"Lady Morton." It was Carlton who spoke, and although his lips retained the faint smile that spoke of his contempt, his eyes were no longer amused. "Should we not, as you suggest, get to the business at hand?" '

"Certainly. That is precisely what I have been saying. You young rascals never pay any attention -"

Carlton grasped her arm and assisted her to rise with such vigor that she staggered. He led her out of the room.

The others followed. Marianne, side by side with the Duchess, could not help but admire Carlton for defending his patroness; but one word Lady Morton had used stuck in her mind. "Again." Again? Was she not, then, the first young girl whom the Duchess had taken in, under the impression that she was the child of her dear departed David? One delusion, based on a certain degree of physical resemblance, may be forgivable eccentricity. A series of such delusions smacked of something far more serious.

She was diverted from these thoughts by the sight of William the footman scampering (if a person of his impressive size could be said to scamper) along the hall, trying to keep ahead of Lady Morton. He just managed it, opening the door before the lady threw herself against it.

The white drawing room sparkled like an ice cavern. A blazing fire burned on the hearth, but its glow was lost in the dazzle of dozens of gas jets reflected from crystal and silver surfaces. No matter what the temperature, Marianne thought, this room would always be cold.

It was clear that all the guests were familiar with the room and the procedure. They took their places; Marianne, directed by the Duchess, took the chair at the lady's right. She did not need to be told that this had been David Holmes's accustomed place.

In the rustle of movement that accompanied these proceedings Marianne realized that her stomach was experiencing the same sensation she had sometimes felt just before performing. She turned impulsively to the Duchess. "I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"There is nothing to be afraid of." The Duchess's face was rapt; her voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Only open your mind to the influences that will come."

The curtains had already been drawn. The sound of the rain was a distant murmur, with the hiss of the burning logs as counterpoint. No one spoke until the doctor said heavily, "I must insist, Honoria, upon the usual precautions."

"Very well." The Duchess extended her hands, one to Marianne, the other to Lord Ronald, who sat on her left.

"Hold tight," said Carlton, on Marianne's right. "Your Grace, you will forgive me for mentioning the word, but… feet?"

"Feet?" Marianne repeated. Carlton winked. She wanted to exclaim aloud at this effrontery, but somehow the lawyer's open amusement made the whole business more endurable. The others were so solemn!

"Feet," Carlton repeated cheerfully. As he spoke, Marianne felt a pressure on her left shoe and knew it must be the foot of the Duchess that touched hers. "Put your foot on mine," the lawyer went on. "We touch feet as we touch hands, around the circle. You would be amazed, my dear Miss Ransom, if you knew what a stockinged foot can do in the way of producing psychic phenomena!"

"Must that person be present?" Lady Morton demanded, glaring in Carlton's general direction. It was difficult to tell precisely where she was looking, but no one doubted to whom she referred.

"He is quite right," the Duchess replied. "David was always the first to agree to such controls. You should know that, Clarabelle."

"Humph," said Lady Morton.

Once these arrangements had been made, the silence descended. It seemed to continue for an interminable time. Marianne's nose began to itch. She felt she would go mad if she could not scratch it but did not dare ask to have her hand freed for that purpose. She sensed that everyone was watching her, either covertly or, in the case of Lady Morton, without concealment; and she felt all the discomfort of a performer alone in the spotlight who has no notion of what is expected of her.

After what seemed eons the Duchess said, "I think we had better extinguish the lights."

"But David never -" Lord Ronald was not allowed to finish the sentence.

"David was the master," the Duchess said. "I know of no other medium who performed in full light. The vibrations are painful to the spirits."

"Fair enough," Lady Morton said. "Let's give it a try."

Marianne was surprised at the lady's acquiescence until she realized that the one good eye was gleaming with anticipation. Lady Morton would not mind seeing her old rival's protegee fail, but she desired even more the thrill of communication with the dead. Marianne wondered what it was the woman sought – what message from the other side. Or was her interest only the sickly, feverish fascination of the unknown?

At a nod from the Duchess Dr. Gruffstone obediently rose to carry out the suggestion. The light diminished slowly, as if one veil after another were being dropped before their eyes. When finally the Duchess said gravely, "That will do, Horace; thank you," the room was enveloped in shadows. There was light enough to see the outlines of forms, limned in startling fiery silhouette where the fire was behind them. Details and expressions were lost in the gloom.

The doctor took his place again. The circle was resumed.

The Honorable Miss Ditherson let out a faint cry. "I felt something…"

"Um," Lord Ronald agreed.

The table began to sway.

"David!" Lady Morton emitted a whoop that made them all jump. "David, are you here? Speak to me, David!"

"You needn't shout, your ladyship," Carlton drawled. "Mr. Holmes was never hard of hearing."

"Hush," the Duchess said sharply.

As if in agreement, the table gave a coy little leap upward, against the hands resting on its top.

"Honoria," the doctor began. "I beg you -"

"Horace, hold your tongue."

"But," the doctor said piteously, "this is such absolute balderdash…"

There was no transition, no gap in time. The doctor's last words had scarcely died away when Marianne heard him continue, in startling non sequitur, "Her pulse is normal. Speak to me, Miss Ransom."

"Marianne, my dear, can you hear me?"

The voice was that of the Duchess. Marianne turned politely toward her, blinking because the lights were so bright.

"Certainly, ma'am. Why do you ask?"

Then the truth struck her. The lights… Who had turned up the gas jets – and when?

So far as she knew she had not moved from her own seat at the table. But Carlton was no longer beside her; he was on his feet, staring in wide-eyed amazement. From across the table the visitors stared too; their open mouths and wide eyes gave them an absurd look of having been duplicated. Dr. Gruffstone held one of Marianne's hands. His fingers were pressed against her wrist.

Marianne's eyes returned to the lady at her left. The Duchess was the calmest of all those present, yet her face disturbed the girl most. Exultant, triumphant passion had taken the color from her cheeks and added a feverish luster to her eyes.

"Has something happened?" Marianne asked.

"You remember nothing? You do not recall what you said?"

"Said?" Marianne repeated stupidly. "The doctor said… something about nonsense… Then all the lights were on."

The Duchess struck her hands together.

"What did I tell you?" she cried. "I was right; I was right! Oh, David, my darling – found at last!"

She covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, blessed assurance," Lord Ronald murmured.

"Let us pray," said Miss Ditherson. She bowed her head.

"Damn," said Roger Carlton.

None of those who might have objected seemed to hear this vulgarity, except Marianne. She glanced at Carlton. He looked back at her, not as if she were someone he had never met, but as if she were the sort of person he would never have any occasion to meet. "Do something, Gruffstone, will you?" he demanded. "If you don't, I will."