“Was much ... pressure necessary?” asked Lewisham by an effort.

“We had—­considerable difficulty.  Considerable.  But of course—­as I pointed out to her—­it was scarcely possible for her to continue as my typewriter unless she was disposed to take an interest in my investigations—­”

“You did that?”

“Had to.  Fortunately Chaffery—­it was his idea.  I must admit—­”

Lagune stopped astonished.  Lewisham, after making an odd sort of movement with his hands, had turned round and was walking away down the laboratory.  Lagune stared; confronted by a psychic phenomenon beyond his circle of ideas.  “Odd!” he said at last, and began to unpack his bag.  Ever and again he stopped and stared at Lewisham, who was now sitting in his own place and drumming on the table with both hands.

Presently Miss Heydinger came out of the specimen room and addressed a remark to the young man.  He appeared to answer with considerable brevity.  He then stood up, hesitated for a moment between the three doors of the laboratory and walked out by that opening on the back staircase.  Lagune did not see him again until the afternoon.

That night Ethel had Lewisham’s company again on her way home, and their voices were earnest.  She did not go straight home, but instead they went up under the gas lamps to the vague spaces of Clapham Common to talk there at length.  And the talk that night was a momentous one.  “Why have you broken your promise?” he said.

Her excuses were vague and weak.  “I thought you did not care so much as you did,” she said.  “And when you stopped these walks—­nothing seemed to matter.  Besides—­it is not like seances with spirits ...”

At first Lewisham was passionate and forcible.  His anger at Lagune and Chaffery blinded him to her turpitude.  He talked her defences down.  “It is cheating,” he said.  “Well—­even if what you do is not cheating, it is delusion—­unconscious cheating.  Even if there is something in it, it is wrong.  True or not, it is wrong.  Why don’t they thought-read each other?  Why should they want you?  Your mind is your own.  It is sacred.  To probe it!—­I won’t have it!  I won’t have it!  At least you are mine to that extent.  I can’t think of you like that—­bandaged.  And that little fool pressing his hand on the back of your neck and asking questions.  I won’t have it!  I would rather kill you than that.”

“They don’t do that!”

“I don’t care! that is what it will come to.  The bandage is the beginning.  People must not get their living in that way anyhow.  I’ve thought it out.  Let them thought-read their daughters and hypnotise their aunts, and leave their typewriters alone.”

“But what am I to do?”

“That’s not it.  There are things one must not suffer anyhow, whatever happens!  Or else—­one might be made to do anything.  Honour!  Just because we are poor—­Let him dismiss you! Let him dismiss you.  You can get another place—­”