“And very proud, I should think,” added Mason. “Well, I don’t know about that,” Terbane answered humbly. “I don’t see that the tool need be proud because the worker happens to use it. Yet it is a privilege, of course.” “Good old Terbane!” said Mailey, laying his hand affectionately on the railwayman’s shoulder. “The better the medium the more unselfish. That is my experience. The whole conception of a medium is one who gives himself up for the use of others, and that is incompatible with selfishness. Well, I suppose we had better get to work or Mr. Chang will scold us.” “Who is he?” asked Malone. “Oh, you will soon make the acquaintance of Mr. Chang! We need not sit round the table. A semicircle round the fire does very well. Lights half-down. That is all right. You’ll make yourself comfortable, Terbane. Snuggle among the cushions.” The medium was in the corner of a comfortable sofa, and had fallen at once into a doze. Both Mailey and Malone sat with note books upon their knees awaiting developments. They were not long in coming. Terbane suddenly sat up, his dreamy self transformed into a very alert and masterful individuality. A subtle change had passed over his face. An ambiguous smile fluttered upon his lips, his eyes seemed more oblique and less open, his face projected. The two hands were thrust into the sleeves of his blue lounge jacket. “Good evening,” said he, speaking crisply and in short staccato sentences. “New faces! Who these?” “Good evening, Chang,” said the master of the house. “You know Mr. Mason. This is Mr. Malone who studies our subject. This is Lord Roxton who has helped me to-day.” As each name was mentioned, Terbane made a sweeping Oriental gesture of greeting, bringing his hand down from his forehead. His whole bearing was superbly dignified and very different from the humble little man who had sat down a few minutes before. “Lord Roxton!” he repeated. “An English milord! I knew Lord--Lord Macart. No! I cannot say it. Alas! I called him ‘foreign devil’ then. Chang, too, had much to learn.” “He is speaking of Lord Macartney. That would be over a hundred years ago. Chang was a great living philosopher then,” Mailey explained. “Not lose time!” cried the control. “Much to do to-day! Crowd waiting. Some new, some old. I gather strange folk in my net. Now I go.” He sank back among the cushions. A minute elapsed, then he suddenly sat up. “I want to thank you,” he said, speaking perfect English. “I came two weeks ago. I have thought over all you said. The path is lighter.” “Were you the spirit who did not believe in God?” “Yes, yes! I said so in my anger. I was so weary--so weary. Oh, the time, the endless time, the grey mist, the heavy weight of remorse! Hopeless! Hopeless! And you brought me comfort, you and this great Chinese spirit. You gave me the first kind words I have had since I died!” “When was it that you died?”