaguely out in front of him. He was well dressed, with the manners of a gentleman, and his curious little turns of English speech set the ladies smiling. Mrs. Deacon had a prejudice against our researches and left the room, upon which we lowered the lights, as was our custom, and drew up our chairs to the square mahogany table which stood in the centre of the studio. The light was subdued, but sufficient to allow us to see each other quite plainly. I remember that I could even observe the curious, podgy little square-topped hands which the Frenchman laid upon the table. “What a fun!” said he. “It is many years since I have sat in this fashion, and it is to me amusing. Madame is medium. Does madame make the trance?” “Well, hardly that,” said Mrs. Delamere. “But I am always conscious of extreme sleepiness.” “It is the first stage. Then you encourage it, and there comes the trance. When the trance comes, then out jumps your little spirit and in jumps another little spirit, and so you have direct talking or writing. You leave your machine to be worked by another. _Hein?_ But what have unicorns to do with it?” Harvey Deacon started in his chair. The Frenchman was moving his head slowly round and staring into the shadows which draped the walls. “What a fun!” said he. “Always unicorns. Who has been thinking so hard upon a subject so bizarre?” “This is wonderful!” cried Deacon. “I have been trying to paint one all day. But how could you know it?” “You have been thinking of them in this room.” “Certainly.” “But thoughts are things, my friend. When you imagine a thing you make a thing. You did not know it, _hein_? But I can see your unicorns because it is not only with my eye that I can see.” “Do you mean to say that I create a thing which has never existed by merely thinking of it?” “But certainly. It is the fact which lies under all other facts. That is why an evil thought is also a danger.” “They are, I suppose, upon the astral plane?” said Moir.