"Extend your palms through the opening," was the subdued order of the spirit reader.
Rex hesitated. The incongruity of this dallying imbued a sort of rankling disgust for its exponent and an ashamed opinion of himself.
"You are a doubter?" the unseen spiritualist asked. Her inflection was one of sarcasm.
Britton laughed scornfully. "It is hardly worth while," he replied.
"But still you belong to the sceptic class," the voice insisted. "Please extend your hands. I promise you that you will be surprised at my methods."
Rex stirred his feet, the motion making an inordinately loud noise in the deserted place. He listened when the echoes ceased, but young Guy Rossland had not returned. He was doubtless having some trouble in finding Britten's successor.
"I promise to surprise you," repeated the palmist.
"Surprise!–yes," Rex assented. "Convincing is a different matter. You know I have not followed the fad."
"Nevertheless, I think conviction is hard upon you," came the declaration from the tent. "Will you give me a trial?" There was a defiant note in the question.
"That is but fair, now you speak of it," said Britton, mockingly. He thrust his arms through the slit with a total lack of ceremony.