Miss Ottley shivered and grew if possible paler than before. But her pride was equal to the challenge. "Very well," she said.
I drew up a stool near hers, put out the lamp and sat down. When my cigarette had burned out the darkness was blacker than the blackest ebony.
"An idea runs in my head that spirits respond most surely to silent wooers," I murmured. "But I have no experience. Have you?"
"N-no," said Miss Ottley.
The poor girl was shivering with fear and too proud to admit it. I sought about for a pretext to comfort her and found one presently.
"Don't they join hands at a séance?" I inquired.
"I—I—t-think so," said Miss Ottley.
"Well, then."
Our hands encountered. Hers was pitifully cold. I enclosed it firmly in my left and held it on my knee. She sighed but ever so softly, trying to prevent my hearing it. Thereafter we were silent for very long, listening to the sick man's quiet breathing. No other sound was to be heard. But soon Miss Ottley's hand grew warm, and the fingers twined around mine. It felt a nice good little hand. It was very small, yet firm and silken-smooth, and it possessed a strange electric quality. It made mine tingle—a distinctly pleasurable sensation. I fell into a dreamy mood and I think I must have indulged in forty winks, when all of a sudden Miss Ottley's hand aroused me. Her fingers were gripping mine with the force of a vice. She was breathing hard.
"What is it?" I whispered.