To Orme the next half-hour was very long. He seated himself upon the floor of the closet and ate the sandwich which the clairvoyant had brought him. Occasionally he could hear her moving about the apartment.

“Poor charlatan!” he thought. “She is herself a ‘good sort.’ I suppose she excuses the sham of her profession on the ground that it deceives many persons into happiness.”

He struck another match and looked again at the ghostly paraphernalia about him. Near him hung a black robe with a large hood. He crushed one of the folds in his hands and was surprised to discover how thin it was and into how small space it could be compressed. Not far away stood several pairs of large slippers of soft black felt. The white robes were also of thinnest gossamer—flimsy stuff that swayed like smoke when he breathed toward it.

By the light of a third match he looked more carefully at the other apparatus. There was a large pair of angel-wings, of the conventional shape. The assortment of masks was sufficiently varied for the representation of many types of men and women of different ages.

The match burned down to his fingers, and again he sat in darkness, wondering at the elaborateness of the medium’s outfit. She was a fraud, but he liked her—yes, pitied her—and he felt inclined to excuse in so far as he could. For the kiss which he had given her he felt no regret; it was hers, in all innocence, for what of good she might have found in it.

The minutes dragged by. He thought of the precious documents, safe in the inside pocket of his coat. What they were, he did not try to determine, but it was plain that they must be of international importance. The talk of ships and Alcatrante’s references to commissions had puzzled him. But suddenly came to his mind the newspaper rumors that Japan was secretly adding vessels to her navy through the agency of a South American republic which was having cruisers and battle-ships built in Europe, to turn them over at their completion, to the Japanese. There was, as yet, no international proof of this policy, for none of the ships had been completed, but the South American country was certainly adopting a policy of naval construction quite out of proportion to her position among the Powers.

How came the girl to be involved in this mix-up of nations? Through her father, of course—but who was he? A concessionaire? Her courage and determination, employed against shrewd men, was as notable as the beauty of her face and mind, for she was like a queen in her assured comprehension.

How it quickened his heart to think of her! The poor, faded medium, with the smolder of old flames in her eyes, with the records of hard experience written on her face, was a child in stature beside the girl—a child with yearnings that could never be satisfied.

Well, the girl had doubted him. He could not wonder at that, for the facts were all against him, and she had known him only for a few hours. Yet he had hoped—he had believed—that she would know the truth and the devotion in him without further evidence. Perhaps he had expected too much from her noble insight. After all—and that was part of the loveliness of her—she was a very human girl.

The panel swung open, and Madame Alia stood looking down at him. She spoke in an undertone.

“The Japs are still watching. Arima is sitting on the fire-escape by his window, and I can hear the other fellow moving around in the hall outside my door. I think they’re on to your being here.”

Orme thought for a minute. “I’ve got to get away soon,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you that there are papers that must be delivered before twelve o’clock to-night.”

“Can I take them for you?”

“I don’t know where to tell you to take them.”

She sighed. “I guess you don’t trust me.”

“Trust you? Of course, I do. But the truth is, Madame Alia, that it is going to need hard work on my part to find the person to whom the papers belong. I don’t even know his name.” Secretly he condemned himself now, because he had not overcome his scruples and looked at the address on the envelope while he had the chance.

Again she sighed. “Well,” she said, “of course, it’s beyond me. Do you—do you mind my knowing your name?”

“Pardon me,” he said. “I didn’t realize that you didn’t know it already. My name is Robert Orme.”

She looked at him with a smile. “Well, Mr. Orme, I’ll get you out of this. I think I know a way. But you’ll have to do just what I tell you.”

“I depend on you,” he said.

She laid her hand on his shoulder with a friendly pressure. “You’ll have to wait in here a while longer—and you’ll have to keep mighty quiet. I’ve got a circle at three o’clock—a sÉance. They come once a week, and I can’t well put them off. You see, I work alone. It’s a small circle, and I never liked the idea of helpers; they’re likely to give you away sooner or later. I stretch a curtain across this corner for a cabinet, and they tie me to a chair—and then things happen.” She smiled faintly. “I know you won’t hurt my game.”

“All your secrets are safe with me.” He glanced at the dark interior of the closet.

“I didn’t know any other place to put you,” she said simply. “They’d have got you, if you had went to the hall—Sh-h!” The panel closed and she was away. A moment later he heard her talking with Arima, who apparently had again climbed up to her window.

“Thief must be here,” said Arima. “He not been in hall. My friend know. We see him come in here.”

“I told you he wasn’t here. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you call the cops.”

“We not want cops. I come in and watch.”

“But I’m going to hold a circle here in a few minutes.”

“What?” Arima’s voice had a puzzled note.

“A sÉance. The spirits come. You know. All sit around, with the light turned down, and spirits come.”

“Oh!” The Japanese either understood or pretended to. “I come, then.”

After a period of hesitation the woman said: “Why, yes, I guess you can—if you keep still. Your friend can come, too. You’re a neighbor, and I won’t charge you anything.”

“All right. I call my friend.” Footsteps crossed the room and the door to the hall was opened. Presently it closed again, and Orme heard fragments of a conversation in Japanese.

From other sounds Orme gathered that the woman was arranging chairs. “Sit here, you two,” he heard her say. “You’ll have to keep quiet when the rest come. Do just what they do? Be sure, now.”

The bell now began to ring at frequent intervals, each time announcing the arrival of newcomers. Madame Alia’s clients were quickly assembling; Orme could hear them whispering among themselves.

A clinking noise he did not at first understand. Then he realized that it was the sound of silver dropping into a hat. Someone was taking up the collection. He knew, too, when they hung the curtain across his corner of the room, shutting off the space in which the medium was to sit, and when they lighted the gas and drew down the shades at the window. Then he heard them lead her into the cabinet and tie her to the chair.

The silence that followed these preparations grew oppressive. The clients were waiting for the right “current,” and Madame Alia, Orme had no doubt, was using the interval to free herself from her bonds.

In a little while someone started the hymn, “Over the River They Beckon to Me,” and the others took it up—women’s voices, chiefly, struggling through the melody in their trebles, with the mumbled undertones of one or two men.

A draught of cooler air struck Orme’s cheek; a hand found his shoulder; a voice whispered. Under cover of the singing Madame Alia had opened the panel. Her lips were close to his ear. In the creepy tension of the waiting Orme had almost forgotten that Madame Alia’s ghosts were a cheat, and the touch of her hand made him start, but her first words brought him to himself.

“Hush!” she whispered. “You’ll get your chance in a minute. Put on a pair of black felt slippers. Here”—she groped along the floor, and gave him the slippers. They were large, and went easily over his shoes.

“Now the black robe, just behind you.”

He took it from its peg, and slipped into it.

“Cover your head and face with the hood.”

He did as directed, finding the eyeholes with his fingers.

“Hide your hands in the sleeves. Now, listen. I’m going to keep them busy looking at the curtains. When you hear a gong ring three times, come through the panel, and go between the curtain and the wall-hanging, on the side toward the window. The gas is down to a pinpoint. Those folks think they can see a lot more than they do. But they won’t see you, unless you show some white. Anyhow they’ll be watching the cabinet. Keep outside the circle of chairs, and work your way to the door of the next room. There are hangings there; go through them. You’ll find light enough in the next room to get to the door into the hall. First stuff the robe under the sofa. You’ll find your hat under there. You left it here when you came, and I tucked it away. You’d better wear the slippers down to the street. Never mind about returning them—unless you care to come. Now, be careful.”

“The Japanese—where are they?”

“At the other side of the circle. Don’t worry about them. They’re only kids when it comes to my game. Now, wait till I get the things I need.” She slipped past him in the closet, and he heard faint rustlings as she gathered her paraphernalia. Soon she was back at the panel. The last stanza of the hymn was drawing to a close. “Be sure you follow directions,” she whispered.

“I will.” He pressed her hand gratefully.

“And—and you won’t forget me.”

With a sudden yearning that seemed to be beyond her control, she leaned her body against him. Her warm breath was on his face; her arm found its way around him and held him convulsively.

“Oh,” she whispered, “I can’t bear to have you go. Don’t forget me—please don’t forget me.”

“I shall never forget you, and what you have done for me,” he answered gravely.

“You will come back and see me—sometime?”

“I will come back. And I should like to bring a friend, who will have even more cause to thank you than I have."

“A friend?” A tinge of apprehension colored the question: “A—a woman?”

“Yes.”

The soft curves of her body were quickly withdrawn from him.

“Oh,” she whispered, “I don’t believe I want to see her.”

For a moment she stood motionless. Then she said:

“Are you sorry you kissed me?”

“No,” he answered, “I am not.”

Her lips brushed his forehead, and he was alone. Groping with one hand, he assured himself that the panel remained open. All in black, he awaited the signal.

And now strange manifestations began in the room without. There were rappings, some faint, some loud—coming apparently from all quarters. Invisible fingers swept gently across the strings of a guitar. Then came the soft clangor of a gong—once, twice, three times.

Orme slipped through the panel, into the cabinet. Keeping close to the wall, he moved to the left and worked out into the room. The rappings were now louder than before—loud and continuous enough to cover any slight sound he might make. A little gasp came from the circle as he went out into the room. At first he thought that he had been seen. To his eyes, fresh from complete darkness, the room seemed moderately light; but the gas was little more than a tiny blue dot.

As he took a step forward he saw why the circle had gasped. Through the curtains of the cabinet came the semblance of a tenuous wraith in long, trailing robes of white. It was almost formless, its outlines seeming to melt into the gloom.

Advancing a little way into the circle, it shrank back as though timorous, then wavered. From the circle came a woman’s voice—anxious, eager, straining with heart-break—“Oh, my sister!”

The figure turned toward her, slowly extended its arms, and glided back to the curtains, where it stood as though waiting.

The sobbing woman arose from her chair and hastened toward the wraith.

“Agnes!” she whispered imploringly. “Won’t you speak to me, Agnes?”

The ghostly figure slowly shook its head.

“Are you happy, Agnes? Tell me. Oh, don’t go until you have told me.”

The figure nodded mutely, and with a final slow gesture, waved the woman back to her seat.

Meantime Orme cast his eyes over the circle. Dimly he saw faces, some stolid, some agitated; and there, at the farther end were the two Japanese, intent as children on these wonders. Their sparkling eyes were directed to the cabinet.

The apparition had disappeared between the curtains. But now there was a fresh gasp of wonder, as the figure of a little child stepped out into the room. It did not go far from the cabinet, and it alternately advanced and retreated, turning this way and that, as though looking for someone.

“It wants its mother!” exclaimed one of the women in the circle. “Is your mother here, little one?”

The child stared at the speaker, then withdrew to the curtains.

“They will begin to talk after a while,” explained the woman—“when the control gets stronger. I always feel so tender for these little lost spirits that come back to hunt for their loved ones.”

Orme moved swiftly around the circle. He passed so close to the Japanese that he could have touched them. The felt slippers made his steps noiseless; the thick rug absorbed the shock of his weight.

He passed through the hangings of the doorway to the next room. There he had no gaslight; the window-shades, however, were not drawn so closely but that a little daylight entered. He removed the robe and stuffed it under the old sofa at one side.

His hat, as Madame Alia had said, was there, and he put it on and went to the hall door. The circle had begun to sing another hymn. Orme got into the hall, shut the door silently, and hurried down the stairs, the long-drawn strains of the song following him and dying away as he neared the street entrance. In the lower hall he removed the felt slippers and tossed them into a corner.

He was amazed at the loudness of the street noises, and the glare of the sunlight as he stepped to the sidewalk. He stood there blinking for a moment, until his eyes became accustomed to the light. The foot-procession of the city streamed by him.

Suddenly a man turned in toward the doorway, and, with a startled exclamation, stopped short. Orme found himself looking into the gleaming eyes of Alcatrante.