“Oh, wasn’t it thrilling!” cried Miss Badley. “It really was most exciting. But what a pity we could not see the one with the semi-materialised face.”
“Thank you, I have seen quite enough,” said the pompous mystic, all the pomposity shaken out of him.
“I confess that it has been rather too much for my nerves.”
Dr. Atkinson found himself near the psychic researchers. “Well, what do you make of it?” he asked.
“I have seen it better done at Maskelyne’s Hall,” said one.
“Oh, come, Scott!” said the other. “You’ve no right to say that. You admitted that the cabinet was fraud-proof.”
“Well, so do the committees who go on the stage at Maskelyne’s.”
“Yes, but it is Maskelyne’s own stage. This is not Linden’s own stage. He has no machinery.”
“Populus vult decipi,” the other answered, shrugging his shoulders. “I should certainly reserve judgment.” He moved away with the dignity of one who cannot be deceived, while his more rational companion still argued with him as they went.
“Did you hear that?” said Atkinson. “There is a certain class of psychic researcher who is absolutely incapable of receiving evidence. They misuse their brains by straining them to find a way round when the road is quite clear before them. When the human race advances into its new kingdom, these intellectual men will form the absolute rear.”