She looked triumphantly at them.  Planchette had been vindicated.

“Nonsense,” laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritation in his manner.  “Such things do not happen these days.  This is the twentieth century, my dear madam.  The thing, at the very latest, smacks of mediaevalism.”

“I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette,” Mrs. Grantly began, then broke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on the board.

“Who are you?” she asked.  “What is your name?”

The board immediately began to write.  By this time all heads, with the exception of Mr. Barton’s, were bent over the table and following the pencil.

“It’s Dick,” Aunt Mildred cried, a note of the mildly hysterical in her voice.

Her husband straightened up, his face for the first time grave.

“It’s Dick’s signature,” he said.  “I’d know his fist in a thousand.”

“‘Dick Curtis,’” Mrs. Grantly read aloud.  “Who is Dick Curtis?”

“By Jove, that’s remarkable!” Mr. Barton broke in.  “The handwriting in both instances is the same.  Clever, I should say, really clever,” he added admiringly.

“Let me see,” Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it.  “Yes, it is Dick’s handwriting.”

“But who is Dick?” Mrs. Grantly insisted.  “Who is this Dick Curtis?”

“Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis,” Uncle Robert answered.

“He was Lute’s father,” Aunt Mildred supplemented.  “Lute took our name.  She never saw him.  He died when she was a few weeks old.  He was my brother.”

“Remarkable, most remarkable.”  Mrs. Grantly was revolving the message in her mind.  “There were two attempts on Mr. Dunbar’s life.  The subconscious mind cannot explain that, for none of us knew of the accident to-day.”

“I knew,” Chris answered, “and it was I that operated Planchette.  The explanation is simple.”

“But the handwriting,” interposed Mr. Barton.  “What you wrote and what Mrs. Grantly wrote are identical.”

Chris bent over and compared the handwriting.

“Besides,” Mrs. Grantly cried, “Mr. Story recognizes the handwriting.”

She looked at him for verification.

He nodded his head.  “Yes, it is Dick’s fist.  I’ll swear to that.”

But to Lute had come a visioning.  While the rest argued pro and con and the air was filled with phrases,—­“psychic phenomena,” “self-hypnotism,” “residuum of unexplained truth,” and “spiritism,”—­she was reviving mentally the girlhood pictures she had conjured of this soldier-father she had never seen.  She possessed his sword, there were several old-fashioned daguerreotypes, there was much that had been said of him, stories told of him—­and all this had constituted the material out of which she had builded him in her childhood fancy.