“Oh, not to-night,” said Hugh. “Let’s have an evening off.” Margaret disregarded this. “It’s no use asking planchette questions,” she went on, “because there is in your mind some sort of answer to them. If I ask whether it will be fine to-morrow, for instance, it is probably I--though indeed I don’t mean to push--who makes the pencil say ‘yes.’” “And then it usually rains,” remarked Hugh. “Not always: don’t interrupt. The interesting thing is to let the pencil write what it chooses. Very often it only makes loops and curves--though they may mean something--and every now and then a word comes, of the significance of which I have no idea whatever, so I clearly couldn’t have suggested it. Yesterday evening, for instance, it wrote ‘gardener’ over and over again. Now what did that mean? The gardener here is a Methodist with a chin-beard. Could it have meant him? Oh, it’s time to dress. Please don’t be late, my cook is so sensitive about soup.” We rose, and some connection of ideas about “gardener” linked itself up in my mind. “By the way, what’s that cottage in the field by the foot-bridge?” I asked. “Is that the gardener’s cottage?” “It used to be,” said Hugh. “But the chin-beard doesn’t live there: in fact nobody lives there. It’s empty. If I was owner here, I should put the chin-beard into it, and take the rent off his wages. Some people have no idea of economy. Why did you ask?” I saw Margaret was looking at me rather attentively. “Curiosity,” I said. “Idle curiosity.” “I don’t believe it was,” said she. “But it was,” I said. “It was idle curiosity to know whether the house was inhabited. As I passed it, going down to the club-house, I felt sure it was empty, but coming back I felt so sure that there was someone there that I rapped at the door, and indeed walked round it.” Hugh had preceded us upstairs, as she lingered a little. “And there was no one there?” she asked. “It’s odd: I had just the same feeling as you about it.” “That explains planchette writing ‘gardener’ over and over again,” said I. “You had the gardener’s cottage on your mind.” “How ingenious!” said Margaret. “Hurry up and dress.” A gleam of strong moonlight between my drawn curtains when I went up to bed that night led me to look out. My room faced the garden and the fields which I had traversed that afternoon, and all was vividly illuminated by the full moon. The thatched cottage with its white walls close by the stream was very distinct, and once more, I suppose, the reflection of the light on the glass of one of its windows made it appear that the room was lit within. It struck me as odd that twice that day this illusion should have been presented to me, but now a yet odder thing happened. Even as I looked the light was extinguished.