Meanwhile, the Baron, puzzled and grieved as the days went on, to see no sign of repentance in Hannah, for the cruel part she had played with regard to her family, began to frequent his club more often than before. His wife had not yet quite lost her old fascination for him--it was misery to him to believe her cold-hearted and unfilial. He never asked her to sit with him now--had almost given up talking of Spiritualism before her. Slight suspicions had crept into his mind of late, that the office of mediumship had not improved Hannah, in mind or manners--that she was more defiant and bold, and less grateful and submissive, than she used to be. Success in life could not alone have had the power to change her character thus, and he hoped by keeping her quiet and free from all these trances and controls, to see her one day return to the amiable and child-like disposition she had enjoyed. His longing to see his old friend Ricardo was very keen, and if he could have found another medium through whom to communicate with him, he would have gladly availed himself of the opportunity. But he was unable to do so, and he would not urge Hannah to sit for him. Sometimes the longing was very great--sometimes he felt sure that Ricardo shared his anxiety and wished to speak to him. More than once, as his wife slumbered by his side, he had fancied he heard a faint, gasping whisper on the air, in the tones of his old friend. But it had never culminated beyond that, and Hannah’s objection to holding a séance with him was so palpably expressed, that he did not care to urge her to do that which was unpalatable to her. Indeed, at this time, her arguments against the practice of Spiritualism both in public and private, were so severe, that Von Steinberg honestly believed she had come to look upon it as something unlawful and forbidden. But his eyes were to be opened, and in a manner he little suspected. On a certain afternoon, in summer, he was seated at his club in one of those deep arm-chairs with a high back, which, when turned from the company, entirely conceal their occupant. The day was warm, and the Baron had lunched and felt sleepy. He wheeled his chair into a corner of the club room, and turning its back to the centre of the apartment, prepared to indulge in a snooze. Men entered and left--the buzz of voices went on around him, but still he dozed--half awake and half asleep--too lazy to shake himself into complete consciousness. By and by his first irresistible desire to slumber wore off, and he sat there, listening to what went on around him. Whilst in this condition he heard two men conversing together a few paces off, and soon recognised one voice as that of Major Maitland, who was a frequent visitor in Portland Place.