Then, for the first time, he saw that on the other side of the gauze partition, and below it by a few inches, was a small table of polished wood, on which stood an open book, a crystal ball, and a gold dish filled with ink.  These were arranged on the side of the table nearest to him, the farther side being out of his range of vision.  An amused interest touched him as he made his position more comfortable.  Whoever this woman was, she had an eye for stage management, she knew how to marshal her effects.  He found himself waiting with some curiosity for the next injunction from behind the curtain.

“The art of crystal-gazing,” began the sweet, slow voice after a pause, “is one of the oldest known arts.”  Loder sat forward.  The thought of Lady Bramfell mingled disconcertingly with some other thought more distant and less easy to secure.

“To obtain the best results,” went on the seer, “the subject lays his uncovered hands outspread upon a smooth surface.”  It was evident that the invisible priestess was reading from the open book, for when the word “surface” was reached there was a slight stir that indicated the changing of position; and when. the voice came again it was in a different tone.

“Please lay your hands, palms downward, upon the table.”

Loder smiled to himself in the darkness.  He pictured Chilcote with his nerves and his impatience going through this ordeal; then in good-humored silence he leaned forward and obeyed the command.  His hands rested on the smooth surface of the table in the bar of light from the unseen lamp.

There was a second in which the seer was silent; then he fancied that she raised her head.

“You must take off your rings,” she said smoothly.  “Any metal interferes with the sympathetic current.”

At any other time Loder would have laughed; but the request so casually and graciously made sent all possibility of irony far into the background.  The thought of Chilcote and of the one flaw in their otherwise flawless scheme rose to his mind.  Instinctively he half withdrew his hands.

“Where is the sympathetic current?” he asked, quietly.  His thoughts were busy with the question of whether he would or would not be justified in beating an undignified retreat.

“Between you and me, of course,” said the voice, softly.  It sounded languid, but very rational.  The idea of retreat seemed suddenly theatrical.  In this world of low voices and shaded lights people never adopted extreme measures—­no occasion made a scene practicable, or even allowable.  He leaned back slowly, while he summed up the situation.  If by any unlucky chance this woman knew Chilcote to have adopted jewelry and had seen the designs of his rings, the sight of his own scarred finger would suggest question and comment; if, on the other hand, he left the pavilion without excuse, or if, without apparent reason, he refused to remove the rings, he