“Certainly.  Why not?”

Smithers set out to explain why not, and happened on confusion.  “I still believe the man has powers,” said Lagune.

“Of deception,” said Smithers.

“Those I must eliminate,” said Lagune.  “You might as well refuse to study electricity because it escaped through your body.  All new science is elusive.  No investigator in his senses would refuse to investigate a compound because it did unexpected things.  Either this dissolves in acid or I have nothing more to do with it—­eh?  That’s fine research!”

Then it was the last vestiges of Smithers’ manners vanished.  “I don’t care what you say,” said Smithers.  “It’s all rot—­it’s all just rot.  Argue if you like—­but have you convinced anybody?  Put it to the vote.”

“That’s democracy with a vengeance,” said Lagune.  “A general election of the truth half-yearly, eh?”

“That’s simply wriggling out of it,” said Smithers.  “That hasn’t anything to do with it at all.”

Lagune, flushed but cheerful, was on his way downstairs when Lewisham overtook him.  He was pale and out of breath, but as the staircase invariably rendered Lagune breathless he did not remark the younger man’s disturbance.  “Interesting talk,” panted Lewisham.  “Very interesting talk, sir.”

“I’m glad you found it so—­very,” said Lagune.

There was a pause, and then Lewisham plunged desperately.  “There is a young lady—­she is your typewriter....”

He stopped from sheer loss of breath.

“Yes?” said Lagune.

“Is she a medium or anything of that sort?”

“Well,” Lagune reflected, “She is not a medium, certainly.  But—­why do you ask?”

“Oh!...  I wondered.”

“You noticed her eyes perhaps.  She is the stepdaughter of that man Chaffery—­a queer character, but indisputably mediumistic.  It’s odd the thing should have struck you.  Curiously enough I myself have fancied she might be something of a psychic—­judging from her face.”

“A what?”

“A psychic—­undeveloped, of course.  I have thought once or twice.  Only a little while ago I was speaking to that man Chaffery about her.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.  He of course would like to see any latent powers developed.  But it’s a little difficult to begin, you know.”

“You mean—­she won’t?”

“Not at present.  She is a good girl, but in this matter she is—­timid.  There is often a sort of disinclination—­a queer sort of feeling—­one might almost call it modesty.”

“I see,” said Lewisham.

“One can override it usually.  I don’t despair.”

“No,” said Lewisham shortly.  They were at the foot of the staircase now.  He hesitated.  “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he said with an attempt at an off-hand manner.  “The way you talked upstairs;” and turned towards the book he had to sign.

“I’m glad you don’t take up quite such an intolerant attitude as Mr. Smithers,” said Lagune; “very glad.  I must lend you a book or two.  If your cramming here leaves you any time, that is.”