5

I went to see Amy in her little Maid of Honour house in Kensington that very afternoon.

I found her reading Madame Blavatski (that strange woman) in her little drawing-room.

Amy has not worn, perhaps, quite so well as I have.  She has to make up a little too thickly.  I sometimes wish she would put less black round her eyes; it gives her a stagey look, which I think in her particular profession it is most important not to have, as people are in any case so inclined to doubt the genuineness of those who deal in the occult.  Besides, what an odd practice that painting the face black in patches is!  As unlike real life as a clown’s red nose, though I suppose less unbecoming.  I myself only use a little powder, which is so necessary in hot, or, indeed, cold weather.

However, this is a digression.  I kissed Amy, and said, ’My dear, I am here on business to-day.  I am in great perplexity, and I want you to discover something from the crystal.  Are you in the mood this afternoon?’ For I have enough of the temperament myself to know that crystal-gazing, even more than literary composition, must wait on mood.  Fortunately, Amy said she was in a most favourable condition for vision, and I told her as briefly as possible that I wished to learn about the circumstances attendant on the death of Oliver Hobart.  I wished her to visualise Oliver as he stood that evening at the top of those dreadful stairs, and to watch the manner of his fall.  I told her no more, for I wanted her to approach the subject without prejudice.

Without more ado, we went into the room which Amy called her Temple of Vision, and Amy got to work.

6

I was travelling by the 6.28 back to Potter’s Bar.  I lay back in my corner with closed eyes, recalling the events of that wonderful afternoon in the darkened, scented room.  It had been a strange, almost overwhelming experience.  I had been keyed up to a point of tension which was almost unendurable, while my friend gazed and murmured into the glass ball.  These glimpses into the occult are really too much for my system; they wring my nerves.  I could have screamed when Amy said, ’Wait—­wait—­the darkness stirs.  I see—­I see—­a fair man, with the face of a Greek god.’

‘Is he alone?’ I whispered.

‘He is not alone.  He is talking to a tall dark man.’

‘Yes—­yes?’ I bent forward eagerly, as she paused and seemed to brood over the clear depths where, as I knew, she saw shadows forming and reforming.

‘They talk,’ she murmured.  ‘They talk.’

(Knowing that she could not, unfortunately, hear what they said, I did not ask.)

‘They are excited....  They are quarrelling....  Oh, God!’ She hid her eyes for a moment, then looked again.

’The dark man strikes the fair man....  He is taken by surprise; he steps backward and falls ... falls backwards ... down ... out of my vision....  The dark man is left standing alone....  He is fading ... he is gone....  I can see him no more....  Leila, I have come to an end; I am overdone; I must rest.’