“Would it convince you if I said that I'd seen Derek?”
“Some more of their confounded mummery? No, it wouldn't convince me. A child could deceive you, Jay. You want to be deceived. You can't bear the idea that Derek's dead—that's what vitiates this stuff that you dignify by the name of evidence.”
“Vulgar abuse never hurts a spiritualist. We're used to it,” Miss Fordingbridge replied with simple dignity. “But you're wrong as usual, Paul. It wasn't at a séance that I saw Derek. It was here, at Lynden Sands. And it was last night.”
From the expression on her brother's face it was clear that he hardly knew how to take this news.
“You saw him here, last night? In a dream, I suppose?”
“No, not in a dream. I met him by appointment down at that rock on the beach—the one we used to call Neptune's Seat. And I saw him close enough to make no mistake—as close as I am to you this moment. And I talked to him, too. It's Derek; there's no doubt about it.”
Paul Fordingbridge was evidently taken aback. This latest tale of his sister's seemed to have something more solid behind it than her earlier ventures.
“You said nothing to me about this. Why was that?”
Miss Fordingbridge recognised that she had scored a point and had startled her brother out of his usual scepticism. She had her answer ready.
“Naturally you'd hardly expect me to discuss a thing like that over the breakfast-table, with half-a-hundred total strangers sitting round and craning their necks so as to hear better? If you will insist on staying at hotels, you must put up with the results. This is the first time I've been alone with you since I met him.”