Margaret was in her highest spirits at dinner. Knowing nothing of the manifestations of that presence which had taken place in the last twenty-four hours, she thought it absorbingly interesting that her planchette should have “guessed” (so ran her phrase) about the gardener, and from that topic she flitted to an equally interesting form of patience for three which her friend had showed her, promising to initiate us into it after dinner. This she did, and, not knowing that we both above all things wanted to keep planchette at a distance, she was delighted with the success of her game. But suddenly she observed that the evening was burning rapidly away, and swept the cards together at the conclusion of a hand. “Now just half an hour of planchette,” she said. “Oh, mayn’t we play one more hand?” asked Hugh. “It’s the best game I’ve seen for years. Planchette will be dismally slow after this.” “Darling, if the gardener will only communicate again, it won’t be slow,” said she. “But it is such drivel,” said Hugh. “How rude you are! Read your book, then.” Margaret had already got out her machine and a sheet of paper, when Hugh rose. “Please don’t do it to-night, Margaret,” he said. “But why? You needn’t attend.” “Well, I ask you not to, anyhow,” said he. Margaret looked at him closely. “Hughie, you’ve got something on your mind,” she said. “Out with it. I believe you’re nervous. You think there is something queer about. What is it?” I could see Hugh hesitating as to whether to tell her or not, and I gathered that he chose the chance of her planchette inanely scribbling. “Go on, then,” he said. Margaret hesitated: she clearly did not want to vex Hugh, but his insistence must have seemed to her most unreasonable. “Well, just ten minutes,” she said, “and I promise not to think of gardeners.” She had hardly laid her hand on the board when her head fell forward, and the machine began moving. I was sitting close to her, and as it rolled steadily along the paper the writing became visible. “I have come in,” it ran, “but still I can’t find her. Are you hiding her? I will search the room where you are.” What else was written but still concealed underneath the planchette I did not know, for at that moment a current of icy air swept round the room, and at the door, this time unmistakably, came a loud, peremptory knock. Hugh sprang to his feet. “Margaret, wake up,” he said, “something is coming!” The door opened, and there moved in the figure of a man. He stood just within the door, his head bent forward, and he turned it from side to side, peering, it would seem, with eyes staring and infinitely sad, into every corner of the room. “Margaret, Margaret,” cried Hugh again. But Margaret’s eyes were open too; they were fixed on this dreadful visitor.