“Ah, my boy, you are thinking of flesh-and-blood men,” Uncle Robert laughed. “But this is a spirit. Your life has been attempted by unseen things. Most likely ghostly hands have tried to throttle you in your sleep.”
“Oh, Chris!” Lute cried impulsively. “This afternoon! The hand you said must have seized your rein!”
“But I was joking,” he objected.
“Nevertheless...” Lute left her thought unspoken.
Mrs. Grantly had become keen on the scent. “What was that about this afternoon? Was your life in danger?”
Chris’s drowsiness had disappeared. “I’m becoming interested myself,” he acknowledged. “We haven’t said anything about it. Ban broke his back this afternoon. He threw himself off the bank, and I ran the risk of being caught underneath.”
“I wonder, I wonder,” Mrs. Grantly communed aloud. “There is something in this.... It is a warning.... Ah! You were hurt yesterday riding Miss Story’s horse! That makes the two attempts!”
She looked triumphantly at them. Planchette had been vindicated.
“Nonsense,” laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritation in his manner. “Such things do not happen these days. This is the twentieth century, my dear madam. The thing, at the very latest, smacks of mediaevalism.”
“I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette,” Mrs. Grantly began, then broke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on the board.