"Yes."
"Are we sitting right?"
A decided thump—"No."
Guided by the rapping Mrs. Lambert and Kate moved down to the foot of the table, sitting close beside Clarke, thus leaving Morton and Weissmann alone with the sleeping girl. No sooner were they rearranged than the table began to move, precisely as though pushed by the girl's feet. Still guided by the rapping, Weissmann and Morton moved with the table, but retained their threads of silk. Morton's pity had given place to a feeling of resentment at this device to get them farther away, and he drew his tell-tale thread tight across his finger. "If she moves she is betrayed," he thought with hardening heart.
No sooner were they settled than a fumbling sound began in the middle of the table, and the pencil was twice lifted and dropped. Following this the leaves of the writing-pad rustled as though being thumbed by boyish hands.
Kate shivered and cried out: "This is uncanny! Morton, are you doing this?"
"Certainly not," he replied, curtly.
"Do you feel any motion in your thread?" asked Weissmann, in a quiet voice.
"None whatever," Morton replied.
"Then the psychic is not moving."