“What did you dream?”

“I dreamed——­” He paused, and an intent look of interest came over his massive face.  “By Jove, that’s well thought of,” said he.  “This really will be an exceedingly interesting experiment.  You are yourself a psychic subject—­with nerves which respond readily to any impression.”

“I have never tested myself in that direction.”

“Then we shall test you tonight.  Might I ask you as a very great favour, when you occupy that couch tonight, to sleep with this old funnel placed by the side of your pillow?”

The request seemed to me a grotesque one; but I have myself, in my complex nature, a hunger after all which is bizarre and fantastic.  I had not the faintest belief in Dacre’s theory, nor any hopes for success in such an experiment; yet it amused me that the experiment should be made.  Dacre, with great gravity, drew a small stand to the head of my settee, and placed the funnel upon it.  Then, after a short conversation, he wished me good night and left me.

I sat for some little time smoking by the smouldering fire, and turning over in my mind the curious incident which had occurred, and the strange experience which might lie before me.  Sceptical as I was, there was something impressive in the assurance of Dacre’s manner, and my extraordinary surroundings, the huge room with the strange and often sinister objects which were hung round it, struck solemnity into my soul.  Finally I undressed, and turning out the lamp, I lay down.  After long tossing I fell asleep.  Let me try to describe as accurately as I can the scene which came to me in my dreams.  It stands out now in my memory more clearly than anything which I have seen with my waking eyes.  There was a room which bore the appearance of a vault.  Four spandrels from the corners ran up to join a sharp, cup-shaped roof.  The architecture was rough, but very strong.  It was evidently part of a great building.

Three men in black, with curious, top-heavy, black velvet hats, sat in a line upon a red-carpeted dais.  Their faces were very solemn and sad.  On the left stood two long-gowned men with port-folios in their hands, which seemed to be stuffed with papers.  Upon the right, looking toward me, was a small woman with blonde hair and singular, light-blue eyes—­the eyes of a child.  She was past her first youth, but could not yet be called middle-aged.  Her figure was inclined to stoutness and her bearing was proud and confident.  Her face was pale, but serene.  It was a curious face, comely and yet feline, with a subtle suggestion of cruelty about the straight, strong little mouth and chubby jaw.  She was draped in some sort of loose, white gown.  Beside her stood a thin, eager priest, who whispered in her ear, and continually raised a crucifix before her eyes.  She turned her head and looked fixedly past the crucifix at the three men in black, who were, I felt, her judges.