MALONE sat at the side table of the smoking- room of the Literary Club. He had Enid’s im¬ pressions of the seance before him — very subtle and observant they were — and he was endeavouring to merge them in his own experience. A group of men were smoking and chatting round the fire. This did not disturb the journalist, who found, as many do, that his; brain and his pen worked best sometimes when they were stimulated by the knowledge that he was part of a busy world. Presently, however, some¬ body who observed his presence brought the talk round to psychic subjects, and then it was more difficult for him to remain aloof. He leaned back in his chair and listened.

Polter, the famous novelist, was there, a brilliant man with a subtle mind, which he used too often to avoid obvious truth and to defend some impossible position for the sake of the empty dialectic exercise. He was holding forth now to an admiring, but not entirely a subservient audience.

“ Science,” said he, “ is gradually sweeping the world clear of all these old cobwebs of superstition. The world was like some old, dusty attic, and the sun of science is bursting in, flooding it with light, while the dust settles gradually to the floor.”

“ By science,” said someone maliciously, “ you mean,