the woman, addressing some invisible companion. Then to the audience, “ I don't feel that the conditions

are very good to-night. I will do my best and so will they. But I must talk to you first.”

And she talked. What she said seemed to the two strangers to be absolute gabble. There was no con¬ secutive sense in it, though now and again a phrase or sentence caught the attention. Malone put his stylo in his pocket. There was no use reporting a lunatic. A Spiritualist next him saw his bewildered disgust and leaned towards him.

“ She’s tuning in. She’s getting her wave length,” he whispered. “ It’s all a matter of vibration. Ah, there you are!”

She had stopped in the very middle of a sentence. Her long arm and quivering forefinger shot out. She was pointing at an elderly woman in the second row.

“ You ! Yes, you, with the red feather. No, not you. The stout lady in front. Yes, you ! There is a spirit building up behind you. It is a man. He is a tall man — six foot maybe. High forehead, eyes grey or blue, a long chin, brown moustache, lines on his face. Do you recognise him, friend ? ”

The stout woman looked alarmed, but shook her head.

“ Well, see if I can help you. He is holding up a book — brown book with a clasp. It’s a ledger same as they have in offices. I get the words ‘ Caledonian Insurance.’ Is that any help ? ”

The stout woman pursed her lips and shook her head vigorously.

“ Well, I can give you a little more. He died after a long illness. I get chest trouble — asthma.”

The stout woman was still obdurate, but a small,