Upstairs Leigh hesitated, as though finding it difficult to broach his subject. At length he asked, “Mr. Carson—would you mind telling me if you have had any peculiar dreams lately.” Carson stared at him, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Dreams?” he repeated. “Oh—I see. Well, Mr. Leigh, I may as well tell you that you can’t frighten me. Your compatriots—the other occultists I’ve entertained—have already tried it.” Leigh raised his thick eyebrows. “Yes? Did they ask you whether you’d dreamed?” “Several did—yes.” “And you told them?” “No.” Then as Leigh leaned back in his chair, a puzzled expression on his face, Carson went on slowly, “Although, really, I’m not quite sure.” “You mean?” “I _think_—I have a vague impression—that I have dreamed lately. But I can’t be sure. I can’t remember anything of the dream, you see. And—oh, very probably your brother occultists put the idea into my mind!” “Perhaps,” Leigh said non-committally, getting up. He hesitated. “Mr. Carson, I’m going to ask you a rather presumptuous question. Is it necessary for you to live in this house.” Carson sighed resignedly. “When I was first asked that question I explained that I wanted a quiet place to work on a novel, and that any quiet place would do. But it isn’t easy to find ’em. Now that I have this Witch Room, and I’m turning out my work so easily, I see no reason why I should move and perhaps upset my program. I’ll vacate this house when I finish my novel, and then you occultists can come in and turn it into a museum or do whatever you want with it. I don’t care. But until the novel is finished I intend to stay here.” Leigh rubbed his chin. “Indeed. I can understand your point of view. But—is there no other place in the house where you can work?” He watched Carson’s face for a moment, and then went on swiftly. “I don’t expect you to believe me. You are a materialist. Most people are. But there are a few of us who know that above and beyond what men call science there is a greater science that is built on laws and principles which to the average man would be almost incomprehensible. If you have read Machen you will remember that he speaks of the gulf between the world of consciousness and the world of matter. It is possible to bridge that gulf. The Witch Room is such a bridge! Do you know what a whispering-gallery is?” “Eh?” Carson said, staring. “But there’s no——” “An analogy—merely an analogy. A man may whisper a word in a gallery—or a cave—and if you are standing in a certain spot a hundred feet away you will hear that whisper, although someone ten feet away will not. It’s a simple trick of acoustics—bringing the sound to a focal point. And this principle can be applied to other things besides sound. To any wave impulse—_even to thought_!” Carson tried to interrupt, but Leigh kept on.