“I’ve collected every one, gamblers and all, for the séance—except Bobby. Can’t find him.”
“Oh, I wish he were here—the Lady will surely walk on Christmas Eve,” said the hostess. “If she doesn’t, I mean to demand my money back! Oh, there’s the hour! Sit quiet, every one.... Blue Lady forward, please! There, look!—there!”
She pointed excitedly at the old gallery, once for minstrels, now arrogated by a pianola organ. Behind its oaken pillars passed a vague female figure, dressed in blue, moaning horribly, and waving distraught arms above her flowing hair.
Immediately cries of every sort rose from the watchers.
“I can’t see her.” “It’s a cinematograph!” “What ho, Lord Bobby!” “Gad, she’s gone slick through the music-stool.” “I still can’t see her.” “No, there’s nothing there.” “Do a cakewalk, now!” “Encore!”
As she vanished some one clapped his hands, and with a laugh the whole party joined in the applause.
The scene had not been very impressive. From a theatrical point of view the ghost’s entrance had been ruined by the number and the temper of its audience. Those who had not seen it scoffed; those who had, till reminded of the music-stool seen dimly through the figure, half-believed the Blue Lady to be an alias of Lord Bancourt. Then, as one by one they realised that what had passed was in very truth a ghost, the guests hushed their laughter, until the babel sank almost into silence.
It was in such a lull that Bobby entered. “Why, what a stony séance!” he exclaimed. “Missing me? or seen a ghost?”
“Yes—so delightful! The Blue Lady actually came,” said Lady Silthirsk, who alone seemed totally unruffled.
Bobby laughed—the unforced laugh of healthy youth. “Oh-ho! I see why you were silent. But you can’t green me, thanks: I’m not quite so verdant—oh no, not at all!”