Suddenly her rigid pose relaxed.  She drooped forward in her chair, with her head sunk and hands limp.  Tenderly and reverently Quimbleton bent over her.  Then, his face shining with triumph, he spoke to the hushed watchers.

“She is in the trance,” he said.  “Gentlemen, her happy soul is in touch with the departed spirits.  What’ll you have?  Don’t all speak at once.”

Fifty-nine, in hushed voices, petitioned for a Bronx.  Quimbleton turned to the unconscious girl.

“Fifty-nine devotees,” he said, “ask that the spirit of the Bronx cocktail vouchsafe his presence among us.”

Miss Chuff’s slender figure stiffened again.  Her hand went out to the glass beside her, and raised it to her lips.  Some of the more eagerly credulous afterwards asserted that they had seen a cloudy yellow liquid appear in the vessel, but it is not improbable that the wish was father to the vision.  At any rate, the fifty-nine suppliants experienced at that instant a gush of sweet coolness down their throats, and the unmistakable subsequent tingle.  They gazed at each other with a wild surmise.

“How about another?” said one in a thrilling whisper.

“Take your turn,” said Quimbleton.  “Who’s next?”

One hundred and fifty-three nominated Scotch whiskey.  The order was filled without a slip.  Quimbleton’s face beamed above his beard like a full-blown rose.  “Magnificent!” he whispered to Bleak, both of them having partaken in the second round.  “If this keeps on we’ll have a charge of the tight brigade.”

The next round was ninety-five Jack Rose cocktails, but the audience was beginning to get out of hand.  Those who had not yet been served grew restive.  They saw their companions with brightened eyes and beaming faces, comparing notes as to this delicious revival of old sensations.  In the impatience of some and the jubilation of others, the psychic concentration flagged a little.  Then, just as Quimbleton was about to ask for the fourth round, the unforgiveable happened.  Some one at the back shouted, “A glass of buttermilk!”

Miss Chuff shuddered, quivered, and opened her eyes with a tragic gasp.  She slipped from the chair, and fell exhausted to the floor.  Bleak ran to pick her up.  Quimbleton screamed out an oath.

“The spell is broken!” he roared.  “There’s a spy in the room!”

At that instant a battalion of armed chuffs burst into the hall.  They carried a huge hose, and in ten seconds a six-inch stream of cold water was being poured upon the bewildered psychic tipplers.  Quimbleton and Bleak, seizing the girl’s helpless form, escaped by a door at the back of the platform.

“Heaven help us,” cried Bleak, distraught.  “What shall we do?  This means the firing squad unless we can escape.”

Theodolinda feebly opened her eyes.

“O horrible,” she murmured.  “The spirit of buttermilk—­I saw him—­ he threatened me—­”