With a frown of suspicion, Hallowell turned from him to Rainey.
"I don't think I ought to let them know," he questioned; "do
you?" But his attention was sharply diverted.
Vera, in a hushed and solemn voice, called for silence.
"My control," she explained -- her tone was deep and awestruck
-- "is trying to communicate with me."
Vance gave an exclamation of concern. The prospect of the
phenomena Vera promised seemed to fill him with delightful
expectations. "Be very quiet," he cautioned, "do not disturb
her."
Deeply impressed, Mr. Hallowell struggled from his chair.
Unaided, he moved to below the table and leaning against it
looked, with unwilling but fascinated interest, at Vera's
uplifted face.
"Some one in the spirit," Vera chanted, in an unemotional,
drugged voice, "wishes to speak to Mr. Hallowell. Give me your
hand."
"Quick!" directed Vance, "give her your hand. Take her hand."
"Yes, he is here," Vera continued. "A woman has a message for
you, she is standing close beside you. She is holding out her
arms. And she is trying, so hard, to tell you something. What is
it?" the girl questioned. "Oh, what is it? Tell me," she begged.
"Can't you tell me?"
Hallowell eyed her greedily, waiting almost without breathing
for her words. The hand with which he held hers crushed her
rings into her fingers.
"What sort?" -- whispered the old man. "What sort of a woman?"
With eyes still closed, swaying slightly and with abrupt
shudders running down her body, the girl continued in dull,
fateful tones.
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