We had no trouble in getting in to see Mr. Vandam in his seance-room.  His face was familiar to me, for I had seen him in public a number of times, but it looked strangely altered.  He was nervous, and showed his age very perceptibly.

It was as the coroner’s physician had said.  The house was littered with reminders of the cult, books, papers, curious daubs of paintings handsomely framed, and photographs; hazy overexposures, I should have called them, but Mr. Vandam took great pride in them, and Kennedy quite won him over by his admiration for them.

They talked about the rappings, and the old man explained where and when they occurred.  They proceeded from a little cabinet or closet at one end of the room.  It was evident that he was a thorough believer in them and in the messages they conveyed.

Craig carefully noted everything about the room and then fell to admiring the spirit photographs, if such they might be called.

“The best of all I do not display, they are too precious,” said the old man.  “Would you like to see them?”

Craig assented eagerly, and Vandam left us for a moment to get them.  In an instant Craig had entered the cabinet, and in a dark corner on the floor he deposited the mechanism he had brought from the laboratory.  Then he resumed his seat, shutting the box in which he had brought the mechanism, so that it would not appear that he had left anything about the room.

Artfully he led the conversation along lines that interested the old man until he seemed to forget the hour.  Not so, Craig.  He knew it was nearing half-past twelve.  The more they talked the more uncanny did this house and room of spirits seem to me.  In fact, I was rapidly reaching the point where I could have sworn that once or twice something incorporeal brushed by me.  I know now that it was purely imagination, but it shows what tricks the imagination can play on us.

Rap! rap! rap! rap! rap!

Five times came a curiously hollow noise from the cabinet.  If it had been possible I should certainly have fled, it was so sudden and unexpected.  The hall clock downstairs struck the half-hour in those chimes written by Handel for St. Paul’s.

Craig leaned over to me and whispered hoarsely, “Keep perfectly still—­don’t move a hand or foot.”

The old man seemed utterly to have forgotten us.  “Is that you, John?” he asked expectantly.

Rap! rap! rap! came the reply.

“Is Mary strong enough to speak to me to-night?”

Rap! rap!

“Is she happy?”

Rap! rap!

“What makes her unhappy?  What does she want?  Will you spell it out?”

Rap! rap! rap!

Then, after a pause, the rapping started slowly, and distinctly to spell out words.  It was so weird and uncanny that I scarcely breathed.  Letter after letter the message came, nineteen raps for “s,” eight for “h,” five for “e,” according to the place in the alphabet, numerically, of the required letter.  At last it was complete.