“Oh, God—what is it? Look—look, there in the crystal—what have you done? There’s blood, and worse than blood! Oh, my God, what’s this? It’s all over England—you—they’re talking about you——”
Irene Tidmarsh screamed wildly, and Elsie realised that she had sprung to her feet. She herself was utterly unable to move, wave after wave of sick terror surging through her as the high, unrecognisable voice of the clairvoyante screeched and ranted, and then broke horribly.
“It’s blood! My God, get out of here! I won’t see any more—you’re all over blood!...”
A strange, strangled cry, that Elsie did not recognise as having come from her own lips, broke across the obscurity, the room surged round her, she tried to clutch at the table, and felt herself falling heavily.
Elsie Williams had fainted.
She came back to a dazed memory of physical nausea, bewilderment, and resentment, as she felt herself being unskilfully pulled into a sitting position.
“Let go,” she muttered, “let me go....”
“She’s coming round! For Heaven’s sake, Elsie ... here, try and get hold of her....”
She felt herself pulled and propelled to her feet, and even dragged a few steps by inadequate supporters.
Then she sank down again, invaded by a renewal of deadly sickness, but she was conscious that they had somehow got her outside the dark, scented room, and that the door had been slammed behind her.