‘P.S.—The séance commences at five o’clock, in this domicile.’
Bradley’s first impulse was to throw the letter aside, and to write a curt but polite refusal. On reflection, however, he saw in the proposed séance a means of temporary distraction. Besides, the affair of the mysterious photograph had left him not a little curious as to the machinery used by the brother and sister—arcades ambo, or impostors both, he was certain—to gull an undiscerning public.
At a little before five on the following evening, therefore, he presented himself at the door of the house in Monmouth Crescent, sent up his card, and was almost immediately shown into the drawing-room. To his surprise he found no one there, but he had scarcely glanced round the apartment when the door opened, and a slight sylph-like figure, clad in white, appeared before him.
At a glance he recognised the face he had seen on the fading photograph.
‘How do you do, Mr. Bradley?’ said Eustasia, holding out a thin transparent hand, and fixing her light eyes upon his face.
‘I received your brother’s invitation,’ he replied rather awkwardly. ‘I am afraid I am a little before my time.’
‘Well, you’re the first to arrive. Salem’s upstairs washing, and will be down directly. He’s real pleased to know you’ve come.’
She flitted lightly across the room, and sat down close to the window. She looked white and worn, and all the life of her frame seemed concentrated in her extraordinary eyes, which she fixed upon the visitor with a steadiness calculated to discompose a timid man.
‘Won’t you sit down, Mr. Bradley?’ she said, repeating the name with a curious familiarity.
‘You seem to know me well,’ he replied, seating himself, ‘though I do not think we have ever met.’