After Dick had decided to attend the sÉance he read the article more carefully. It purported to be written by a man who had given up all faith in religion and all forms of spiritual life. He had tried to find satisfaction in the pleasures and occupations of his daily existence, and had treated everything else as a played-out fallacy. Then two of his sons had been killed in the war, and life had become a painful, hollow mockery. By and by he became impressed by the thought that his sons were alive and wanted to speak to him. Sometimes, too, he had felt as though presences were near him, but who they were or what they meant he could not tell. After this he had by pure accident heard two people talking about their experiences at a sÉance, and one had distinctly stated that he had seen and spoken to a dear dead friend. This caused the writer to turn his attention to spiritualism. The result was that he remained no longer a materialist, but was an ardent believer in the spiritual world. He distinctly stated that he had had irrefutable assurance that his sons were alive, that they had spoken to him, and had brought him messages from the spirit world. Things which before had been bewildering and cruel now became plain and full of comfort. Life was larger, grander, and full of a great hope.

Dick's heart warmed as he read. Surely here was light. Surely, too, he would be able to find an explanation to what for years had been a mystery to him.

He thought of the conversations he had heard in Eastroyd, in relation to this, to which he had paid but little attention because his mind had been too full of other matters, but which were now full of significance. His mind again reverted to the discussion on the Angels at Mons. If there were no truth in the stories, how could so many have believed in them? How could there be such clear and definite testimonies from men who had actually seen?

And had not he, Dick Faversham, both seen and heard? What was the meaning of the repeated appearances of that beautiful, luminous figure with great, yearning eyes and arms outstretched to save?

Yes; he would go to this sÉance. He would inquire, and he would learn.

He felt he had need of guidance. He knew he had come to another crisis in his life. The proposal which had been made to him was alluring; it appealed to the very depths of his being.

Power, position, fame! That was what it meant. To take a leading part in the great drama of life, to be a principal factor in the emancipation of the world! But there was another side. If this movement was spreading with such gigantic strides—were to spread to England and dominate the thoughts and actions of the toiling millions of the country—what might it not mean?

He was sure of nothing. He could not grasp the issues clearly; he could not see his way to the end. But it was grand; it was stupendous! Besides, to come into daily, hourly, contact with that sublime woman—to constantly feel the magnetic charm of her presence! The thought stirred his pulses, fired his imagination! How great she was, too. How she had swept aside the world's conventions and man-made moralities. She seemed like a warm breath from the lands of sunshine and song. And yet he was not sure.

For hours he sat thinking, weighing pros and cons, trying to mark out the course of his life. Yes; he had done well. Since he had left Wendover Park he had become an influence in the industrial life of the North; he had become proclaimed a leader among the working classes; in all probability he would soon be able to voice their cause in the Mother of Parliaments.

But what did it all amount to after all? A Labour Member of Parliament! The tool of the unwashed, uneducated masses! A voting machine at £400 a year! Besides, what could he do? What could the Labour Party do? When their programme was realised, if ever it was realised, what did it all amount to? The wealth, the power, would still be in the hands of the ruling, educated classes, while he would be a mere nobody.

"Sticking-plasters."

The term stuck to him—mocked him. He was only playing at reform. But the dream of Olga—the emancipation of the race! the dethronement of the parasites—the bloodsuckers of the world!—a new heaven and a new earth!—while he, Dick Faversham, would be hailed as the prophet, the leader of this mighty movement, with infinite wealth at his command and power unlimited. Power!

Men professed to sneer at Trotsky; they called him a criminal, an outrage to humanity. But what a position he held! He was more feared, more discussed, than any man in the world—he who a few months before was unknown, unheard of. And he defied kings and potentates, for kings and potentates were powerless before him. While behind him was a new Russia, a new world.

To be such a man in England! To make vocal and real the longings of the greatest Democracy in the world, and to lead it. That would mean the premier place in the world, and——

So he weighed the position, so he thought of this call which had come to him.

During the afternoon he left his hotel and made his way towards the house where the spiritualistic sÉance was to be held. In spite of all his dreams of social reforms, and the appeal made to his own ambitions, his mind constantly reverted to the vision which had again come to him—to the influences he could not understand.

He found the house, and was admitted without difficulty. It was in a commonplace, shabby-looking street not far from Tottenham Court Road. On his arrival he was admitted into a room, where an absurd attempt had been made to give it an Oriental appearance. An old woman occupied the only arm-chair in the room. She looked up at his entrance, stared at him for a few seconds, and then muttered indistinctly. He was followed by half a dozen others who might have been habituÉs of the place.

Presently a man entered, who glanced inquiringly around the room. He appeared to be about fifty years of age, and had light watery-looking eyes. He made his way to Dick.

"You desire to be present at the sÉance?" he asked of Dick.

"If I may?" was Dick's reply.

"You come as a sincere, earnest, reverent inquirer?"

"I hope so."

"Is there any friend you have lost, any message you want to receive?" and he scrutinised Dick closely.

"At a time like this, we have all lost friends," Dick replied.

"Ah, then you come as an inquirer?"

"That is true. I have come to learn."

"Certainly. But of course there are certain expenses. Would it be convenient for you to give me ten shillings?"

Dick gave him a ten-shilling note, whereupon the man turned to another visitor.

"A great medium, but keen on business," Dick heard someone say.

"Yes, but why not? Mediums must live the same as other people."

Another man entered. He was much younger than the other. He looked very unhealthy, and his hands twitched nervously.

"The room is ready," he said, and his voice was toneless. "Perhaps you would like to see it and examine it before the light is excluded, so that you may be sure there is no deception."

Dick with two others accepted the man's invitation. The room into which he was led was carpetless and completely unfurnished save for a number of uncushioned chairs and a plain deal table. Nothing else was visible. There was not a picture on the walls, not a sign of decoration. Dick and the others professed satisfaction with what they had seen.

A few minutes later the others joined them, accompanied by the man who had been spoken of as a "great medium," also the man with the nervous, twitching hands, who Dick afterwards learned was the leader of the two mediums.

"My friends," he said, "will you seat yourselves around the table? We promise you nothing. The spirits may come, and they may not. I, personally, am a medium of the old order. I do not pretend to tell you what spirits say; I make no claim to be a clairvoyant. If the spirits come they will speak for themselves—if they wish to speak. If there are persons here who desire a message from the spirit world they will, if they receive such a message at all, receive it direct from the spirits. I pretend to explain nothing, just as I promise nothing. But in the past spirits have come to such gatherings as this, and many comforting messages have been given. That is all."

The party then sat down at the table, placed their hands upon it in such a way that the fingers of one person joined those of the persons sitting next, and thus formed a circle. All light was excluded.

For three minutes there was silence. No sound was heard; no light was seen. All was darkness and silence.

Then suddenly there was a faint voice—a child's voice. It sounded as though it came from the ceiling.

"I am come," wailed the voice.

"Yes, and I am come." This time the voice seemed to come from the direction of the window. It was hoarse, and coarse.

"Who are you?

"I am Jim Barkum. I was killed at Mons."

"Anything to tell us?"

"No; nothin' except I'm all right. I come fro' Sheffield. If you could tell my mother, Emily Barkum, that I'm very happy I'd be very thankful."

"What's your mother's address?"

"Number 14 Tinkers Street."

After this a number of other spirits purported to come, one of whom said he was the son of a sitter in the circle, and that he had been killed in the war.

"Will you reveal yourself?" said the medium.

Some phosphorous light shone in the darkness, in the radiance of which was the outline of a face.

"Do you recognise it?" asked the medium.

"It might be Jack," Dick heard a voice say.

After this there seemed to be a quarrel among the spirits. There was a good deal of confused talk and a certain amount of anger expressed. Also a number of feeble jokes were passed and far-away laughter heard. Evidently the spirits were in a frolicsome humour.

Dick, whose purpose in coming to the sÉance was not to take part in a fiasco, grew impatient. In his state of mind he felt he had wasted both money and time. It was true he had seen and heard what he could not explain, but it amounted to nothing. Everything seemed silly beyond words. There was nothing convincing in anything, and it was all artificial.

"I should like to ask a question," he ventured at length.

"Go ahead," said a voice, which seemed to come from the ceiling.

"I should like to ask this: why is it that you, who have solved the great secret of death, should, now you are permitted to come back and speak to those of us who haven't, talk such horrible drivel?"

"Hear! hear!" assented a member of the circle.

"Oh, it's this way," answered the spirit: "every one of you sitting here have your attendant spirits. If you are intellectual, intellectual spirits attend you and come to talk to you, but as you are not they just crack silly jokes."

There was laughter at this, not only from the sitters, but among the spirits, of which the room, by this time, seemed to be full.

"That's not bad," replied Dick. "One might think you'd said that before, but as it happens we are not all fools, and I personally would like something more sensible. This is a time when thousands of hearts are breaking," he added.

"What would you like to know?"

It was another voice that spoke now—a sweeter and more refined voice, and might have belonged to a woman.

"I would like to know if it is true that each of us have attendant spirits, as one of you said just now?"

"Yes; that is true."

"You mean guardian angels?"

"Yes; if you like to call them that. But they are not all guardian angels. There are spirits who try to do harm, as well as those who try to guard and to save."

"Are they here now?"

"Yes; they are here now. I can see one behind you at this moment."

The atmosphere of the room had suddenly changed. It seemed as though something solemn and elevating had entered and driven away the frivolous, chattering presences which had filled the room. A hush had fallen upon the sitters too, and all ears seemed to be listening eagerly.

"You say you can see a spirit behind me now?"

"Yes."

"Tell me, is it a good spirit or a bad one?"

"I do not know. The face is hidden."

"But surely you can cause the face to be seen. I am anxious to learn—to know."

"I think I can tell directly. Wait."

There was a silence for perhaps ten seconds; then the voice spoke again.

"The spirit will not show its face," it said, "but it is always with you. It never leaves you night nor day."

"Why does it not leave me?"

"I cannot tell; I do not know."

"Tell me," persisted Dick, "you do not seem like the other spirits who have been here—if they are spirits," he added in an undertone. "Can you not find out if I am watched over for any particular purpose?"

"Yes, yes, I can. I can see now. It is a guardian angel, and she loves you."

"She loves me—why does she love me?"

"When she was alive she loved you. I think you were engaged. But she died, and you never married her. But she is always watching over you—trying to help you. Were you ever engaged to anyone who died?"

"That is surely a leading question," was Dick's retort. "Is that all you can tell me?"

"That is all, except that you have enemies, one in particular, who is trying to do you harm, and your guardian angel is always near you, seeking to protect you. Have you an enemy?"

"Possibly—I don't know. Is that enemy a man or a woman?"

"I cannot tell. Everything is becoming hazy and dim. I am not a spirit of the highest order. There, everything is blank to me now."

After this the sÉance continued for some time, but as far as Dick was concerned, it had but little definite interest. Many things took place which he could not explain, but to him they meant nothing. They might have been caused by spirits, but then again they might have been the result of trickery. Nothing was clear to him except the one outstanding fact that no light had been thrown on the problem of his life. He wanted some explanation of the wonderful apparition which had so affected his life, and he found none. For that matter, although the spirit world had been demonstrated to him, he had no more conviction about the spirit world after the sÉance than he had before. All the same, he could not help believing, not because of the sÉance, but almost in spite of it, that a presence was constantly near him, and that this presence had a beneficent purpose in his life.

"You were not convinced?" asked a man of him as presently he left the house.

Dick was silent.

"Sometimes I think I am, and sometimes I think I am not," went on the man. "It's all a mystery. But I know one thing."

"What?" asked Dick.

"My old mother, who held fast to the old simple faith in Christ, had no doubts nor fears," was the man's reply. "I was with her when she was dying, and she told me that angels were beckoning to her. She said she saw the face of her Lord, and that He was waiting to welcome her on the other side. I wish I could see as she saw."

"Did she believe in angels?" asked Dick.

"She had no doubt," replied the man. "She said that God sent His angels to guard those they loved, and that those angels helped them to fight evil spirits."

"Accepting the idea of a spirit world, it seems reasonable," and Dick spoke like one thinking aloud rather than to be answering the man.

"Did not angels minister to Christ after He was tempted of the Devil?" persisted the man. "Did not angels help the Apostles? I don't think I'll bother about spiritualism any more. There may be truth in it; there may not; but I'd rather get hold of the faith my mother had."

"I wonder?" mused Dick, as he went away alone. "I wonder? But I'll have to send an answer to Olga. My word, what a glorious woman, and what a career! But I don't see my way clear."

He made his way back to his hotel, thinking and wondering. He felt he had come to a crisis in his life, but his way was not plain, and he did not know where to look for light.