“Sing ‘Angels are hoverin’ round’!” cried Bolsover. “Smiley, hit that old harmonium. The vibrations are at zero.”
Another bout of music, another silence, and then a most dismal voice. Never had Enid heard so sad a voice. It was like clods on a coffin. At first it was a deep mutter. Then it was a prayer—a Latin prayer apparently—for twice the word Domine sounded and once the word peccavimus. There was an indescribable air of depression and desolation in the room. “For God’s sake, what is it?” cried Malone.
The circle was equally puzzled.
“Some poor chap out of the lower spheres, I think,” said Bolsover. “Orthodox folk say we should avoid them. I say we should hurry up and help them.”
“Right, Bolsover!” said Mailey, with hearty approval. “Get on with it, quick!”
“Can we do anything for you, friend?”
There was silence.
“He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand the conditions. Where is Luke? He’ll know what to do.”
“What is it, friend?” asked the pleasant voice of the guide.
“There is some poor fellow here. We want to help him.”