"Yes," she agreed. "The lady—Lady——Could it be 'June'?—It sounds like June—says it's true you were her friend. But she says 'Not the other.' The other mustn't come."
"I wouldn't wish to come," Joyce protested. She was waxen pale. "I'll go home," she said to Robert. "Don't bother about me. Don't think about me at all. Afterward you can—tell me whatever you care to tell."
"No!" Robert and I spoke together, moved by the same thought. "Don't go home. Wait here for us."
"Very well," the girl consented, more to save argument at such a moment, I think, than because she wished to do what we asked.
She sank down in one of the chairs we had taken and Robert and I followed Miss Reardon. She appeared to think that we were sure to know her name quite well. I didn't know it, for I was a stranger in the world of Spiritualism. But her air of being modestly proud of the name seemed to prove that her reputation as a medium was good—that she'd never been found out in any fraud. And going up in the lift the words spoke themselves over and over in my head: "She couldn't know who Robert is, if it's true she's never been in England before, and if she has come to London to-day. At least, I don't see how she could."
In silence we let Miss Reardon lead us to the sitting room of her suite on the third floor. It was small but pretty, and smelt of La France roses, though none were visible, nor were there any other flowers there. Robert and I looked at each other as this perfume rushed to meet us. La France roses were June's favourites, and belonged to the month of her birth. Robert had sent them to her often, especially when they were out of season and difficult to get.
"She is here, waiting for us!" exclaimed Miss Reardon. "Oh, surely you must see her—on the sofa, with her feet crossed—such pretty diamond buckles on her shoes!—and her lap full of roses. She holds up one rose, she kisses it, to you—Robert—Robert—some name that begins with L. I can't hear it clearly. But Robert is enough."
Yes, Robert was enough—more than enough!
Miss Reardon asked in an almost matter-of-fact way if he would like to sit down on the sofa beside June, who wished him to do so. He didn't answer; but he sat down, and his eyes stared at vacancy. I knew from their expression, however, that he saw nothing.
"What will be the next thing?" I wondered.