“Into Thy hands, O Lord, we commend our spirits,” he said.
Before many minutes were over the medium’s head dropped forward, and after a little struggle he went into trance.
“The spirit of James Rolls,” said Roupert.
In the silence that followed I could hear the slow breathing of Hampden as he slept in that remote unconsciousness. A chink of light from the window fell full on his face, and I could see it very distinctly. Then, I heard him breathing quicker, and a shudder passed through him, shaking the sofa where he lay. His face, hitherto serene and quiescent, began to twitch.
“He can’t wake,” whispered Roupert. “I gave him the full dose.”
Then, not from the door at all, but from the direction of the sofa there came an icy blast of wind, and simultaneously a shattering rap from the table.
“Is that James Rolls?” asked Roupert.
Three raps answered him.
“Then in the name of God,” said Roupert, in a loud, steady voice, “come from where you are, and be made manifest.”
Suddenly Hampden began to groan. His mouth worked, and he ground his teeth together. A horrible convulsion seized his face, a distortion of rending agony, like that which sometimes seizes on a dying man whose body clings desperately to the spirit that is emerging from it. A rattle and a strangled gulping came from his throat, and the foam gathered on his lips.