Madame Eulalie peered into the crystal that was cupped between her shapely hands. The face that had caused Hamilton Beamish to jettison the principles of a lifetime was concentrated and serious.
"The mists begin to clear away!" she murmured.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Waddington. She had been hoping they would.
"There is some one very near to you...."
"A spirit?" said Mrs. Waddington nervously, casting an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. She was never quite sure that something of the sort might not pop out at any moment from a corner of this dim-lit, incense-scented room.
"You misunderstand me," said Madame Eulalie gravely. "I mean that that which is taking shape in the crystal concerns some one very near to you, some near relative."
"Not my husband?" said Mrs. Waddington in a flat voice. A woman, careful with her money, she did not relish the idea of handing over ten dollars for visions about Sigsbee H.
"Does your husband's name begin with an M.?"
"No," said Mrs. Waddington, relieved.
"The letter M. seems to be forming itself among the mists."