"Just call me George," the spirit said. "It's your second name, you know. You're already using the Marcus part of it yourself."
Marc nodded gravely. "Well, anyway, George, you must understand that this thing can't go any further." George yawned expansively, and Marc increased the volume of his voice. "You've simply got to go, George. I'm sure that...."
His voice trailed off into the distant reaches of the room and faded into nothing. George had suddenly disappeared, and a hollow snoring sound rattled ominously from the depths of the now empty-looking chair.
"In here, Miss McGuire?" The voice was Julie's and it came from just beyond the outer door.
Marc leaped to his feet in alarm, started frantically toward the chair, the door to the photographer's room, then, hopelessly, he whirled about, threw himself down on the lounge and closed his eyes tight. Maybe if Julie thought he was sleeping, she would leave. There was the sound of a hand on the door knob.
The door whined open, and muted footsteps sounded on the carpet. From the sound of it, there seemed to be several people, among them a man. Marc wondered desperately who it was, but kept his eyes determinedly shut.
"There he is," came the sound of Memphis' voice, "just as I left him."
"Is that good, doctor?" This time it was Julie's voice, anxious and fearful.
"I really couldn't say, Mrs. Pillsworth. Maybe. Maybe not."
The doctor's voice was a solemn one with sonorous, church-like overtones.