"Who the blazes is that?" Lady Annabelle inquired.

"Never mind. This takes too long," the Duchess said. "I trust you skeptics will have no objection to our reverting to written letters so long as we all keep our hands in plain sight?"

No one objected, though it was clear that the men were not in favor of the suggestion. Marianne flexed her fingers. Her left hand had gone quite numb from the pressure of the Duchess's grasp.

From a drawer under the table the Duchess produced a printed list of the letters of the alphabet and an ivory stylus. As she began to run the point of the stylus down the list, Marianne saw the advantage of the process. The stylus could move much more quickly than the voice could pronounce the letters.

After the first few letters had been designated by means of the familiar raps, Marianne lost track of what was being spelled. The affair confounded her; it was so brisk and matter-of-fact, rather like writing out a telegram; yet she could not understand where the raps were coming from. Carlton's suggestion that someone was tapping with a foot was ridiculous. The sounds were too sharp and distinct to have been produced by leather on wood or carpeting.

"Most interesting," the Duchess said, after an interval. "Did the rest of you follow that?"

"No," Carlton said.

"It is as I thought," the Duchess said, repressed excitement coloring her voice. "Pudenzia says she was a Christian maiden in early Rome under Diocletian, to be precise."

"Poor old Diocletian," said the incorrigible Carlton. "He and Nero are blamed for everything that went wrong with the Christians. I suppose the lady was martyred?"

"If you cannot be serious, Roger, you will have to leave."

"I beg your pardon."

"Pudenzia refuses to speak of the manner of her death. Quite understandable. She says that we must think of love, not hate; of life, not death."

"A very pretty, pious, pointless sentiment," Carlton muttered under his breath.

Apparently the Duchess did not hear this. She went on. "She is your control, Marianne."

"My what?" Marianne looked alarmed. Up to that point she had found the process only mildly bewildering. She was not the focus of attention; all she had to do was sit and listen. "I don't understand. I don't know what to do."

"You have done very nicely so far," said Carlton, in the barely audible murmur he had adopted, designed for her ears alone.

"I think we have spent enough time on the alphabet," the Duchess said. "If you will darken the room, Roger, we will try for more direct contact."

The lawyer did as he was directed, extinguishing one candle after another until the only light came from the fire. At the Duchess's order he drew the screen closer, so that the room was in almost total darkness. He stumbled over something on his way back to the table, and Marianne thought she heard a rude word, quickly stifled. He had barely taken his place before the Duchess said, "We are waiting, Pudenzia. Show us a sign."

At the rim of the table a pallid glow appeared and gradually took form. At first it was only a thick, short column of pale luminescence. Then, with a bizarre suggestion of sprouting, five stumps appeared and lengthened into fingers and thumb.

Lady Annabelle coughed. "Quite nice," she said approvingly. "May I touch it? Will it shake hands with us?"

The table began to rock wildly, as if offended by the suggestion. Carlton swore again without bothering to muffle his voice; Marianne deduced that he had tried to leave his place and had been soundly rapped by a table leg. Her mouth was dry with excitement and fear. In the darkness she seemed to see the vicar's earnest face with its halo of sunlit hair. "I beg you, Miss Ransom, that you will not take part…" Was she responsible for the raps, for the phantom hand?

"Sit still," the doctor's voice exclaimed. "I tell you this is sheer delusion – absolute balderdash!"

Marianne heard someone screaming. She was screaming. Varied sensations pounded at organs that had been shocked into renewed life after a period of interminable and chaotic darkness. In that darkness she had struggled, lost and alone, with some detestable adversary.

A glass pressed to her lips and a sharp burning liquid filled her mouth. She choked and pushed the glass away, but the liquid etched a path down her throat and helped to restore her.

She opened her eyes. An oil lamp stood on the table, casting eerie distorted shadows over the faces of the others. The doctor held the glass of brandy that had been forced against her lips. She recognized the taste now; the squire's breath had often smelled of it. Carlton held her by the arm.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"Her Grace would call it a trance, no doubt," Carlton said. "But this was not such a smooth performance as the other; were the questions too difficult for you?"

"Enough, Roger," the doctor broke in. "Miss Ransom, can you remember nothing of what you said?"

"No. It was horrible! Like dying… and being forced back into my body."

The Duchess started to speak; her old admirer cut her off with a forceful gesture. "Be still, Honoria. Miss Ransom. You were in obvious distress from the first, writhing and moaning. Suddenly you began to shout, No, no, and went on until Roger here caught hold of you. Did something occur to upset you?"

"It is wrong," Marianne said confusedly. "He told me… The Devil…"

"Who told you?" the doctor demanded sharply.

"Some other entity, obviously," the Duchess said. "There are elemental spirits, soulless creatures of chaos… Pudenzia is inexperienced, no doubt she has not yet learned to keep such intrusive spirits away."

The calm description was so like an appraisal of a new housemaid that Marianne felt a hysterical desire to laugh. The sound came out as a moan, however, and the doctor said firmly, "Bed for you, young woman.

I will come in to see you later. We will tell your maid you were taken ill, a fit of giddiness -"

"Always thinking of appearances, Gruffstone," Carlton said with a sneer. "You fool, every servant in the house knows quite well what is going on. It's a wonder they haven't fled screaming into the night."

The attitude of Marianne's maid, when she finally answered her bell, substantiated the lawyer's suggestion. Annie rolled her eyes till the whites showed every time Marianne moved, and once Marianne was in bed she literally ran from the room. The doctor had been waiting in the hall. Marianne heard him speak and Annie answer. She could not make out the words, but after an exchange or two, the maid's voice lost its nervous stammer. She even giggled.

The doctor went through the usual routine, checking Marianne's pulse and inspecting her tongue. He then made her take a dose of a mild sleeping medicine.

"You do believe me, don't you, sir?" Marianne asked pathetically. "I wasn't pretending; really I wasn't."

Gruffstone's grim expression softened.

"In all honesty, child, I don't know what to make of it. I assure you I am not leaping to conclusions. There is such a thing as…

But I do not want to frighten you."

It was the second time that day someone had expressed that sentiment; on the first occasion Carlton had frightened her, rather badly. Marianne looked apprehensively at the doctor.

"Have you ever heard of a condition called hysteria?" Gruffstone asked.

"Yes, of course. I was hysterical, for a few minutes, but I never -"

"You don't understand what I mean. I use the term in its medical sense. It is a pathological nervous condition which may occur when there is a conflict between the natural impulses and the demands of duty, loyalty, or moral standards. Is that clear?"

It is doubtful whether Marianne would have fully comprehended this description even if she had been fully alert. Now, with the effects of the sleeping draft creeping over her, she replied drowsily, "No, sir."