“That’s—­rather—­odd!” muttered Tressilvain.  Portlaw’s distended eyes were fastened on the table, which was now heaving uneasily like a boat at anchor, creaking, cracking, rocking under their finger-tips.  Tressilvain rose from his chair and tried to see, but as everybody was clear of the table, and their fingers barely touched the top, he could discover no visible reason for what was occurring so violently under his very pointed nose.

“It’s like a bally earthquake,” he said in amazement.  “God bless my soul! the thing is walking off with us!”

Everybody had risen from necessity; chairs were pushed back, skirts drawn aside as the heavy table, staggering, lurching, moved out across the floor; and they all followed, striving to keep their finger-tips on the top.

Portlaw was speechless; Shiela pale, tremulous, bewildered; Tressilvain’s beady eyes shone like the eyes of a surprised rat; but his wife and Malcourt took it calmly.

“The game is,” said Malcourt, “to ask whether there is a spirit present, and then recite the alphabet.  Shall I?...  It isn’t frightening you, is it, Shiela?”

“No....  But I don’t understand why it moves.”

“Neither does anybody.  But you see it, feel it.  Nor can anybody explain why an absurd question and reciting the alphabet sometimes results in a coherent message.  Shall I try it, Helen?”

His sister nodded indifferently.

There was a silence, then Malcourt, still standing, said quietly: 

“Is there a message?”

From the deep, woody centre of the table three loud knocks sounded—­almost ripped out, and the table quivered in every fibre.

“Is there a message for anybody present?”

Three raps followed in a startling volley.

“Get the chairs,” motioned Malcourt; and when all were seated clear of the table but touching lightly the surface with their finger-tips: 

“A B C D E F”—­began Malcourt, slowly reciting the alphabet; and, as the raps rang out, sig-nalling some letter, he began again in a monotonous voice:  “A B C D E F G”—­pausing as soon as the raps arrested him at a certain letter, only to begin again.

“Get a pad and pencil,” whispered Lady Tressilvain to Shiela.

So Shiela left the table, found a pad and pencil, and seated herself near a candle by the window; and as each letter was rapped out by the table, she put it down in order.

The recitation seemed endless; Malcourt’s voice grew hoarse with the repetition; letter after letter was added to the apparently meaningless sequence on Shiela’s pad.

“Is there any sense in it so far?” asked Lady Tressilvain.

“I cannot find any,” said Shiela, striving with her pencil point to divide the string of letters into intelligible words.

And still Malcourt’s monotonous voice droned on, and still the raps sounded from the table.  Portlaw hung over it as though hypnotized; Tressilvain had fallen to moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, stealthy eyes always roaming about the candle-lit room as though searching for something uncanny lurking in the shadows.