The joining of hands was punctiliously verified, the circle was linked little finger to little finger.  Lewisham’s abstraction received a rebuke from Smithers.  The Medium, speaking in an affable voice, premised that he could promise nothing, he had no “directing” power over manifestations.  Thereafter ensued a silence....

For a space Lewisham was inattentive to all that happened.

He sat in the breathing darkness, staring at the dim elusive shape that had presented that remembered face.  His mind was astonishment mingled with annoyance.  He had settled that this girl was lost to him for ever.  The spell of the old days of longing, of the afternoons that he had spent after his arrival in London, wandering through Clapham with a fading hope of meeting her, had not returned to him.  But he was ashamed of his stupid silence, and irritated by the awkwardness of the situation.  At one moment he was on the very verge of breaking the compact and saying “Miss Henderson” across the table....

How was it he had forgotten that “Henderson”?  He was still young enough to be surprised at forgetfulness.

Smithers coughed, one might imagine with a warning intention.

Lewisham, recalling his detective responsibility with an effort, peered about him, but the room was very dark.  The silence was broken ever and again by deep sighs and a restless stirring from the Medium.  Out of this mental confusion Lewisham’s personal vanity was first to emerge.  What did she think of him?  Was she peering at him through the darkness even as he peered at her?  Should he pretend to see her for the first time when the lights were restored?  As the minutes lengthened it seemed as though the silence grew deeper and deeper.  There was no fire in the room, and it looked, for lack of that glow, chilly.  A curious scepticism arose in his mind as to whether he had actually seen Ethel or only mistaken someone else for her.  He wanted the seance over in order that he might look at her again.  The old days at Whortley came out of his memory with astonishing detail and yet astonishingly free from emotion....

He became aware of a peculiar sensation down his back, that he tried to account for as a draught....

Suddenly a beam of cold air came like a touch against his face, and made him shudder convulsively.  Then he hoped that she had not marked his shudder.  He thought of laughing a low laugh to show he was not afraid.  Someone else shuddered too, and he perceived an extraordinarily vivid odour of violets.  Lagune’s finger communicated a nervous quivering.

What was happening?

The musical box somewhere on the table began playing a rather trivial, rather plaintive air that was strange to him.  It seemed to deepen the silence about him, an accent on the expectant stillness, a thread of tinkling melody spanning an abyss.