for some satisfaction had to be given him.  He looked at me very wistfully, with the great blue eyes which shone so large and brilliant out of his white and worn face.  “You must trust me,” I said.  “Yes, father.  Father understands,” he said to himself, as if to soothe some inward doubt.  I left him as soon as I could.  He was about the most precious thing I had on earth, and his health my first thought; but yet somehow, in the excitement of this other subject, I put that aside, and preferred not to dwell upon Roland, which was the most curious part of it all.

That night at eleven I met Simson at the gate.  He had come by train, and I let him in gently myself.  I had been so much absorbed in the coming experiment that I passed the ruins in going to meet him, almost without thought, if you can understand that.  I had my lantern; and he showed me a coil of taper which he had ready for use.  “There is nothing like light,” he said, in his scoffing tone.  It was a very still night, scarcely a sound, but not so dark.  We could keep the path without difficulty as we went along.  As we approached the spot we could hear a low moaning, broken occasionally by a bitter cry.  “Perhaps that is your voice,” said the Doctor; “I thought it must be something of the kind.  That’s a poor brute caught in some of these infernal traps of yours; you’ll find it among the bushes somewhere.”  I said nothing.  I felt no particular fear, but a triumphant satisfaction in what was to follow.  I led him to the spot where Bagley and I had stood on the previous night.  All was silent as a winter night could be,—­so silent that we heard far off the sound of the horses in the stables, the shutting of a window at the house.  Simson lighted his taper and went peering about, poking into all the corners.  We looked like two conspirators lying in wait for some unfortunate traveller; but not a sound broke the quiet.  The moaning had stopped before we came up; a star or two shone over us in the sky, looking down as if surprised at our strange proceedings.  Dr. Simson did nothing but utter subdued laughs under his breath.  “I thought as much,” he said.  “It is just the same with tables and all other kinds of ghostly apparatus; a sceptic’s presence stops everything.  When I am present nothing ever comes off.  How long do you think it will be necessary to stay here?  Oh, I don’t complain; only when you are satisfied, I am—­quite.”

I will not deny that I was disappointed beyond measure by this result.  It made me look like a credulous fool.  It gave the Doctor such a pull over me as nothing else could.  I should point all his morals for years to come; and his materialism, his scepticism, would be increased beyond endurance.  “It seems, indeed,” I said, “that there is to be no—­” “Manifestation,” he said, laughing; “that is what all the mediums say.  No manifestations, in consequence of the presence of an unbeliever.”  His laugh sounded very uncomfortable to me in the silence; and it was