“Well, them raps, for example. I’ve seen you sit there at your desk, as it might be, and raps come answerin’ questions over yonder on the bookshelf. It’s damned clever--fair puzzles ’em every time. How d’ye get them?” “I tell you I don’t. It’s outside myself.” “Rats! You can tell me, Tom. I’m Griffiths, the safe man. It would set me up for life if I could do it.” For the second time in one morning the medium’s Welsh strain took control. “You’re an impudent, blasphemous rascal, Silas Linden. It’s men like you who come into our movement and give it a bad name. You should know me better than to think that I am a cheat. Get out of my house, you ungrateful rascal!” “Not too much of your lip,” growled the ruffian. “Out you go, or I’ll put you out, brother or no brother.” Silas doubled his great fists and looked ugly for a moment. Then the anticipation of favours to come softened his mood. “Well, well, no harm meant,” he growled, as he made for the door. “I expect I can make a shot at it without your help.” His grievance suddenly overcame his prudence as he stood in the doorway. “You damned, canting, hypocritical box-of-tricks. I’ll be even with you yet.” The heavy door slammed behind him. Mrs. Linden had run in to her husband. “The ’ulking blackguard!” she cried. “I ’eard ’im. What did ’e want?” “Wanted me to put him wise to mediumship. Thinks it’s a trick of some sort that I could teach him.” “The foolish lump! Well, it’s a good thing, for he won’t dare show his face here again.” “Oh, won’t he?” “If he does I’ll slap it for him. To think of his upsettin’ you like this. Why, you’re shakin’ all over.” “I suppose I wouldn’t be a medium if I wasn’t high strung. Someone said we were poets, only more so. But it’s bad just when work is beginning.” “I’ll give you healing.” She put her little, work-worn hands over his high forehead and held them there in silence. “That’s better!” said he. “Well done, Mary. I’ll have a cigarette in the kitchen. That will finish it.” “No, there’s someone here.” She had looked out of the window. “Are you fit to see her? It’s a woman.” “Yes, yes. I am all right now. Show her in.” An instant later a woman entered, a pale, tragic figure in black, whose appearance told its own tale. Linden motioned her to a chair away from the light. Then he looked through his papers. “You are Mrs. Blount, are you not? You had an appointment.” “Yes--I wanted to ask----” “Please ask me nothing. It confuses me.” He was looking at her with the medium’s gaze in his light, grey eyes--that gaze which looks round and through a thing rather than at it. “You have been wise to come, very wise. There is someone beside you who has an urgent message which could not be delayed. I get a name ... Francis ... yes, Francis.” The woman clasped her hands. “Yes, yes, it is the name.” “A dark man, very sad, very earnest--oh, so earnest. He will speak. He must speak! It is urgent. He says, ‘Tink-a-bell.’ Who is Tink-a-bell?”