Aunt Mildred nodded, and stood with her hand on Planchette; while the rest formed about her in a silent and expectant circle.  But nothing happened.  The minutes ticked away, and Planchette remained motionless.

“Be patient,” Mrs. Grantly counselled.  “Do not struggle against any influences you may feel working on you.  But do not do anything yourself.  The influence will take care of that.  You will feel impelled to do things, and such impulses will be practically irresistible.”

“I wish the influence would hurry up,” Aunt Mildred protested at the end of five motionless minutes.

“Just a little longer, Mrs. Story, just a little longer,” Mrs. Grantly said soothingly.

Suddenly Aunt Mildred’s hand began to twitch into movement.  A mild concern showed in her face as she observed the movement of her hand and heard the scratching of the pencil-point at the apex of Planchette.

For another five minutes this continued, when Aunt Mildred withdrew her hand with an effort, and said, with a nervous laugh: 

“I don’t know whether I did it myself or not.  I do know that I was growing nervous, standing there like a psychic fool with all your solemn faces turned upon me.”

“Hen-scratches,” was Uncle Robert’s judgement, when he looked over the paper upon which she had scrawled.

“Quite illegible,” was Mrs. Grantly’s dictum.  “It does not resemble writing at all.  The influences have not got to working yet.  Do you try it, Mr. Barton.”

That gentleman stepped forward, ponderously willing to please, and placed his hand on the board.  And for ten solid, stolid minutes he stood there, motionless, like a statue, the frozen personification of the commercial age.  Uncle Robert’s face began to work.  He blinked, stiffened his mouth, uttered suppressed, throaty sounds, deep down; finally he snorted, lost his self-control, and broke out in a roar of laughter.  All joined in this merriment, including Mrs. Grantly.  Mr. Barton laughed with them, but he was vaguely nettled.

“You try it, Story,” he said.

Uncle Robert, still laughing, and urged on by Lute and his wife, took the board.  Suddenly his face sobered.  His hand had begun to move, and the pencil could be heard scratching across the paper.

“By George!” he muttered.  “That’s curious.  Look at it.  I’m not doing it.  I know I’m not doing it.  Look at that hand go!  Just look at it!”

“Now, Robert, none of your ridiculousness,” his wife warned him.

“I tell you I’m not doing it,” he replied indignantly.  “The force has got hold of me.  Ask Mrs. Grantly.  Tell her to make it stop, if you want it to stop.  I can’t stop it.  By George! look at that flourish.  I didn’t do that.  I never wrote a flourish in my life.”

“Do try to be serious,” Mrs. Grantly warned them.  “An atmosphere of levity does not conduce to the best operation of Planchette.”

“There, that will do, I guess,” Uncle Robert said as he took his hand away.  “Now let’s see.”