“You are right!  It is trickery.  There is no truth in it.”

But she had mastered herself.  For opposite to her sat her patroness, her good friend, the woman who had saved her.  The flush upon Mme. Dauvray’s cheeks and the agitation of her manner warned Celia how much hung upon the success of this last seance.  How much for both of them!

And in the fullness of that knowledge a great fear assailed her.  She began to be afraid, so strong was her reluctance, that she would not bring her heart into the task.  “Suppose I failed tonight because I could not force myself to wish not to fail!” she thought, and she steeled herself against the thought.  Tonight she must not fail.  For apart altogether from Mme. Dauvray’s happiness, her own, it seemed, was at stake too.

“It must be from my lips that Harry learns what I have been,” she said to herself, and with the resolve she strengthened herself.

“I will wear what you please,” she said, with a smile.  “I only wish Mme. Rossignol to be satisfied.”

“And I shall be,” said Adele, “if—­” She leaned forward in anxiety.  She had come to the real necessity of Helene Vauquier’s plan.  “If we abandon as quite laughable the cupboard door and the string across it; if, in a word, mademoiselle consents that we tie her hand and foot and fasten her securely in a chair.  Such restraints are usual in the experiments of which I have read.  Was there not a medium called Mlle. Cook who was secured in this way, and then remarkable things, which I could not believe, were supposed to have happened?”

“Certainly I permit it,” said Celia, with indifference; and Mme. Dauvray cried enthusiastically: 

“Ah, you shall believe tonight in those wonderful things!”

Adele Tace leaned back.  She drew a breath.  It was a breath of relief.

“Then we will buy the cord in Aix,” she said.

“We have some, no doubt, in the house,” said Mme. Dauvray.

Adele shook her head and smiled.

“My dear madame, you are dealing with a sceptic.  I should not be content.”

Celia shrugged her shoulders.

“Let us satisfy Mme. Rossignol,” she said.

Celia, indeed, was not alarmed by this last precaution.  For her it was a test less difficult than the light-coloured rustling robe.  She had appeared upon so many platforms, had experienced too often the bungling efforts of spectators called up from the audience, to be in any fear.  There were very few knots from which her small hands and supple fingers had not learnt long since to extricate themselves.  She was aware how much in all these matters the personal equation counted.  Men who might, perhaps, have been able to tie knots from which she could not get free were always too uncomfortable and self-conscious, or too afraid of hurting her white arms and wrists, to do it.  Women, on the other hand, who had no compunctions of that kind, did not know how.