"Merely fireworks ... only to show off. People are convinced by such
queer things."
Laurie sat regarding, still with an unusual pallor in his face and
brightness in his eyes. He could not in the last degree put into words
why it was that the tiny incident of the pencil affected him so
profoundly. Vaguely, only, he perceived that it was all connected
somehow with the ordinariness of the accessories, and more impressive
therefore than all the paraphernalia of planchette, spinning mirrors,
or even his own dreams.
He stood up again suddenly.
"It's no good, Mr. Vincent," he said, putting out his hand, "I'm
knocked over. I can't imagine why. It's no use talking now. I must
think. Good night."
"Good night, Mr. Baxter," said the medium serenely.
_Chapter VIII_
I
"Her ladyship told me to show you in here, sir," said the footman at
half-past eight on Sunday evening.
Laurie put down his hat, slipped off his coat, and went into the
dining room.
The table was still littered with dessert-plates and napkins. Two
people had dined there he observed. He went round to the fire,
wondering vaguely as to why he had not been shown upstairs, and stood,
warming his hands behind him, and looking at the pleasant gloom of the
high picture-hung walls.
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