"Little Starlight. Flora does her with a telescope rod. Oh, Flora’s slick! She’s a cracker jack of a ventriloquist—she’s got at least six good voices!" "How does she work, now? From the front seats?" "No, mostly through the foldin’ doors. As soon as the room is dark and the singin’ has commenced she has the door rolled back the wrong way about a foot, and her players come in that way. They don’t show against the black cloth, and they’s no danger at all, for if anybody wants to examine the cabinet they ain’t no panels nor nothing to be exposed. Flora’s just got up a grand disappearance act, she tells me. She wears a white petticoat and her overskirt is lined with white. When she comes out of the cabinet her skirt is lifted up and wrapped round her head inside-out, as natural as life. Then she gradually lowers it and the whole form slowly disappears down to the ground like a snow-man meltin’ in the sun. No, sir, you can’t beat that girl, not in this town!" "Vixley, I don’t see no end to this graft. Why, after we’ve materialized we can etherealize, can’t we?" "Yes, and then we’ll develop him till he don’t know where he’s at." "And spirit-pictures, too. Felicia’ll take a grand photograph!" "You bet. I’m going to try them big cloth ones that you spray with prussiate o’ potash. You can get blue, yeller, and brown fine. I been workin’ on it already." A ring at the front door-bell interrupted her colloquy. Vixley tiptoed to the window and peeped out; then he turned with a scowl. "It’s Doc Masterson. What the devil does _he_ want, anyway?" "No good, I’ll bet," she replied. "I got to let him in, I s’pose. It won’t do to send him away, the old snake-in-the-grass. He’s too smooth!" "Oh, I ain’t afraid of him. I wan’t born yesterday," was her contemptuous reply. "All the same, you be careful what you say to him, Gert," Vixley cautioned, as he went out into the hall. He reappeared with the doctor. Madam Spoll smiled sweetly. Doctor Masterson greeted her with a sour expression, and shook hands limply. He sat down deliberately, and, pulling out a soiled silk handkerchief, wiped his creased forehead and his bald pate. Then he cleaned his iron-bowed spectacles, blinking his red eyes as he breathed on the lenses. Vixley, from the organ bench, watched him shrewdly, and offered him a cigar. "No, thanks, I don’t smoke," said the doctor peevishly. "Since when?" Vixley asked in surprise. "Since you give me that last ’Flor de Chinatown,’ or whatever it was. When I want to smoke rag carpets again I’ll try another." He showed his black teeth in a vicious grin. Vixley tittered. "What’s wrong, Doc? Looks like you had a grouch. Been takin’ too much of Hasandoka’s medicine lately? You didn’t come round here to look a gift-horse in the mouth, did you?"