She nodded and stood aside for him to enter. He passed into a cheap little reception-hall which looked out on the street, and then, at her silent direction went through a door at one side and found himself in the medium’s sanctum.
The one window gave on a dimly lighted narrow space which apparently had been cut in from the back of the building. Through the dusty glass he could see the railing of a fire-escape platform, and cutting diagonally across the light, part of the stairs that led to the platform above. There was a closed door, which apparently opened into the outer hall. In the room were dirty red hangings, two chairs, a couch, and a small square center-table.
Madame Alia had already seated herself at the table and was shuffling a pack of cards. “Fifty-cent reading?” she asked, as he took the chair opposite her.
Orme nodded. His thoughts were on the window and the fire-escape, and he hardly heard her monotonous sentences, though he obeyed mechanically her instructions to cut and shuffle.
“You are about to engage in a new business,” she was saying. “You will be successful, but there will be some trouble about a dark man.—Look out for him.—He talks fair, but he means mischief.—There is a woman, too.—This man will try to prejudice her against you.” And all the time Orme was saying to himself, “How can I persuade her to let me use the fire-escape?”
Suddenly he was conscious that the woman had ceased speaking and was running the cards through her fingers and looking at him searchingly. “You are not listening,” she said, as he met her gaze.
He smiled apologetically. “I know—I was preoccupied.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t listen.”
Orme inferred that she took pride in her work. He sighed and looked grave. “I am afraid,” he said slowly, “that my case is too serious for the cards.”
She brightened. “You’d ought to have a trance-reading—two dollars.”