“What do you mean, Kate?” he begged. “Am I to give the money where it will do the most good--to the Hallowell Institute, or am I to give it to Helen? Which am I to do?” There was another long silence, and then the voice stammered; “If--if you have wronged me, or my daughter, or the poor, you must make restitution.” The hand of the old man was heard to fall heavily upon the arm of his chair. His voice rose unhappily. “That is no answer, Kate!” he cried. “Did you come from the dead to preach to me? Tell me--what am I to do--leave my money to Helen, or to the Institute?” The cry of the old man vibrated in the air. No voice rose to answer. “Kate!” he entreated. Still there was silence. “Speak to me!” he commanded. The silence became eloquent with momentous possibilities. So long did it endure, that the pain of the suspense was actual. The voice of Rainey, choked and hoarse with fear, broke it with an exclamation that held the sound of an oath. He muttered thickly, “What in the name of--” He was hushed by a swift chorus of hisses. The voice of Hallowell was again uplifted. “Why won’t she answer me?” he begged hysterically of Vance. “Can’t you--can’t the medium make her speak?” During the last few moments the music from the organ had come brokenly. The hands upon the keys moved unsteadily, drunkenly. Now they halted altogether and in the middle of a chord the music sank and died. Upon the now absolute silence the voice of Vance, when he spoke, sounded strangely unfamiliar. It had lost the priest-like intonation. Its confidence had departed. It showed bewilderment and alarm. “I--I don’t understand,” stammered the showman. “Ask her again. Put your question differently.” Carefully, slowly, giving each word its value, Mr. Hallowell raised his voice in entreaty. “Kate,” he cried, “I have made a new will, leaving the money to the poor. The old will gives it to Helen. Shall I sign the new will or not? Shall I give the money to Helen, or the Institute? Answer me! Yes or no.” Before the eyes of all, the apparition, as though retreating to the cabinet, swayed backward, then staggered forward. There was a sob, human, heart-broken, a cry, thrilling with distress; a tumult of weeping, fierce and uncontrollable. They saw the figure tear away the white kerchief and cap, and trample them upon the floor. They saw the figure hold itself erect. From it, the voice of Vera cried aloud, in despair. “I can’t! I can’t!” she sobbed. “It’s a lie! I am not your sister! Turn on the lights,” the girl cried. “Turn on the lights!” There was a crash of upturned chairs, the sound of men struggling, and the room was swept with light. In the doorway Winthrop was holding apart Vance and the reporter. In the centre of the room stood Vera, her head bent in shame, her body shaken and trembling, her hair streaming to her waist.