A decided thump--"No." Guided by the rapping Mrs. Lambert and Kate moved down to the foot of the table, sitting close beside Clarke, thus leaving Morton and Weissmann alone with the sleeping girl. No sooner were they rearranged than the table began to move, precisely as though pushed by the girl's feet. Still guided by the rapping, Weissmann and Morton moved with the table, but retained their threads of silk. Morton's pity had given place to a feeling of resentment at this device to get them farther away, and he drew his tell-tale thread tight across his finger. "If she moves she is betrayed," he thought with hardening heart. No sooner were they settled than a fumbling sound began in the middle of the table, and the pencil was twice lifted and dropped. Following this the leaves of the writing-pad rustled as though being thumbed by boyish hands. Kate shivered and cried out: "This is uncanny! Morton, are you doing this?" "Certainly not," he replied, curtly. "Do you feel any motion in your thread?" asked Weissmann, in a quiet voice. "None whatever," Morton replied. "Then the psychic is not moving." Again they sat in silence, and after some minutes the fumbling began again and the horn was heard scraping slowly about, as if being lifted with effort only to fall back with a clang. "Is it too heavy?" asked Clarke. Three sharp raps replied--an angry "yes"--and then, with a petulant swing, the instrument apparently left the table and floated upon the air. In deep amazement Morton listened for some movement, some sound from Viola, but there was none, not a breath, not a rustle of motion where she sat, and the silk thread was tight and calm. "She has nothing to do with _that_," he said, beneath his breath. Kate called excitedly, "Oh! It touched me." "What touched you?" asked Weissmann. "The horn." "Did it bump you?" "No, it seemed to float against me." Morton spoke out sharply: "Where is Mr. Clarke?" "Right here on my right," replied Kate. "What idiotic business!" he exclaimed, mystified, nevertheless. The horn dropped to the middle of the table, but was immediately swept into the air again as if by a new and more vigorous hand, and a voice heavily mixed with air, but a man's voice unmistakably, spoke directly to Morton, sternly, contemptuously. "We meet you on your own level. You asked for material tests, and now conditions being as you have made them--proceed. What would you have us do?" "Who are you?" "I am Donald McLeod--grandfather to the psychic."