Having settled his guests in their seats, Faull stepped up to the curtain and flung it aside.  A replica, or nearly so, of the Drury Lane presentation of the temple scene in The Magic Flute was then exposed to view:  the gloomy, massive architecture of the interior, the glowing sky above it in the background, and, silhouetted against the latter, the gigantic seated statue of the Pharaoh.  A fantastically carved wooden couch lay before the pedestal of the statue.  Near the curtain, obliquely placed to the auditorium, was a plain oak armchair, for the use of the medium.

Many of those present felt privately that the setting was quite inappropriate to the occasion and savoured rather unpleasantly of ostentation.  Backhouse in particular seemed put out.  The usual compliments, however, were showered on Mrs. Trent as the deviser of so remarkable a theatre.  Faull invited his friends to step forward and examine the apartment as minutely as they might desire.  Prior and Lang were the only ones to accept.  The former wandered about among the pasteboard scenery, whistling to himself and occasionally tapping a part of it with his knuckles.  Lang, who was in his element, ignored the rest of his party and commenced a patient, systematic search, on his own account, for secret apparatus.  Faull and Mrs. Trent stood in a corner of the temple, talking together in low tones; while Mrs. Jameson, pretending to hold Backhouse in conversation, watched them as only a deeply interested woman knows how to watch.

Lang, to his own disgust, having failed to find anything of a suspicious nature, the medium now requested that his own clothing should be searched.

“All these precautions are quite needless and beside the matter in hand, as you will immediately see for yourselves.  My reputation demands, however, that other people who are not present would not be able to say afterward that trickery has been resorted to.”

To Lang again fell the ungrateful task of investigating pockets and sleeves.  Within a few minutes he expressed himself satisfied that nothing mechanical was in Backhouse’s possession.  The guests reseated themselves.  Faull ordered two more chairs to be brought for Mrs. Trent’s friends, who, however, had not yet arrived.  He then pressed an electric bell, and took his own seat.

The signal was for the hidden orchestra to begin playing.  A murmur of surprise passed through the audience as, without previous warning, the beautiful and solemn strains of Mozart’s “temple” music pulsated through the air.  The expectation of everyone was raised, while, beneath her pallor and composure, it could be seen that Mrs. Trent was deeply moved.  It was evident that aesthetically she was by far the most important person present.  Faull watched her, with his face sunk on his chest, sprawling as usual.

Backhouse stood up, with one hand on the back of his chair, and began speaking.  The music instantly sank to pianissimo, and remained so for as long as he was on his legs.