I had fully intended to tell them that I had steered the glass, with my eyes shut, from my memory of the position of the letters. But the talk became too good to interrupt. There were theories as to who Sally could be. Was she dead, or alive, or non-existent? Was the glass guided by a spook or by subconscious efforts? Then round again on to the old argument of why the glass moved at all. Was it the unconscious exercise of muscular force by one or both of the mediums or was it some external power? I lay back and listened to the sapper and the submarine man and the scientist from Central Africa. Others dropped in and added their voices and extracts from their experience to the discussion. Dorling had schoolboy reminiscences of a thought-reading entertainment, which was somehow allied to the subject in hand. Winnie Smith knew someone—I think it was one of his second cousins in Russia, or a crowned head, or somebody of the kind—who had a pet spook in the house. I told my story of the dak bungalow in Myinmu Township in Burma, where there is a black ghost-dog, who does not mind revolver bullets. We talked, and we talked, and we talked, forgetting the war and the sentries outside and all the monotony of imprisonment. And always the talk rounded back to Sally and the spook-glass that moved no one knew how. The others slipped away to bed, and we were left alone. Alec, Price, the Doc., and myself. I braced myself to confess the fraud, but Doc. raised his tin mug:
“Here’s to Sally and success, and many more happy evenings,” said he.
Facilis descensus Averni! I lifted my mug with the rest, and drank in silence. Little I guessed how much water was to flow under the bridges before I could make my confession, or under what strange conditions that confession was to be made.
Next day I woke—a worm. I felt as if I had caught myself taking sweeties from a child. They had all accepted the wonder of the previous night so uncritically. It was a shame. It was unforgivable! I would get out of bed. I would go across and tell them at once.
“Don’t,” said the Devil of Mischief. “Stay where you are. It was only a rag. If you really want to tell them, any old time will do. Besides, it’s beastly cold this morning, and you’ve got a headache. Stay in bed!”
“But it wasn’t a rag. We were experimenting in earnest,” said I. “That’s why it was so mean.” I got one foot out of bed.
“Stay where you are, I tell you,” said the Devil. “You gave them a jolly good evening, and you can have plenty more.”
I pulled my foot back under the blankets again. Yes, we had had a jolly evening—the Doc. himself had said so. I would think it over a little longer.
I thought it over—and started up again.