Mlle. Claire protested that he was too much behind the scenes; but, on being pressed, she consented to try, and asked Mr. Tappenham to name his spirit.
He thought for a moment, and then said, “When I was a young man, I knew a girl called Nellie Davies—a pretty girl, my dear. I dare say I didn’t treat her over well; but that’s neither here nor there. Let’s have her.”
Clever little Mlle. Claire asked a question or two—and Mr. Tappenham admired the neat and apparently undesigned nature of her questions—and then set to work, after drawing the curtains a shade closer, and turning the light a trifle lower.
Mr. Tappenham sat comfortably in an armchair, his hands crossed over his white waistcoat, and a smile of satisfaction on his face. Presently the shadowy shape began to form itself a yard or two from Mr. Tappenham.
“Capital, capital!” he chuckled. “That’ll fetch ’em.” The shape grew more definite.
“Will that do?” asked Mlle. Claire triumphantly. “Is it like?”
“Now, by Jove, it is rather! Make it speak.”
Mlle. Claire laughed, and, projecting her voice to the shape, began in low, sweet, sad tones. “You summoned me. What do you desire of your dead friend?”
She stopped, laughing again, and said, “It’s no use, when you’re up to it beforehand.”