“This is a lie!  I am not Helen Whitton!  I am Annette Markham.  I am not a spirit!  I am alive!  You are being fooled—­fooled!”

There followed a jangle of piano keys, as though something had dropped upon the keyboard.

In that instant, Rosalie Le Grange jerked the string of the cabinet light, throwing the shutter wide open.  The details of that group by the curtain blazed into Blake’s sight as he jumped forward—­Annette, all in black, her white gauze robes a crumpled heap at her feet, swaying in the center of the floor; Norcross a huddle against the wall; Mrs. Markham, stiff as though frozen to stone, leaning against the piano.  More light blazed on them; Blake knew that Rosalie, according to program, had lit the gas.  He reached the curtains an instant before Mrs. Markham, roused to sudden, cat-like action, threw herself toward Annette.  Blake came between; out of his pocket he whipped the revolver.

“I’m talking to you all!” he said.  “You, old fool over there, and you, you devil!  I’ll kill the first that moves!”

Now Rosalie had slipped up beside Mrs. Markham, laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t make any fuss, my dear.  I’m a medium myself an’ I’ve been exposed four times.  Take it from me, your play is to be a lady—­and a sport.”

Suddenly, Mrs. Markham lifted herself from the piano keys and spoke: 

“Annette, my dear, control yourself.  Come to me, dear—­my poor, insane niece.  Mr. Norcross, I will explain these intruders later.  Come to me, dear!” She had stepped toward Blake, who stood with his left arm about Annette.  Blake felt Annette shrink away from him, felt her sway toward her aunt.  He raised the revolver.

“Stay where you are!” he commanded.  “Annette, listen to me.  I control you now—­I!  Until I say otherwise, keep your face on my shoulder.  Do not look up.  Keep your mind on what I am saying.”

Annette’s first movement away from him ceased.  She gave a little inarticulate murmur of obedience.  Simply as a child, she settled her face into the hollow of his shoulder.

He turned to Norcross.

“You old fool—­” then he caught the face of him who had been king of the American railroads.  Norcross had settled into a chair; more, he had shriveled into it.  His mouth had fallen open as from senile weakness; his eyes, suddenly grown old, glazed and peering, seemed to struggle with tears.  His hands moved uncertainly, feebly.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Norcross,” he said, “I came here to-night to take away this girl, whom I intend to marry, and I’m excited.  Now listen—­Annette, I want you to listen also.  Keep your mind upon me alone, dear, and remember I told you not to be frightened.  This girl is ward of that she-devil there.  Since her childhood, Mrs. Markham has been hypnotizing her—­for her own purposes.  So good a subject has she become that Mrs. Markham uses her to play ghost for these seances—­without her own knowledge—­”