An instant later a woman entered, a pale, tragic figure in black, whose appearance told its own tale. Linden motioned her to a chair away from the light. Then he looked through his papers.
“You are Mrs. Blount, are you not? You had an appointment.”
“Yes—I wanted to ask——”
“Please ask me nothing. It confuses me.”
He was looking at her with the medium’s gaze in his light, grey eyes—that gaze which looks round and through a thing rather than at it.
“You have been wise to come, very wise. There is someone beside you who has an urgent message which could not be delayed. I get a name ... Francis ... yes, Francis.”
The woman clasped her hands.
“Yes, yes, it is the name.”
“A dark man, very sad, very earnest—oh, so earnest. He will speak. He must speak! It is urgent. He says, ‘Tink-a-bell.’ Who is Tink-a-bell?”
“Yes, yes, he called me so. Oh, Frank, Frank, speak to me! Speak!”