Further to satisfy Mrs. Dane, we examined the walls and floor-boards carefully, and Herbert, armed with a candle, went down to the cellar and investigated from below, returning to announce in a loud voice which made us all jump that it seemed all clear enough down there.  After that we sat and waited, and I daresay the bareness and darkness of the room put us into excellent receptive condition.  I know that I myself, probably owing to an astigmatism, once or twice felt that I saw wavering shadows in corners, and I felt again some of the strangeness I had felt during the day.  We spoke in whispers, and Alice Robinson recited the history of a haunted house where she had visited in England.  But Herbert was still cynical.  He said, I remember: 

“Here we are, six intelligent persons of above the average grade, and in a few minutes our hair will be rising and our pulses hammering while a Choctaw Indian control, in atrocious English, will tell us she is happy and we are happy and so everybody’s happy.  Hanky panky!”

“You may be as skeptical as you please, if you will only be fair, Herbert,” Mrs. Dane said.

“And by that you mean—­”

“During the sitting keep an open mind and a closed mouth,” she replied, cheerfully.

As I said at the beginning, this is not a ghost story.  Parts of it we now understand, other parts we do not.  For the physical phenomena we have no adequate explanation.  They occurred.  We saw and heard them.  For the other part of the seance we have come to a conclusion satisfactory to ourselves, a conclusion not reached, however, until some of us had gone through some dangerous experiences, and had been brought into contact with things hitherto outside the orderly progression of our lives.

But at no time, although incredible things happened, did any one of us glimpse that strange world of the spirit that seemed so often almost within our range of vision.

Miss Jeremy, the medium, was due at 8:30 and at 8:20 my wife assisted Mrs. Dane into one of the straight chairs at the table, and Sperry, sent out by her, returned with a darkish bundle in his arms, and carrying a light bamboo rod.

“Don’t ask me what they are for,” he said to Herbert’s grin of amusement.  “Every workman has his tools.”

Herbert examined the rod, but it was what it appeared to be, and nothing else.

Some one had started the phonograph in the library, and it was playing gloomily, “Shall we meet beyond the river?” At Sperry’s request we stopped talking and composed ourselves, and Herbert, I remember, took a tablet of some sort, to our intense annoyance, and crunched it in his teeth.  Then Miss Jeremy came in.

She was not at all what we had expected.  Twenty-six, I should say, and in a black dinner dress.  She seemed like a perfectly normal young woman, even attractive in a fragile, delicate way.  Not much personality, perhaps; the very word “medium” precludes that.  A “sensitive,” I think she called herself.  We were presented to her, and but for the stripped and bare room, it might have been any evening after any dinner, with bridge waiting.