"I don't think I like this," Miss O'Shane murmured as she laid her hand on my arm. Her usually pale face was paler still, and there was an expression of haunted fear in her big, gray-green eyes as she hesitated at the doorway.
"I don't care much for such nonsense myself," I admitted as we followed the others reluctantly into the refectory.
"Be close to me while this progresses, Friend Trowbridge," de Grandin whispered as he guided me to a seat beside him. "I care not much for this business of the monkey, but it may be the old she-fool yonder will serve our purpose unwittingly. The greatest danger is to Mademoiselle Dunroe. Keep watch on her."
The candles in the dining-room wall sconces were extinguished, and with Miss Prettybridge at the head of the table, the entire company was seated at the board, each one with his hands outspread on the dark, polished oak before him, his thumbs touching lightly, his little fingers in contact with those of his neighbors to right and left.
"Spirits," Miss Prettybridge, in her rôle of priestess, threw out the customary challenge, "spirits, if you are here tonight, signify your presence by rapping once on the table."
Thirty seconds or so elapsed without an answer to the lady's invitation. A woman half-way down the board tittered in half-hysterical embarrassment, and her neighbor silenced her with an impatient sh-s-s-sh! Then, distinctly as though thumped with a knuckle, the ancient table gave forth a resounding crack.
"If the spirit is a man, rap once; if a woman, twice," instructed Miss Prettybridge.
Another pause, somewhat longer, this time, then slowly, distinctly, two soft knocks from the very center of the table.
"Oh, a woman!" trilled one of the girls. "How perfectly thrilling!"
"And your name is—what?" demanded the mistress of ceremonies in a voice which trembled lightly in spite of her effort at control.
Thirteen slow, clear strokes sounded on the table, followed by one, then by eighteen, then others in series until nine distinct groups of blows were recorded.
"M-a-r-i-e-a-n-n-e—Marie Anne—a French girl!" exclaimed Miss Prettybridge. "Whom do you wish to speak with, Marie Anne? Rap when I come to the name as I call the roll. Dr. Trowbridge?"
No response.
"Dr. de Grandin?"
A sharp, affirmative knock answered her, and the visitant was bidden spell out her message.
Followed a rapid, telegraphic series of blows on the table, sometimes coming so quickly that it was impossible for us to decode them.
I listened as attentively as I could; so did everyone else, except Jules de Grandin. After a moment, during which his sleek blond head was thrust forward inquiringly, he turned his attention to Dunroe O'Shane.
The logs were burning low in the fireplace, but a shifting, flickering glow soaked through the darkness now and again, its red reflection lighting up the girl's face with a strange, unearthly illumination like the nimbus about the head of a saint in a mediæval painting.
I felt the Frenchman's fingers stiffen against mine, and realized the cause of his tenseness as I stole a fleeting glance at Miss O'Shane. Her eyes had closed, and her red, petulant lips were lightly parted, as though in sleep. Over her small, regular features had crept a look of longing ecstasy, like that of an hieromartyr breathless with adoration.
Even my limited experience with psychotherapy was sufficient to tell me she was in a condition verging on hypnosis, if not actually over the borderline of consciousness, and I was
