At last the dinner drew to a close, and March rose.
“I am not going to let you off, Mr. Sims,” he said. “I am eager to learn something of the methods of the modern spiritualists, for I admit I am more familiar with those of the past. But I think we ought to have a more suitable atmosphere for the seance,” he added, chuckling. “Miss Grey, I hope you will not leave us? I think my Egyptian room would form an admirable background for Mr. Sims’ experiments.”
Annette smiled, with something of an effort, and led the way to the Hall of the Dead.
Despite himself, Sims could not repress an exclamation of awe at the sight of the great, gloomy room, with its solemn figures and mysterious shadows.
The Professor rubbed his hands, well pleased at the effect he had produced.
“Now, Mr. Sims,” he said, “here is a carved chair on which a Pharaoh once sat. Enthrone yourself there. We will sit, metaphorically, at your feet, and listen to what you are pleased to tell us.”
Sims bowed, but did not return the Professor’s smile. Gravely he seated himself in the heavy wooden chair, rested his elbow on one of the quaintly-carved arms, and let his head sink onto his hand. The others grouped themselves near and waited, in a heavy silence.
Sensitive to impressions, the Professor’s gay mood faded gradually into a tense expectancy that made his long fingers work nervously. He startled as Sims’ voice broke the silence sharply.
“I am aware, Professor March,” said Sims in a hard, level tone that startled his hearers, “that you are a skeptic.”
The Professor murmured something, but Sims went on, without heeding him.