The two policewomen returned in triumph to Bardley Square Station where Inspector Murphy, who had sent them, was waiting for their report. Murphy was a jolly-looking, red-faced, black-moustached man who had a cheerful, fatherly way with women which was by no means justified by his age or virility. He sat behind his official table, his papers strewn in front of him.
"Well, girls," he said as the two women entered, "what luck?"
"I think it's a go, Mr. Murphy," said the elder policewoman. "We have the evidence you want."
The Inspector took up a written list of questions from his desk.
"You ran it on the general lines that I suggested?" he asked.
"Yes. I said my husband was killed at Ypres."
"What did he do?"
"Well, he seemed sorry for me."
"That, of course, is part of the game. He'll be sorry for himself before he is through with it. He didn't say, 'You are a single woman and never had a husband?'"
"No."
"Well, that's one up against his spirits, is it not? That should impress the Court. What more?"
"He felt round for names. They were all wrong."
"Good!"
"He believed me when I said that Miss Bellinger here was my daughter."
"Good again! Did you try the Pedro stunt?"
"Yes, he considered the name, but I got nothing."
"Ah, that's a pity. But, anyhow, he did not know that Pedro was your Alsatian dog. He considered the name. That's good enough. Make the jury laugh and you have your verdict. Now about fortune-telling? Did you do what I suggested?"
"Yes, I asked about Amy's young man. He did not give much that was definite."
"Cunning devil! He knows his business."
"But he did say that she would be unhappy if she married him."
"Oh, he did, did he? Well, if we spread that a little we have got all we want. Now sit down and dictate your report while you have it fresh. Then we can go over it together and see how we can put it best. Amy must write one, also."
"Very good, Mr. Murphy."
"Then we shall apply for the warrant. You see, it all depends upon which magistrate it comes before. There was Mr. Dalleret who let a medium off last month. He is no we to us. And Mr. Lancing has been mixed up with these people. Mr. Melrose is a stiff materialist. We could depend on him, and have timed the arrest accordingly. It would never do to fail to get our conviction."
"Couldn't you get some of the public to corroborate?" The inspector laughed.
"We are supposed to be protecting the public, but between you and me none of the public have ever yet asked to be protected. There are no complaints. Therefore it is left to us to uphold the law as best we can. As long as it is there we have got to enforce it. Well, good-bye, girls! Let me have the report by four o'clock."
"Nothing for it, I suppose?" said the elder woman, with a smile.
"You wait, my dear. If we get twenty-five pounds fine it has got to go somewhere--Police Fund, of course, but there may be something over. Anyhow, you go and cough it up and then we shall see."
Next morning a scared maid broke into Linden's modest study. "Please sir, it's an officer."
The man in blue followed hard at her heels.
"Name of Linden?" said he, and handing a folded sheet of foolscap he departed.
The stricken couple who spent their lives in bringing comfort to others were sadly in need of comfort themselves. She put her arm round his neck while they read the cheerless document:
To THOMAS LINDEN of 40, Tullis Street, N.W.
Information has been laid this day by Patrick Murphy, Inspector Of Police, that you the said Thomas Linden on the 10th day of November at the above dwelling did profess to Henrietta Dresser and to Amy Bellinger to tell fortunes to deceive and impose on certain of His Majesty's subjects, to wit those above mentioned. You are therefore summoned to appear before the Magistrate of the Police Court in Bardsley Square on Wednesday next, the 17th, at the hour of 11 in the forenoon to answer to the said information.
Dated the 10th day of November.
(signed) B.J.WITHERS.
On the same afternoon Mailey called upon Malone and they sat in consultation over this document. Then they went together to see Summerway Jones, an acute solicitor and an earnest student of psychic affairs. Incidentally, he was a hard rider to hounds, a good boxer, and a man who carried a fresh-air flavour into the mustiest law chambers. He arched his eyebrows over the summons.
"The poor devil has not an earthly!" said he. "He's lucky to have a summons. Usually they act on a warrant. Then the man is carted right off, kept in the cells all night, and tried next morning with no one to defend him. The police are cute enough, of course, to choose either a Roman Catholic or a materialist as the magistrate. Then, by the beautiful judgment of Chief Justice Lawrence--the first judgment, I believe, that he delivered in that high capacity--the profession of mediumship or wonder-working is in itself a legal crime, whether it be genuine or no, so that no defence founded upon good results has a look in. It's a mixture of religious persecution and police blackmail. As to the public, they don't care a damn! Why should they? If they don't want their fortune told, they don't go. The whole thing is the most absolute bilge and a disgrace to our legislature."
"I'll write it up," said Malone, glowing with Celtic fire.
"What do you call the Act?"
"Well, there are two Acts, each more putrid than the other, and both passed long before Spiritualism was ever heard of. There is the Witchcraft Act dating from George the Second. That has become too absurd, so they only use it as a second string. Then there is the Vagrancy Act of 1824. It was passed to control the wandering gipsy folk on the roadside, and was never intended, of course, to be used like this." He hunted among his papers. "Here is the beastly thing. 'Every person professing to tell fortunes or using any subtle craft, means or device to deceive and impose on any of His Majesty's subjects shall be deemed a rogue and a vagabond', and so on and so forth. The two Acts together would have roped in the whole Early Christian movement just as surely as the Roman persecution did."
"Lucky there are no lions now," said Malone.
"Jackasses!" said Mailey. "That's the modern substitute. But what are we to do?"
"I'm damned if I know!" said the solicitor, scratching his head. "It's perfectly hopeless!"
"Oh, dash it all!" cried Malone, "we can't give it up so easily. We know the man is an honest man."
Mailey turned and grasped Malone's hand.
"I don't know if you call yourself a Spiritualist yet," he said, "but you are the kind of chap we want. There are too many white-livered folk in our movement who fawn on a medium when all is well, and desert him at the first breath of an accusation But, thank God! there are a few stalwarts. There is Brookes and Rodwin and Sir James Smith. We can put up a hundred or two among us."
"Right-o!" said the solicitor, cheerily. "If you feel like that we will give you a run for your money."
"How about a K.C.?"
"Well, they don't plead in police courts. If you'll leave it in my hands I fancy I can do as well as anyone, for I've had a lot of these cases. It will keep the costs down, too."
"Well, we are with you. And we will have a few good men at our back."
"If we do nothing else we shall ventilate it," said Malone.
"I believe in the good old British public. Slow and stupid, but sound at the core. They will not stand for injustice if you can get the truth into their heads."
"They damned well need trepanning before you can get it there," said the solicitor. "Well, you do your bit and I'll do mine and we will see what comes of it."
The fateful morning arrived and Linden found himself in the dock facing a spruce, middle-aged man with rat-trap jaws, Mr. Melrose, the redoubtable police magistrate. Mr. Melrose had a reputation for severity with fortune-tellers and all who foretold the future, though he spent the intervals in his court by reading up the sporting prophets, for he was an ardent follower of the Turf, and his trim, fawn-coloured coat and rakish hat were familiar objects at every race meeting which was within his reach. He was in no particularly good humour this morning as he glanced at the charge-sheet and then surveyed the prisoner. Mrs. Linden had secured a position below the dock, and occasionally extended her hand to pat that of the prisoner which rested on the edge. The court was crowded and many of the prisoner's clients had attended to show their sympathy.
"Is this case defended?" asked Mr. Melrose.
"Yes, your worship," said Summerway Jones. "May I, before it opens, make an objection?"
"If you think it worth while, Mr. Jones."
"I beg to respectfully request your ruling before the case is proceeded with. My client is not a vagrant, but a respectable member of the community, living in his own house, paying rates and taxes, and on the same footing as every other citizen. He is now prosecuted under the fourth section of the Vagrancy Act of 1824, which is styled, 'An Act for punishing idle and disorderly persons, and rogues and vagabonds'. The Act was intended, as the words imply, to restrain lawless gipsies and others, who at that time infested the country. I ask your worship to rule that my client is clearly not a person within the purview of this Act or liable to its penalties."
The magistrate shook his head.
"I fear, Mr. Jones, that there have been too many precedents for the Act to be now interpreted in this limited fashion. I will ask the solicitor prosecuting on behalf of the Commissioner of Police to put forward his evidence." A little bull of a man with side-whiskers and a raucous voice sprang to his feet.
"I call Henrietta Dresser."
The elder policewoman popped up in the box with the alacrity of one who is used to it. She held an open notebook in her hand.
"You are a policewoman, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"I understand that you watched the prisoner's home the day before you called on him?"
"Yes, sir."
"How many people went in?"
"Fourteen, sir."
"Fourteen people. And I believe the prisoner's average fee is ten and sixpence."
"Yes."
"Seven pounds in one day! Pretty good wages when many an honest man is content with five shillings."
"These were the tradespeople!" cried Linden.
"I must ask you not to interrupt. You are already very efficiently represented" said the magistrate severely.
"Now, Henrietta Dresser," continued the prosecutor, wagging his pince-nez. "Let's hear what occurred when you and Amy Bellinger visited the prisoner."
The policewoman gave an account which was in the main true, reading it from her book. She was not a married woman, but the medium had accepted her statement that she was. He had fumbled with several names and had seemed greatly confused. The name of a dog--Pedro had been submitted to him, but he had not recognized it as such. Finally, he had answered questions as to the future of her alleged daughter, who was, in fact, no relation to her, and had foretold that she would be unhappy in her marriage.
"Any questions, Mr. Jones?" asked the magistrate.
"Did you come to this man as one who needed consolation? And did he attempt to give it?"
"I suppose you might put it so."
"You professed deep grief, I understand."
"I tried to give that impression."
"You do not consider that to be hypocrisy?"
"I did what was my duty."
"You saw no signs of psychic power, or anything abnormal?" asked the prosecutor.
"No, he seemed a very nice, ordinary sort of man."
Amy Bellinger was the next witness. She appeared with her notebook in her hand.
"May I ask, your worship, whether it is in order that these witnesses should read their evidence?" asked Mr. Jones.
"Why not?" queried the magistrate. "We desire the exact facts" do we not?"
"We do. Possibly Mr. Jones does not," said the prosecuting solicitor.
"It is clearly a method of securing that the evidence of these two witnesses shall be in accord," said Jones. "I submit that these accounts are carefully prepared and collated."
"Naturally, the police prepare their case," said the magistrate. "I do not see that you have any grievance, Mr. Jones. Now, witness, let us hear your evidence."
It followed on the exact lines of the other.
"You asked questions about your fiance? You had no fiance," said Mr. Jones.
"That is so."
"In fact, you both told a long sequence of lies?"
"With a good object in view."
"You thought the end justified the means?"
"I carried out my instructions."
"Which were given you beforehand?"
"Yes, we were told what to ask."
"I think," said the magistrate, "that the policewomen have given their evidence very fairly and well. Have you any witnesses for the defence, Mr. Jones?"
"There are a number of people in court, your worship, who have received great benefit from the mediumship of the prisoner. I have subpoenaed one woman who was, by her own account, saved from suicide that very morning by what he told her. I have another man who was an atheist, and had lost all belief in future life. He was completely converted by his experience of psychic phenomena. I can produce men of the highest eminence in science and literature who will testify to the real nature of Mr. Linden's powers."
The magistrate shook his head.
"You must know, Mr. Jones, that such evidence would be quite beside the question. It has been clearly laid down by the ruling of the Lord Chief Justice and others that the law of this country does not recognize supernatural powers of any sort whatever, and that a pretence of such powers where payment is involved constitutes a crime in itself. Therefore your suggestion that you should call witnesses could not possibly lead to anything save a wasting of the time of the court. At the same time, I am, of course, ready to listen to any observations which you may care to make after the solicitor for the prosecution has spoken."
"Might I venture to point out, your worship," said Jones, "that such a ruling would mean the condemnation of any sacred or holy person of whom we have any record, since even holy persons have to live, and have therefore to receive money."
"If you refer to Apostolic times, Mr. Jones," said the magistrate sharply, "I can only remind you that the Apostolic age is past and also that Queen Anne is dead. Such an argument is hardly worthy of your intelligence. Now, sir, if you have anything to add . . ."
Thus encouraged the prosecutor made a short address, stabbing the air at intervals with his pince-nez as if every stab punctured afresh all claims of the spirit. He pictured the destitution among the working-classes, and yet charlatans, by advancing wicked and blasphemous claims, were able to earn a rich living. That they had real powers was, as had been observed, beside the question, but even that excuse was shattered by the fact that these policewomen, who had discharged an unpleasant duty in a most exemplary way, had received nothing but nonsense in return for their money. Was it likely that other clients fared an better? These parasites were increasing in number, trading upon the finer feelings of bereaved parents, and it was high time that some exemplary punishment should warn them that they would be wise to turn their hands to some more honest trade.
Mr. Summerway Jones replied as best he might. He began by pointing out that the Acts were being used for a purpose for which they were never intended. ("That point has already been considered!" snapped the magistrate.) The whole position was open to criticism. The convictions were secured by evidence from agents-provocateurs, who, if any crime had been committed, were obviously inciters to it and also participants. The fines obtained were often deflected for purposes in which the police had a direct interest.
"Surely, Mr. Jones, you do not mean to cast a reflection upon the honesty of the police!"
The police were human, and were naturally inclined to stretch a point where there own interests were affected. All these cases were artificial. There was no record at any time of any real complaint from the public or any demand for protection. There were frauds in every profession, and if a man deliberately invested and lost a guinea in a false medium he had no more right to protection than the man who invested his money in a bad company on the stock market. Whilst the police were wasting time upon such cases, and their agents were weeping crocodile tears in the character of forlorn mourners, many of her branches of real crime received far less attention than they deserved. The law was quite arbitrary in its action. Every big garden-party, even, as he had been informed, every police fete was incomplete without its fortune-teller or palmist.
Some years ago the Daily Mail had raised an outcry against fortune-tellers. That great man, the late Lord Northcliffe, had been put in the box by the defence, and it had been shown that one of his other papers was running a palmistry column, and that the fees received were divided equally between the palmist and the proprietors. He mentioned this in no spirit which was derogatory to the memory of this great mall, but merely as an example of the absurdity of the law as it was now administered. Whatever might be the individual opinion of members of that court, it was incontrovertible that a large number of intelligent and useful citizens regarded this power of mediumship as a remarkable manifestation of the power of spirit, making for the great improvement of the race. Was it not a most fatal policy in these days of materialism to crush down by law that which in its higher manifestation might work for the regeneration of mankind? As to the undoubted fact that information received by the policewomen was incorrect and that their lying statements were not detected by the medium, it was a psychic law that harmonious conditions were essential for true results, and that deceit on one side produced confusion on the other. If the court would for a moment adopt the Spiritualistic hypothesis, they would realize how absurd it would be to expect that angelic hosts would descend in order to answer the questions of two mercenary and hypocritical inquirers.
Such, in a short synopsis, was the general line of Mr. Summerway Jones's defence which reduced Mrs. Linden to tears and threw the magistrate's clerk into a deep slumber. The magistrate himself rapidly brought the matter to a conclusion.
"Your quarrel, Mr. Jones, seems to be with the law, and that is outside my competence. I administer it as I find it, though I may remark that I am entirely in agreement with it. Such men as the defendant are the noxious fungi which collect on a corrupt society, and the attempt to compare their vulgarities with the holy men of old, or to claim similar gifts, must be reprobated by all right-thinking men.
"As to you, Linden," he added, fixing his stern eyes upon the prisoner, "I fear that you are a hardened offender since a previous conviction has not altered your ways. I sentence you, therefore, to two months' hard labour without the option of a fine."
There was a scream from Mrs. Linden.
"Good-bye, dear, don't fret," said the medium, glancing over the side of the dock. An instant later he had been hurried down to the cell.
Summerway Jones, Mailey and Malone met in the hall, and Mailey volunteered to escort the poor stricken woman home.
"What had he ever done but bring comfort to all?" she moaned. "Is there a better man living in the whole great City of London?"
"I don't think there is a more useful one," said Mailey. "I'll venture to say that the whole of Crockford's Directory with the Archbishops at their head could not prove the things of religion as I have seen Tom Linden prove them, or convert an atheist as I have seen Linden convert him."
"It's a shame! A damned shame!" said Malone, hotly.
"The touch about vulgarity was funny," said Jones. "I wonder if he thinks the Apostles were very cultivated people. Well, I did my best. I had no hopes, and it has worked out as I thought. It is a pure waste of time."
"Not at all," Malone answered. "It has ventilated an evil. There were reporters in court. Surely some of them have some sense. They will note the injustice."
"Not they," said Mailey. "The Press is hopeless. My God, what a responsibility these people take on themselves, and how little they guess the price that each will pay! I know. I have spoken with them while they were paying it."
"Well, I for one will speak out," said Malone, "and I believe others will also. The Press is more independent and intelligent than you seem to think."
But Mailey was right, after all. When he had left Mrs. Linden in her lonely home and had reached Fleet Street once more, Malone bought a Planet. As he opened it a scare head-line met his eye:
IMPOSTOR IN THE POLICE COURT.
Dog Mistaken for Man. WHO WAS PEDRO? Exemplary Sentence.
He crumpled the paper up in his hand.
"No wonder these Spiritualists feel bitterly," he thought "They have good cause."
Yes, poor Tom Linden had a bad Press. He went down into his miserable
cell amid universal objurgation. The Planet, an evening paper which depended
for its circulation upon the sporting forecasts of Captain Touch-and-go,
remarked upon the absurdity of forecasting the future. Honest John, a weekly
journal which had been mixed up with some of the greatest frauds of the
century, was of the opinion that the dishonesty of Linden was a public
scandal. A rich country rector wrote to The Times to express his indignation
that anyone should profess to sell the gifts of the spirit. The Churchman
remarked that such incidents arose from the growing infidelity, while the
Freethinker saw in them a reversion to superstition. Finally Mr. Maskelyne
showed the public, to the great advantage of his box office, exactly how
the swindle was perpetrated. So for a few days Tom Linden was what the
French call a "succes d'execration." Then the world moved on and he was
left to his fate.
"Top of the Alps is becomin' a perfect bear-garden," said he. "Short of Everest there don't seem to be any decent privacy left."
His advent into London was acclaimed by a dinner given in his honour at the 'Travellers' by the Heavy Game Society. The occasion was private and there were no reporters, but Lord Roxton's speech was fixed verbatim in the minds of all his audience and has been imperishably preserved. He writhed for twenty minutes under the flowery and eulogistic periods of the president, and rose himself in the state of confused indignation which the Briton feels when he is publicly approved. "Oh, I say! By Jove! What!" was his oration, after which he resumed his seat and perspired profusely.
Malone was first aware of Lord Roxton's return through McArdle, the crabbed old red-headed news editor, whose bald dome projected further and further from its ruddy fringe as the years still found him slaving at the most grinding of tasks. He retained his keen scent of what was good copy, and it was this sense of his which caused him one winter morning to summon Malone to his presence. He removed the long glass tube which he used as a cigarette-holder from his lips, and he blinked through his big round glasses at his subordinate.
"You know that Lord Roxton is back in London?"
"I had not heard."
"Aye, he's back. Dootless you've heard that he was wounded in the war. He led a small column in East Africa and made a wee war of his own till he got an elephant bullet through his chest. Oh, he's done fine since then, or he couldn't be climbin' these mountains. He's a deevil of a man and aye stirring up something new."
"What is the latest?" asked Malone, eyeing a slip of paper which McArdle was waving between his finger and thumb.
"Well, that's where he impinges on you. I was thinking maybe you could hunt in couples and, there would be copy in it. There's a leaderette in the Evening Standard" He handed it over. It ran thus:
"A quaint advertisement in the columns of a contemporary shows that the famous Lord John Roxton, third son of the Duke of Pomfret, is seeking fresh worlds to conquer. Having exhausted the sporting adventures of this terrestrial globe, he is now turning to those of the dim, dark and dubious regions of psychic research. He is in the market apparently for any genuine specimen of a haunted house, and is open to receive information as to any violent or dangerous manifestation which called for investigation. As Lord John Roxton is a man of resolute character and one of the best revolver shots in England, we would warn any practical joker that he would be well-advised to stand aside and leave this matter to those who are said to be as impervious to bullets as their supporters are to common sense."
McArdle gave his dry chuckle at the concluding words.
"I'm thinking they are getting pairsonal there, friend Malone, for if you are no a supporter, you're well on the way. But are you no of the opeenion that this chiel and you between you might put up a spook and get two racy columns off him?"
"Well, I can see Lord Roxton," said Malone. "He's still, I suppose, in his old rooms in the Albany. I would wish to call in any case, so I can open this up as well."
Thus it was that in the late afternoon just as the murk of London broke into dim circles of silver, the pressman found himself once more walking down Vigo Street and accosting the porter at the dark entrance of the old-fashioned chambers. Yes, Lord John Roxton was in, but a gentleman was with him. He would take a card. Presently he returned with word that in spite of the previous visitor, Lord Roxton would see Malone at once. An instant later, he had been ushered into the old luxurious rooms with their trophies of war and of the chase. The owner of them with outstretched hand was standing at the door, long, thin, austere, with the same gaunt, whimsical, Don Quixote face as of old. There was no change save that he was more aquiline, and his eyebrows jutted more thickly over his reckless, restless eyes.
"Hullo, young fellah!" he cried. "I was hopin' you'd draw this old covert once more. I was comin' down to the office to look you up. Come in! Come in! Let me introduce you to the Reverend Charles Mason."
A very tall, thin clergyman, who was coiled up in a large basket chair, gradually unwound himself and held out a bony hand to the newcomer. Malone was aware of two very earnest and human grey eyes looking searchingly into his, and of a broad, welcoming smile which disclosed a double row of excellent teeth. It was a worn and weary face, the tired face of the spiritual fighter, but it was very kindly and companionable, none the less. Malone had heard of the man, a Church of England vicar, who had left his model parish and the church which he had built himself in order to preach freely the doctrines of Christianity, with the new psychic knowledge super-added.
"Why, I never seem to get away from the Spiritualists!" he exclaimed.
"You never will, Mr. Malone," said the lean clergyman, chuckling. "The world never will until it has absorbed this new knowledge which God has sent. You can't get away from it. It is too big. At the present moment, in this great city there is not a place where men or women meet that it does not come up. And yet you would not know it from the Press."
"Well, you can't level that reproach at the Daily Gazette," said Malone. "Possibly you may have read my own descriptive articles."
"Yes, I read them. They are at least better than the awful sensational nonsense which the London Press usually serves up, save when they ignore it altogether. To read a paper like The Times you would never know that this vital movement existed at all. The only editorial allusion to it that I can ever remember was in a leading article when the great paper announced that it would believe in it when it found it could, by means of it, pick out more winners on a race-card than by other means."
"Doosed useful, too," said Lord Roxton. "It's just what I should have said myself. What!"
The clergyman's face was grave and he shook his head.
"That brings me back to the object of my visit," he said. He turned to Malone. "I took the liberty of calling upon Lord Roxton in connection with his advertisement to say that if he went on such a quest with a good intention, no better work could be found in the world, but if he did it out of a love of sport, following some poor earth-bound soul in the same spirit as he followed the white rhinoceros of the Lido, he might be playing with fire."
"Well, padre, I've been playin' with fire all my life and that's nothin' new. What I mean--if you want me to look at this ghost business from the religious angle, there's nothin' doin', for the Church of England that I was brought up in fills my very modest need. But if it's got a spice of danger, as you say, then it's worth while. What!"
The Rev. Charles Mason smiled his kindly, toothsome grin.
"Incorrigible, is he not?" he said to Malone. "Well, I can only wish you a fuller comprehension of the subject." He rose as if to depart.
"Wait a bit, padre!" cried Lord Roxton, hurriedly. "When I'm explorin', I begin by ropin' in a friendly native. I expect you're just the man. Won't you come with me?"
"Where to?"
"Well, sit down and I'll tell you." He rummaged among a pile of letters on his desk. "Fine selection of spooks!" he said. "I got on the track of over twenty by the first post. This is an easy winner, though. Read it for yourself. Lonely house, man driven mad, tenants boltin' in the night, horrible spectre. Sounds all right--what!"
The clergyman read the letter with puckered brows.
"It seems a bad case," said he.
"Well, suppose you come along. What! Maybe you can help clear it up."
The Rev. Mason pulled out a pocket-almanac. "I have a service for ex-Service men on Wednesday, and a lecture the same evening."
"But we could start to-day."
"It's a long way."
"Only Dorsetshire. Three hours."
"What is your plan?"
"Well, I suppose a night in the house should do it."
"If there is any poor soul in trouble it becomes a duty. Very well, I will come."
"And surely there is room for me," pleaded Malone.
"Of course there is, young fellah! What I mean--I expect that old, red-headed bird at the office sent you round with no other purpose. Ah, I thought so. Well, you can write an adventure that is not perfect bilge for a change--what! There's a train from Victoria at eight o'clock. We can meet there, and I'll have a look in at old man Challenger as I pass."
They dined together in the train and after dinner reassembled in their first-class carriage, which is the snuggest mode of travel which the world can show. Roxton, behind a big black cigar, was full of his visit to Challenger.
"The old dear is the same as ever. Bit my head off once or twice in his own familiar way. Talked unadulterated tripe. Says I've got brain-softenin', if I could think there was such a thing as a real spook. 'When you're dead you're dead'". That's the old man's cheery slogan. Surveyin' his contemporaries' he said, extinction was a doosed good thing! 'It's the only hope of the world', said he. 'Fancy the awful prospect if they survived'. Wanted to give me a bottle of chlorine to chuck at the ghost. I told him that if my automatic was not a spook-stopper, nothin' else would serve. Tell me, padre, is this the first time you've been on safari after this kind of game?"
"You treat the matter too lightly, Lord John," said the clergyman gravely. "You have clearly had no experience of it. In answer to your question I may say that I have several times tried to help in similar cases."
"And you take it seriously?" asked Malone, making notes for his article.
"Very, very seriously."
"What do you think these influences are?"
"I am no authority upon the general question. You know Algernon Mailey, the barrister, do you not? He could give you facts and figures. I approach the subject rather perhaps from the point of view of instinct and emotion. I remember Mailey lecturing on Professor Bozzano's book on ghosts where over five hundred well-authenticated instances were given, every one of them sufficient to establish an a priori case. There is Flammarion, too. You can't laugh away evidence of that kind."
"I've read Bozzano and Flammarion, too," said Malone, "but it is your own experience and conclusions that I want."
"Well, if you quote me, remember that I do not look on myself as a great authority on psychic research. Wiser brains than mine may come along and give some other explanation. Still, what I have seen has led me to certain conclusions. One of them is to think that there is some truth in the theosophical idea of shells."
"What is that?"
"They imagined that all spirit bodies near the earth were empty shells or husks from which the real entity had departed. Now, of course, we know that a general statement of that sort is nonsense, for we could not get the glorious communications which we do get from anything but high intelligences. But we also must beware of generalizations. They are not all high intelligences. Some are so low that I think the creature is purely external and is an appearance rather than a reality."
"But why should it be there?"
"Yes, that is the question. It is usually allowed that there is the natural body, as St. Paul called it, which is dissolved at death, and the etheric or spiritual body which survives and functions upon an etheric plane. Those are the essential things. But we may really have as many coats as an onion and there may be a mental body which may shed itself at any spot where great mental or emotional strain has been experienced. It may be a dull automatic simulacrum and yet carry something of our appearance and thoughts."
"Well" said Malone, "that would to some extent get over the difficulty, for I could never imagine that a murderer or his victim could spend whole centuries re-acting the old crime. What would be the sense of it?"
"Quite right, young fellah," said Lord Roxton. "There was a pal of mine, Archie Soames, the gentleman Jock, who had an old place in Berkshire. Well, Nell Gwynne had lived there once, and he was ready to swear he met her a dozen times in the passage. Archie never flinched at the big jump at the Grand National, but, by Jove! he flinched at those passages after dark. Doosed fine woman she was and all that, but dash it all! What I mean--one has to draw the line--what!"
"Quite so!" the clergyman answered. "You can't imagine that the real soul of a vivid personality like Nell could spend centuries walking those passages. But if by chance she had ate her heart out in that house, brooding and fretting, one could think that she might have cast a shell and left some thought-image of herself behind her."
"You said you had experiences of your own."
"I had one before ever I knew anything of Spiritualism. I hardly expect that you will believe me, but I assure you it is true. I was a very young curate up in the north. There was a house in the village which had a poltergeist, one of those very mischievous influences which cause so much trouble. I volunteered to exorcize it. We have an official form of exorcism in the Church, you know, so I thought that I was well-armed. I stood in the drawing-room which was the centre of the disturbances, with all the family on their knees beside me, and I read the service. What do you think happened?"
Mason's gaunt face broke into a sweetly humorous laugh. "Just as I reached Amen, when the creature should have been slinking away abashed, the big bearskin hearthrug stood up on end and simply enveloped me. I am ashamed to say that I was out of that house in two jumps. It was then that I learned that no formal religious proceeding has any effect at all."
"Then what has?"
"Well, kindness and reason may do something. You see, they vary greatly. Some of these earthbound or earth-interested creatures are neutral, like these simulacra or shells that I speak of. Others are essentially good like these monks of Glastonbury, who have manifested so wonderfully of late years and are recorded by Bligh Bond. They are held to earth by a pious memory. Some are mischievous children like the poltergeists. And some--only a few, I hope--are deadly beyond words, strong, malevolent creatures too heavy with matter to rise above our earth plane--so heavy with matter that their vibrations may be low enough to affect the human retina and to become visible. If they have been cruel, cunning brutes in life, they are cruel and cunning still with more power to hurt. It is evil monsters of this kind who are let loose by our system of capital punishment, for they die with unused vitality which may be expended upon revenge."
"This Dryfont spook has a doosed bad record," said Lord Roxton.
"Exactly. That is why I disapprove of levity. He seems to me to be the very type of the creature I speak of. Just as an octopus may have his den in some ocean cave, and come floating out a silent image of horror to attack a swimmer, so I picture such a spirit lurking in the dark of the house which he curses by his presence, and ready to float out upon all whom he can injure."
Malone's jaw began to drop.
"I say!" he exclaimed, "have we no protection?"
"Yes, I think we have. If we had not, such a creature could devastate the earth. Our protection is that there are white forces as well as dark ones. We may call them 'guardian angels' as the Catholics do, or 'guides' or 'controls', but whatever you call them, they really do exist and they guard us from evil on the spiritual plane."
"What about the chap who was driven mad, padre? Where was your guide when the spook put the rug round you? What!"
"The power of our guides may depend upon our own worthiness. Evil may always win for a time. Good wins in the end. That's my experience in life."
Lord Roxton shook his head.
"If good wins, then it runs a doosed long waitin' race, and most of us never live to see the finish. Look at those rubber devils that I had a scrap with up the Putomayo River. Where are they? What! Mostly in Paris havin' a good time. And the poor niggers they murdered. What about them?"
"Yes, we need faith sometimes. We have to remember that we don't see the end. 'To be continued in our next' is the conclusion of every life-story. That's where the enormous value of the other world accounts come in. They give us at least one chapter more."
"Where can I get that chapter?" asked Malone.
"There are many wonderful books, though the world has not yet learned to appreciate them--records of the life beyond. I remember one incident--you may take it as a parable, if you like--but it is really more than that. The dead rich man pauses before the lovely dwelling. His sad guide draws him away. 'It is not for you. It is for your gardener'. He shows him a wretched shack. 'You gave us nothing to build with. It was the best that we could do'. That may be the next chapter in the story of our rubber millionaires."
Roxton laughed grimly.
"I gave some of them a shack that was six foot long and two foot deep," said he. "No good shakin' your head, padre. What I mean--I don't love my neighbour as myself, and never shall. I hate some of 'em like poison."
"Well, we should hate sin, and, for my own part, I have never been strong enough to separate sin from the sinner. How can I preach when I am as human and weak as anyone?"
"Why, that's the only preachin' I could listen to," said Lord Roxton. "The chap in the pulpit is over my head. If he comes down to my level I have some use for him. Well, it strikes me we won't get much sleep to-night. We've just an hour before we reach Dryfont. Maybe we had better use it."
It was past eleven o'clock of a cold, frosty night when the party reached their destination. The station of the little watering-place was almost deserted, but a small, fat man in a fur overcoat ran forward to meet them, and greeted them warmly.
"I am Mr. Belchamber, owner of the house. How do you do, gentlemen? I got your wire, Lord Roxton, and everything is in order. It is indeed kind of you to come down. If you can do anything to ease my burden I shall indeed be grateful."
Mr. Belchamber led them across to the little Station Hotel where they partook of sandwiches and coffee, which he had thoughtfully ordered. As they ate he told them something of his troubles. "It isn't as if I was a rich man, gentlemen. I am a retired grazier and all my savings are in three houses. That is one of them, the Villa Maggiore. Yes, I got it cheap, that's true. But how could I think there was anything in this story of the mad doctor?"
"Let's have the yarn," said Lord Roxton, munching at a sandwich.
"He was there away back in Queen Victoria's time. I've seen him myself. A long, stringy, dark-faced kind of man, with a round back and a queer, shuffling way of walking. They say he had been in India all his life, and some thought he was hiding from some crime, for he would never show his face in the village and seldom came out till after dark. He broke a dog's leg with a stone, and there was some talk of having him up for it, but the people were afraid of him, and no one would prosecute. The little boys would run past, for he would sit glowering and glooming in the front window. Then one day he didn't take the milk in, and the same the next day, and so they broke the door open, and he was dead in his bath--but it was a bath of blood, for he opened the veins of his arm. Tremayne was his name. No one here forgets it."
"And you bought the house?"
"Well, it was re-papered and painted and fumigated, and done up outside. You'd have said it was a new house. Then, I let it to Mr. Jenkins of the Brewery. Three days he was in it. I lowered the rent, and Mr. Beale, the retired grocer, took it. It was he who went mad--clean mad--after a week of it. And I've had it on my hands ever since--sixty pounds out of my income, and taxes to pay on it, into the bargain. If you gentlemen can do anything, for God's sake do it! If not, it would pay me to burn it down."
The Villa Maggiore stood about half a mile from the town on the slope of a low hill. Mr. Belchamber conducted them so far, and even up to the hall door. It was certainly a depressing place, with a huge, gambrel roof which came down over the upper windows and nearly obscured them. There was a half-moon, and by its light they could see that the garden was a tangle of scraggy, winter vegetation, which had, in some places, almost overgrown the path. It was all very still, very gloomy and very ominous.
"The door is not locked," said the owner. "You will find some chairs and a table in the sitting-room on the left of the hall. I had a fire lit there, and there is a bucketful of coals. You will be pretty comfortable, I hope. You won't blame me for not coming in, but my nerves are not so good as they were." With a few apologetic words, the owner slipped away, and they were alone with their task.
Lord Roxton had brought a strong electric torch. On opening the mildewed door, he flashed a tunnel of light down the passage, uncarpeted and dreary, which ended in a broad, straight, wooden staircase leading to the upper floor. There were doors on either side of the passage. That on the right led into a large, cheerless, empty room, with a derelict lawn-mower in one corner and a pile of old books and journals. There was a corresponding room upon the left which was a much more cheery apartment. A brisk fire burned in the grate, there were three comfortable chairs, and a deal table with a water carafe, a bucket of coals, and a few other amenities. It was lit by a large oil-lamp. The clergyman and Malone drew up to the fire, for it was very cold, but Lord Roxton completed his preparations. From a little hand-bag he extracted his automatic pistol, which he put upon the mantelpiece. Then he produced a packet of candles, placing two of them in the hall. Finally he took a ball of worsted and tied strings of it across the back passage and across the opposite door.
"We will have one look round," said he, when his preparations were complete. "Then we can wait down here and take what comes."
The upper passage led at right angles to left and right from the top of the straight staircase. On the right were two large, bare, dusty rooms, with the wallpaper hanging in strips and the floor littered with scattered plaster. On the left was a single large room in the same derelict condition. Out of it was the bathroom of tragic memory, with the high, zinc bath still in position. Great blotches of red lay within it, and though they were only rust stains, they seemed to be terrible reminders from the past. Malone was surprised to see the clergyman stagger and support himself against the door. His face was ghastly white and there was moisture on his brow. His two comrades supported him down the stairs, and he sat for a little, as one exhausted, before he spoke.
"Did you two really feel nothing?" he asked. "The fact is that I am mediumistic myself and very open to psychic impressions. This particular one was horrible beyond description."
"What did you get, padre?"
"It is difficult to describe these things. It was a sinking of my heart, a feeling of utter desolation. All my senses were affected. My eyes went dim. I smelt a terrible odour of putrescence. The strength seemed to be sapped out of me. Believe me, Lord Roxton, it is no light thing which we are facing to-night."
The sportsman was unusually grave. "So I begin to think," said he. "Do you think you are fit for the job?"
"I am sorry to have been so weak," Mr. Mason answered. "I shall certainly see the thing through. The worse the case, the more need for my help. I am all right now," he added, with his cheery laugh, drawing an old charred briar from his pocket. "This is the best doctor for shaken nerves. I'll sit here and smoke till I'm wanted."
"What shape do you expect it to take?" asked Malone of Lord Roxton.
"Well, it is something you can see. That's certain."
"That's what I cannot understand, in spite of all my reading," said Malone. "These authorities are all agreed that there is a material basis, and that this material basis is drawn from the human body. Call it ectoplasm, or what you like, it is human in origin, is it not?"
"Certainly," Mason answered.
"Well, then, are we to suppose that this Dr. Tremayne builds up his own appearance by drawing stuff from me and you?"
"I think, so far as I understand it, that in most cases a spirit does so. I believe that when the spectator feels that he goes cold, that his hair rises and the rest of it, he is really conscious of this draft upon his own vitality which may be enough to make him faint or even to kill him. Perhaps he was drawing on me then."
"Suppose we are not mediumistic? Suppose we give out nothing?"
"There is a very full case that I read lately," Mr. Mason answered. "It was closely observed--reported by Professor Neillson of Iceland. In that case the evil spirit used to go down to an unfortunate photographer in the town, draw his supplies from him, and then come back and use them. He would openly say, 'Give me time to get down to So-and-so. Then I will show you what I can do'. He was a most formidable creature and they had great difficulty in mastering him."
"Strikes me, young fellah, we have taken on a larger contract than we knew," said Lord Roxton. "Well, we've done what we could. The passage is well lit. No one can come at us except down the stair without breaking the worsted. There is nothing more we can do except just to wait."
So they waited. It was a weary time. A carriage clock had been placed on the discoloured wooden mantelpiece, and slowly its hands crept on from one to two and from two to three. Outside an owl was hooting most dismally in the darkness. The villa was on a by-road, and there was no human sound to link them up with life. The padre lay dozing in his chair. Malone smoked incessantly. Lord Roxton turned over the pages of a magazine. There were the occasional strange tappings and creakings which come in the silence of the night. Nothing else until . . .
Someone came down the stair.
There could not be a doubt of it. It was a furtive, and yet a clear footstep. Creak! Creak! Creak! Then it had reached the level. Then it had reached their door. They were all sitting erect in their chairs, Roxton grasping his automatic. Had it come in? The door was ajar, but had not further opened. Yet all were aware of a sense that they were not alone, that they were being observed. It seemed suddenly colder, and Malone was shivering. An instant later the steps were retreating. They were low and swift--much swifter than before. One could imagine that a messenger was speeding back with intelligence to some great master who lurked in the shadows above.
The three sat in silence, looking at each other.
"By Jove!" said Lord Roxton at last. His face was pale but firm. Malone scribbled some notes and the hour. The clergyman was praying.
"Well, we are up against it," said Roxton after a pause. "We can't leave it at that. We have to go through with it. I don't mind tellin' you, padre, that I've followed a wounded tiger in thick jungle and never had quite the feelin' I've got now. If I'm out for sensations, I've got them. But I'm going upstairs."
"We will go, too," cried his comrades, rising from their chairs.
"Stay here, young fellah! And you, too, padre. Three of us make too much noise. I'll call you if I want you. My idea is just to steal out and wait quiet on the stair. If that thing, whatever it was, comes again, it will have to pass me."
All three went into the passage. The two candles were throwing out little circles of light, and the stair was deeply illuminated, with heavy shadows at the top. Roxton sat down half-way up the stair, pistol in hand. He put his finger to his lips and impatiently waved his companions back to the room. Then they sat by the fire, waiting, waiting.
Half an hour, three-quarters--and then, suddenly it came. There was a sound as of rushing feet, the reverberation of a shot, a scuffle and a heavy fall, with a loud cry for help. Shaking with horror, they rushed into the hall. Lord Roxton was lying on his face amid a litter of plaster and rubbish. He seemed half dazed as they raised him, and was bleeding where the skin had been grazed from his cheek and hands. Looking up the stair, it seemed that the shadows were blacker and thicker at the top.
"I'm all right," said Roxton, as they led him to his chair. "Just give me a minute to get my wind and I'll have another round with the devil--for if this is not the devil, then none ever walked the earth."
"You shan't go alone this time," said Malone.
"You never should," added the clergyman. "But tell us what happened."
"I hardly know myself. I sat, as you saw, with my back to the top landing. Suddenly I heard a rush. I was aware of something dark right on the top of me. I half-turned and fired. The next instant I was chucked down as if I had been a baby. All that plaster came showering down after me. That's as much as I can tell you."
"Why should we go further in the matter?" said Malone. "You are convinced that this is more than human, are you not?"
"There is no doubt of that."
"Well, then, you have had your experience. What more can you want?"
"Well, I, at least, want something more," said Mr. Mason. "I think our help is needed."
"Strikes me that we shall need the help," said Lord Roxton, rubbing his knee. "We shall want a doctor before we get through. But I'm with you, padre. I feel that we must see it through. If you don't like it, young fellah--" The mere suggestion was too much for Malone's Irish blood.
"I am going up alone!" he cried, making for the door.
"No, indeed. I am with you." The clergyman hurried after him.
"And you don't go without me!" cried Lord Roxton, limping in the rear.
They stood together in the candle-lit, shadow-draped passage. Malone had his hand on the balustrade and his foot on the lower step, when it happened.
What was it? They could not tell themselves. They only knew that the black shadows at the top of the staircase had thickened, had coalesced, had taken a definite, batlike shape. Great God! They were moving! They were rushing swiftly and noiselessly downwards! Black, black as night, huge, ill-defined, semi-human and altogether evil and damnable. All three men screamed and blundered for the door. Lord Roxton caught the handle and threw it open. It was too late; the thing was upon them. They were conscious of a warm, glutinous contact, of a purulent smell, of a half-formed, dreadful face and of entwining limbs. An instant later all three were lying half-dazed and horrified, hurled outwards on to the gravel of the drive. The door had shut with a crash.
Malone whimpered and Roxton swore, but the clergyman was silent as they gathered themselves together, each of them badly shaken and bruised, but with an inward horror which made all bodily ill seem insignificant. There they stood in a little group in the light of the sinking moon, their eyes turned upon the black square of the door.
"That's enough," said Roxton, at last.
"More than enough," said Malone. " I wouldn't enter that house again for anything Fleet Street could offer."
"Are you hurt?"
"Defiled, degraded--oh, it was loathsome!"
"Foul!" said Roxton! "Did you get the reek of it? And the purulent warmth?"
Malone gave a cry of disgust. "Featureless save for the dreadful eyes! Semi-materialized! Horrible!"
"What about the lights?"
"Oh, damn the lights! Let them burn. I am not going in again!"
"Well, Belchamber can come in the morning. Maybe he is waiting for us now at the inn."
"Yes, let us go to the inn. Let us get back to humanity." Malone and Roxton turned away, but the clergyman stood fast. He had drawn a crucifix from his pocket.
"You can go," said he. "I am going back."
"What! Into the house?"
"Yes, into the house."
"Padre, this is madness! It will break your neck. We were all like stuffed dolls in its clutch."
"Well, let it break my neck. I am going."
"You are not! Here, Malone, catch hold of him!"
But it was too late With a few quick steps, Mr. Mason had reached the door, flung it open, passed in and closed it behind him. As his comrades tried to follow, they heard a creaking clang upon the further side. The padre had bolted them out. There was a great slit where the letter-box had been. Through it Lord Roxton entreated him to return.
"Stay there!" said the quick, stern voice of the clergyman. " I have my work to do. I will come when it is done." A moment later he began to speak. His sweet, homely, affectionate accents rang through the hall. They could only hear snatches outside, bits of prayer, bits of exhortation, bits of kindly greeting. Looking through the narrow opening, Malone could see the straight, dark figure in the candlelight, its back to the door, its face to the shadows of the stair, the crucifix held aloft in its right hand.
His voice sank into silence and then there came one more of the miracles of this eventful night. A voice answered him. It was such a sound as neither of the auditors had heard before--a guttural, rasping, croaking utterance, indescribably menacing. What it said was short, but it was instantly answered by the clergyman, his tone sharpened to a fine edge by emotion. His utterance seemed to be exhortation and was at once answered by the ominous voice from beyond. Again and again, and yet again came the speech and the answer, sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, varying in every key of pleading, arguing, praying, soothing, and everything save upbraiding. Chilled to the marrow, Roxton and Malone crouched by the door, catching snatches of that inconceivable dialogue. Then, after what seemed a weary time, though it was less than an hour, Mr. Mason, in a loud, full, exultant tone, repeated the " Our Father." Was it fancy, or echo, or was there really some accompanying voice in the darkness beyond him? A moment later the light went out in the left-hand window, the bolt was drawn, and the clergyman emerged carrying Lord Roxton's bag. His face looked ghastly in the moonlight, but his manner was brisk and happy.
"I think you will find everything here," he said, handing over the bag.
Roxton and Malone took him by either arm and hurried him down to the road.
"By Jove! You don't give us the slip again!" cried the nobleman. " Padre, you should have a row of Victoria Crosses."
"No, no, it was my duty. Poor fellow, he needed help so badly. I am but a fellow-sinner and yet I was able to give it."
"You did him good?"
"I humbly hope so. I was but the instrument of the higher forces. The house is haunted no longer. He promised. But I will not speak of it now. It may be easier in days to come."
The landlord and the maids stared at the three adventurers in amazement when, in the chill light of the winter dawn, they presented themselves at the inn once more. Each of them seemed to have aged five years in the night. Mr. Mason, with the reaction upon him, threw himself down upon the horsehair sofa in the humble coffee-room and was instantly asleep.
"Poor chap! He looks pretty bad!" said Malone. Indeed, his white, haggard face and long, limp limbs might have been those of a corpse.
"We will get a cup of hot tea into him," Lord Roxton answered, warming his hands at the fire, which the maid had just lit. " By Jove! We shall be none the worse for some ourselves. Well, young fellah, we've got what we came for. I've had my sensation, and you've had your copy.
"And he has had the saving of a soul. Well, we must admit that our objects seem very humble compared to his."
They caught the early train to London, and had a carriage to themselves. Mason had said little and seemed to be lost in thought. Suddenly he turned to his companions. "I say, you two, would you mind joining me in prayer?" Lord Roxton made a grimace. " I warn you, padre, I am rather out of practice."
"Please kneel down with me. I want your aid."
They knelt down, side by side, the padre in the middle. Malone made a mental note of the prayer.
"Father, we are all Your children, poor, weak, helpless creatures, swayed by Fate and circumstance. I implore You that You will turn eyes of compassion upon the man, Rupert Tremayne, who wandered far from You, and is now in the dark. He has sunk deep, very deep, for he had a proud heart which would not soften, and a cruel mind, which was filled with hate. But now he would turn to the light, and so I beg help for him and for the woman, Emma, who, for the love of him, has gone down into the darkness. May she raise him, as she had tried to do. May they both break the bonds of evil memory which tie them to earth. May they, from to-night, move up towards that glorious light which sooner or later shines upon even the lowest."
They rose from their knees.
"That's better!" cried the padre, thumping his chest with his bony hand, and breaking out into his expansive, toothsome grin. " What a night! Good Lord, what a night!" *
Vide Appendix
The episode began by a telephone ring in the morning and the voice of Algernon Mailey at the far end of the wire.
"Are you clear for this afternoon?"
"At your service."
"I say, Malone, you are a hefty man. You played Rugger for Ireland, did you not? You don't mind a possible rough-and-tumble, do you?"
Malone grinned over the receiver.
"You can count me in."
"It may be really rather formidable. We shall have possibly to tackle a prize-fighter."
"Right-o!" said Malone, cheerfully.
"And we want another man for the job. Do you know any fellow who would come along just for the sake of the adventure. If he knows anything about psychic matters, all the better."
Malone puzzled for a moment. Then he had an inspiration.
"There is Roxton," said he. " He's not a chicken, but he is a useful man in a row. I think I could get him. He has been keen on your subject since his Dorsetshire experience."
"Right! Bring him along! If he can't come, we shall have to tackle the job ourselves. Forty-one, Belshaw Gardens, S.W. Near Earl's Court Station. Three p.m. Right!"
Malone at once rang up Lord Roxton, and soon heard the familiar voice.
"What's that, young fellah? . . . A scrap? Why, certainly. What ... I mean I had a golf match at Richmond Deer Park, but this sounds more attractive.... What? Very good. I'll meet you there."
And so it came about that at the hour of three, Mailey, Lord Roxton and Malone found themselves seated round the fire in the comfortable drawing-room of the barrister. His wife, a sweet and beautiful woman, who was his helpmate in his spiritual as well as in his material life, was there to welcome them.
"Now, dear, you are not on in this act," said Mailey. "You will retire discreetly into the wings. Don't worry if you hear a row."
"But I do worry, dear. You'll get hurt."
Mailey laughed.
"I think your furniture may possibly get hurt. You have nothing else to fear, dear. And it's all for the good of the Cause. That always settles it," he explained, as his wife reluctantly left the room. " I really think she would go to the stake for the Cause. Her great, loving, womanly heart knows what it would mean for this grey earth if people could get away from the shadow of death, and realize the great happiness that is to come. By Jove! she is an inspiration to me.... Well," he went on with a laugh, " I must not get on to that subject. We have something very different to think of--something as hideous and vile as she is beautiful and good. It concerns Tom Linden's brother."
"I've heard of the fellow," said Malone. " I used to box a bit and I am still a member of the N.S.C. Silas Linden was very nearly champion in the Welters."
"That's the man. He is out of a job and thought he would take up mediumship. Naturally I and other Spiritualists took him seriously, for we all love his brother, and these powers often run in families, so that his claim seemed reasonable. So we gave him a trial last night."
"Well, what happened?"
"I suspected the fellow from the first. You understand that it is hardly possible for a medium to deceive an experienced Spiritualist. When there is deception it is at the expense of outsiders. I watched him carefully from the first, and I seated myself near the cabinet. Presently he emerged clad in white. I broke the contact by prearrangement with my wife who sat next me, and I felt him as he passed me. He was, of course, in white. I had a pair of scissors in my pocket and snipped off a bit from the edge."
Mailey drew a triangular piece of linen from his pocket.
"There it is, you see. Very ordinary linen. I have no doubt the fellow was wearing his night-gown."
"Why did you not have a show-up at once?" asked Lord Roxton.
"There were several ladies there, and I was the only really able-bodied man in the room."
"Well, what do you propose?"
"I have appointed that he come here at three-thirty. He is due now. Unless he has noticed the small cut in his linen, I don't think he has any suspicion why I want him."
"What will you do?"
"Well, that depends on him. We have to stop him at any cost. That is the way our Cause gets bemired. Some villain who knows nothing about it comes into it for money and so the labours of the honest mediums get discounted. The public very naturally brackets them all together. With your help I can talk to this fellow on equal terms which I certainly could not do if I were alone. By Jove, here he is!"
There was a heavy step outside. The door was opened and Silas Linden, fake medium and ex-prize-fighter, walked in. His small, piggy grey eyes under their shaggy brows looked round with suspicion at the three men. Then he forced a smile and nodded to Mailey.
"Good day, Mr. Mailey. We had a good evening last night, had we not?"
"Sit down, Linden," said Mailey, indicating a chair. "It's about last night that I want to talk to you. You cheated us."
Silas Linden's heavy face flushed red with anger.
"What's that?" he cried, sharply.
"You cheated us. You dressed up and pretended to be a spirit."
"You are a damned liar!" cried Linden. " I did nothing of the sort."
Mailey took the rag of linen from his pocket and spread it on his knee.
"What about that?" he asked.
"Well, what about it?"
"It was cut out of the white gown you wore. I cut it out myself as you stood in front of me. If you examine the gown you will find the place. It's no use, Linden. The game is up. You can't deny it."
For a moment the man was completely taken aback. Then he burst into a stream of horrible profanity.
"What's the game?" he cried, glaring round him. " Do you think I am easy and that you can play me for a sucker? Is it a frame-up, or what? You've chose the wrong man for a try-on of that sort."
"There is no use being noisy or violent, Linden," said Mailey quietly, " I could bring you up in the police court to-morrow. I don't want any public scandal, for your brother's sake. But you don't leave this room until you have signed a paper that I have here on my desk."
"Oh, I don't, don't I? Who will stop me?"
"We will."
The three men were between him and the door.
"You will! Well" try that!" He stood before them with rage in his eyes and his great hands knotted. " Will you get out of the way?"
They did not answer, but they all three gave the fighting snarl which is perhaps the oldest of all human expressions. The next instant Linden was upon them, his fists flashing out with terrific force. Mailey, who had boxed in his youth, stopped one blow, but the next beat in his guard and he fell with a crash against the door. Lord Roxton was hurled to one side, but Malone, with a footballer's instinct, ducked his head and caught the prize-fighter round the knees. If a man is too good for you on his feet, then put him on his back, for he cannot be scientific there. Over went Linden, crashing through an armchair before he reached the ground. He staggered to one knee and got in a short jolt to the chin, but Malone had him down again and Roxton's bony hand had closed upon his throat. Silas Linden had a yellow streak in him and he was cowed.
"Let up!" he cried. " That's enough!"
He lay now spreadeagled upon his back. Malone and Roxton were bending over him. Mailey had gathered himself together, pale and shaken after his fall.
"I'm all right!" he cried, in answer to a feminine voice at the other side of the door. " No, not yet, dear, but we shall soon be ready for you. Now, Linden, there's no need for you to get up, for you can talk very nicely where you are. You've got to sign this paper before you leave the room."
"What is the paper?" croaked Linden, as Roxton's grip upon his throat relaxed.
"I'll read it to you."
Mailey took it from the desk and read aloud.
"I, Silas Linden, hereby admit that I have acted as a rogue and a scoundrel by simulating to be a spirit, and I swear that I will never again in my life pretend to be a medium. Should I break this oath, then this signed confession may be used for my conviction in the police court."
"Will you sign that?"
"No, I am damned if I will!"
"Shall I give him another squeeze?" asked Lord Roxton. " Perhaps I could choke some sense into him--what!"
" Not at all," said Mailey. " I think that his case now would do good in the police court, for it would show the public that we are determined to keep our house clean. I'll give you one minute for consideration, Linden, and then I ring up the police."
But it did not take a minute for the impostor to make up his mind.
"All right," said he in a sulky voice, "I'll sign." He was allowed to rise with a warning that if he played any tricks he would not get off so lightly the second time. But there was no kick left in him and he scrawled a big, coarse " Silas Linden " at the bottom of the paper without a word. The three men signed as witnesses.
"Now, get out!" said Mailey, sharply. "Find some honest trade in future and leave sacred things alone!"
"Keep your damned cant to yourself!" Linden answered, and so departed, grumbling and swearing, into the outer darkness from which he had come. He had hardly passed before Mrs. Mailey had rushed into the room to reassure herself as to her husband. Once satisfied as to this she mourned over her broken chair, for like all good women she took a personal pride and joy in every detail of her little menage.
"Never mind, dear. It's a cheap price to pay in order to get that blackguard out of the movement. Don't go away, you fellows. I want to talk to you."
"And tea is just coming in."
"Perhaps something stronger would be better," said Mailey, and indeed, all three were rather exhausted, for it was sharp while it lasted. Roxton, who had enjoyed the whole thing immensely, was full of vitality, but Malone was shaken and Mailey had narrowly escaped serious injury from that ponderous blow.
"I have heard," said Mailey, as they all settled down round the fire, " that this blackguard has sweated money out of poor Tom Linden for years. It was a form of blackmail, for he was quite capable of denouncing him. By Jove!" he cried, with sudden inspiration, "that would account for the police raid. Why should they pick Linden out of all the mediums in London? I remember now that Tom told me the fellow had asked to be taught to be a medium, and that he had refused to teach him."
"Could he teach him?" asked Malone. Mailey was thoughtful over this question. " Well, perhaps he could," he said at last. " But Silas Linden as a false medium would be very much less dangerous than Silas Linden as a true medium."
"I don't follow you."
"Mediumship can be developed" said Mrs. Mailey. "One might almost say it was catching."
"That was what the laying-on of hands meant in the early Church," Mailey explained. " It was the conferring of thaumaturgic powers. We can't do it now as rapidly as that. But if a man or woman sits with the desire of development, and especially if that sitting is in the presence of a real medium, the chance is that powers will come."
"But why do you say that would be worse than false mediumship?"
"Because it could be used for evil. I assure you, Malone, that the talk of black magic and of evil entities is not an invention of the enemy. Such things do happen and centre round the wicked medium. You can get down into a region which is akin to the popular idea of witchcraft, It is dishonest to deny it."
"Like attracts like," explained Mrs. Mailey, who was quite as capable an exponent as her husband. " You get what you deserve. If you sit with wicked people you get wicked visitors."
"Then there is a dangerous side to it?"
"Do you know anything on earth which has not a dangerous side if it is mishandled and exaggerated? This dangerous side exists quite apart from orthodox Spiritualism, and our knowledge is the surest way to counteract it. I believe that the witchcraft of the Middle Ages was a very real thing, and that the best way to meet such practices is to cultivate the higher powers of the spirit. To leave the thing entirely alone is to abandon the field to the forces of evil."
Lord Roxton interposed in an unexpected way.
"When I was in Paris last year," said he, "there was a fellah called La Paix who dabbled in the black magic business. He held circles and the like. What I mean, there was no great harm in the thing, but it wasn't what you would call very spiritual, either."
"It's a side that I as a journalist would like to see something of, if I am to report impartially upon the subject" said Malone.
"Quite right!" Mailey agreed. "We want all the cards on the table."
"Well, young fellah, if you would give me a week of your time and come to Paris, I'll introduce you to La Paix," said Roxton.
"It is a curious thing, but I also had a Paris visit in my mind for our friend here," said Mailey. "I have been asked over by Dr. Maupuis of the Institut Metapsychique to see some of the experiments which he is conducting upon a Galician medium. It is really the religious side of this matter which interests me, and that is conspicuously wanting in the minds of these scientific men of the Continent; but for accurate, careful examination of the psychic facts they are ahead of anyone except poor Crawford of Belfast, who stood in a class by himself. I promised Maupuis to run across and he has certainly been having some wonderful--in some respects, some rather alarming results."
"Why alarming?"
"Well, his materializations lately have not been human at all. That is confirmed by photographs. I won't say more, for it is best that, if you go, you should approach it with an open mind."
"I shall certainly go," said Malone. "I am sure my chief would wish it."
Tea had arrived to interrupt the conversation in the irritating way that our bodily needs intrude upon our higher pursuits. But Malone was too keen to be thrown off his scent.
"You speak of these evil forces. Have you ever come in contact with them?"
Mailey looked at his wife and smiled.
"Continually," he said. " It is part of our job. We specialize on it."
"I understood that when there was an intrusion of that kind you drove it away."
"Not necessarily. If we can help any lower spirit we do so, and we can only do it by encouraging it to tell us its troubles. Most of them are not wicked. They are poor, ignorant, stunted creatures who are suffering the effects of the narrow and false views which they have learned in this world. We try to help them--and we do."
"How do you know that you do?"
"Because they report to us afterwards and register their progress. Such methods are often used by our people. They are called 'rescue circles'."
"I have heard of rescue circles. Where could I attend one? This thing attracts me more and more. Fresh gulfs seem always opening. I would take it as a great favour if you would help me to see this fresh side of it." Mailey became thoughtful.
"We don't want to make a spectacle of these poor creatures. On the other hand, though we can hardly claim you yet as a Spiritualist, you have treated the subject with some understanding and sympathy." He looked enquiringly at his wife, who smiled and nodded.
"Ah, you have permission. Well then, you must know that we run our own
little rescue circle, and that at five o'clock today we have our weekly
sitting. Mr. Terbane is our medium. We don't usually have anyone else except
Mr. Charles Mason, the clergyman. But if you both care to have the experience,
we shall be very happy if you will stay. Terbane should be here immediately
after tea. He is a railway-porter, you know, so his time is not his own.
Yes, psychic power in its varied manifestations is found in humble quarters,
but surely that has been its main characteristic from the beginning--fishermen,
carpenters, tent-makers, camel drivers, these were the prophets of old.
At this moment some of the highest psychic gifts in England lie in a miner,
a cotton operative, a railway-porter, a barge-man and a charwoman. Thus
does history repeat itself, and that foolish beak, with Tom Linden before
him, was but Felix judging Paul. The old wheel goes round."