“I never saw a bally table tip,” observed Tressilvain.  “How do you do it, Louis?”

“I don’t; it tips.  Come, Shiela, if you don’t mind.  Come on, Billy.”

Tressilvain seated himself and glanced furtively about him.

“I dare say you’re all in this game,” he said, with a rattling laugh.

“It’s no game.  If the table tips it tips, and our combined weight can’t hold it down,” said Malcourt.  “If it won’t tip it won’t, and I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that you can’t tip it, Herby.”

Tressilvain, pressing his hands hard on the polished edge, tried to move the table; then he stood up and tried.  It was too heavy and solid, and he could do nothing except by actually lifting it or by seizing it in both hands and dragging it about.

One by one, reluctantly, the others took seats around the table and, as instructed by Malcourt, rested the points of their fingers on the dully polished surface.

“Does it really ever move?” asked Shiela of Malcourt.

“It sometimes does.”

“What’s the explanation?” demanded Portlaw, incredulously; “spirits?”

“I don’t think anybody here would credit such an explanation,” said Malcourt.  “The table moves or it doesn’t.  If it does you’ll see it.  I’ll leave the explanation to you, William.”

“Have you ever seen it move?” asked Shiela, turning again to Malcourt.

“Yes; so has my sister.  It’s not a trick.”  Lady Tressilvain looked bored, but answered Shiela’s inquiry: 

“I’ve seen it often.  Louis and I and my father used to do it.  I don’t know how it’s done, and nobody else does.  Personally I think it’s rather a stupid way to spend an evening—­”

“But,” interrupted Portlaw, “there’ll be nothing stupid about it if the table begins to tip up here under our very fingers.  I’ll bet you, Louis, that it doesn’t.  Do you care to bet?”

“Shouldn’t the lights be put out?” asked Tressilvain.

Malcourt said it was not necessary, and cautioned everybody to sit absolutely clear of the table, and to rest only the tips of the fingers very lightly on the surface.

“Can we speak?” grinned Portlaw.

“Oh, yes, if you like.”  A bright colour glowed in Malcourt’s face; he looked down dreamily at the top of the table where his hands touched.  A sudden quiet fell over the company.

Shiela, sitting with her white fingers lightly brushing the smooth mahogany, bent her head, mind wandering; and her thoughts were very far away when, under her sensitive touch, a curious quiver seemed to run through the very grain of the wood.

“What’s that!” exclaimed Portlaw.

Deep in the wood, wave after wave of motion seemed to spread until the fibres emitted a faint splintering sound.  Then, suddenly, the heavy table rose slowly, the end on which Shiela’s hands rested sinking; and fell back with a solid shock.