Mrs. Stapleton rustled excitedly, and Lady Laura grabbed at her retreating opportunity.

“No, no,” she cried.  “I didn’t mean that for one moment.  Please, please come here.  I only wondered whether there was any particular precaution—­”

“I will think about it,” said the medium.  “But I am sure we must be careful not to shock him.  Of course, we don’t all take the same view about religion; but we can leave that for the present.  The point is that Mr. Baxter should, if possible, see something unmistakable.  The rest can take care of itself....  Then, if you consent, Lady Laura, we might have a little sitting here next Sunday night.  Would nine o’clock suit you?”

He glanced at the two ladies.

“That will do very well,” said the mistress of the house.  “And, about preparations—­”

“I will look in on Saturday afternoon.  Is there anyone particular you think of asking?”

“Mr. Jamieson came to see me again a few days ago,” suggested Lady Laura tentatively.

“That will do very well.  Then we three and those two.  That will be quite enough for the present.”

He stood up—­a big, dominating figure—­a reassuring man to look at, with his kindly face, his bushy, square beard, and his appearance of physical strength.  Lady Laura sat vaguely comforted.

“And about my notes,” asked Maud Stapleton.

“I think they will not be necessary....  Good-day....  Saturday afternoon.”

The two sat on silently for a minute or two after he was gone.

“What is the matter, dearest?”

Lady Laura’s little anxious face did not move.  She was staring thoughtfully at the fire.  Mrs. Stapleton laid a sympathetic hand on the other’s knee.

“Dearest—­” she began.

“No; it is nothing, darling,” said Lady Laura.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the medium was picking his way through the foggy streets.  Figures loomed up, sudden and enormous, and vanished again.  Smoky flares of flame shone like spots of painted fire, bright and unpenetrating, from windows overhead; and sounds came to him through the woolly atmosphere, dulled and sonorous.  It would, so to speak, have been a suitably dramatic setting for his thoughts if he had been thinking in character, vaguely suggestive of presences and hints and peeps into the unknown.

But he was a very practical man.  His spiritualistic faith was a reality to him, as unexciting as Christianity to the normal Christian; he entertained no manner of doubt as to its truth.

Beyond all the fraud, the self-deception, the amazing feats of the subconscious self, there remained certain facts beyond doubting—­facts which required, he believed, an objective explanation, which none but the spiritualistic thesis offered.  He had far more evidence, he considered sincerely enough, for his spiritualism than most Christians for their Christianity.