There came suddenly from the cabinet three sharp raps. These were instantly answered by other quick rappings upon the library table. “They are beginning!” chanted the voice of Vance. The music of the organ ceased. It was at once followed by the notes of a guitar that seemed to float in space, the strings vibrating, not as though touched by human hands, but in fitful, meaningless chords like those of an Aeolian harp. “That is Kiowa, your control, Mrs. Marsh,” announced Vance eagerly. “Do you desire to speak to him?” “Not tonight,” Mrs. Marsh answered. She raised her voice. “Not tonight, Kiowa,” she repeated. “Thank you for coming. Good night.” In deep, guttural accents, a man’s voice came from the ceiling. “Good night,” it called. With a final, ringing wail, the music of the guitar suddenly ceased. Again rose the swelling low notes of the organ. Above it came the quick pattering of footsteps. The voice of Rainey, filled with alarm, cried, “some one touched me!” “Are you sure your hands are held?” demanded Vance reprovingly. “Yes,” panted Rainey, “both of them. But something put its hand on my forehead. It was cold.” In an excited whisper, a voice in the circle cried, “Look, look!” and before the eyes of all, a star rose in the darkness. For a moment it wavered over the cabinet and then fluttered swiftly across the room and remained stationary above the head of the German Professor. “There is your star, Professor,” cried Vance. “When the Professor is in the circle,” he announced proudly, “that star always appears.” He was interrupted by a startled exclamation from Lee. “Something touched my face,” explained the young man apologetically, “and spoke to me.” The music sank to a murmur, and the room became alive with swift, rushing sounds and soft whisperings. The voice of Mrs. Marsh, low and eager, could be heard appealing to an invisible presence. “The results are marvelous,” chanted Vance, “marvelous! The medium is showing wonderful power. If any one desires to ask a question, he should do so now. The conditions will never be better.” He paused expectantly. “Mr. Hallowell,” he prompted, “is it your wish to communicate with any one in the spirit world?” There was a long pause, and then the voice of Mr. Hallowell, harsh and shaken, answered, “Yes.” “With whom?” demanded Vance. There was again another longer pause, and then, above the confusion of soft whisperings, the voice of the old man rose in sharp staccato; “My sister, Catherine Coates.” His tone hardened, became obdurate, final. “But, I must see her, and hear her speak!” Not for an instant did Vance hesitate. In tense, sepulchral tones, he demanded of the darkness, “Is the spirit of Catherine Coates present?” The whisperings and murmurs ceased. The silence of the room was broken sharply by three quick raps. “Yes,” intoned Vance, “she is present.” The voice of Hallowell protested fiercely. “I won’t have that! I want to see her!”