“You can't quiet me. I'll say anything I damn please. Go on, quiet me! Quiet Fauvette! I'd like to see you do it. Ha, ha, ha!” Her wild laughter rang through the apartment.
Christopher's face was tense with alarm and distress. “What can I do? What is the matter with her?” he appealed to Seraphine.
“She is ill. She is not herself,” was the grave reply. “I'll call Dr. Owen; I'll tell him to come at once.”
He hurried out of the room and the two women faced each other.
Fauvette sank back on the divan and lay there in sullen defiance. “Now we're alone—you and I. What are you going to do about it?” was her harsh challenge.
The psychic did not answer, but her lips moved as if in prayer; then she spoke sternly, her deep eyes widening: “I see your scarlet lights, your sinister face.”
From the shadowy corner Fauvette sneered: “I see your soft, sentimental Christmas card face. I'm not afraid of you. I laugh at you.” And peals of shrill, almost satanic, laughter rang through the room.
Seraphine advanced slowly, holding out her hands.
“I know your ways, creature of darkness. I command you to leave this pure body that you would defile.”
And fierce the answer came: “No! Damn you! You are not strong enough to drive me out.”