“Have someone telephone your fiancé to be at your home this evening at 8 o’clock. See that arrangements are made so that we can have the entire evening undisturbed by visitors. I will be over as soon as Mr. Campbell has gone to his lodge; it’s fortunate tonight is lodge night, or you’d have to wait. My husband would not give me his permission to act as medium at your séance, so I’ve got to do it behind his back. And I can assure you, Margaret Sloane, that isn’t a pleasant thing for me to do.”

Margaret, confronted with the possibility that her neighbor might repent her offer, was transformed from scorner to suppliant. Her eyes pleaded eloquently.

“Get along with you, Margaret,” snorted the Scotchwoman with feigned indignation. “Asking me to deceive my good Douglas, are you? There, there, don’t worry, my dear. Laura Campbell has never yet turned her back on anyone who really needed her help. I’ll be over at 8 o’clock.”

Margaret did not feel up to talking directly with Ned, and begged Clare to telephone for her. Ned was in his rooms, happily, and almost out of his head with joy at hearing that a possible solution of the weird problem might be reached so soon. He promised to be at Dr. Sloane’s at the appointed hour.

Clare was sitting on the porch that evening at about half past 7, when she saw the bowed figure of Father Rooney approaching through the dusk. He came up slowly, and seated himself on the top step, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, for the day had been a hot one.

“I don’t know that you’ll want to stay this evening, Father,” the lame girl said to him timidly. “Father won’t be free to play chess with you tonight. You see, we’re going to do something of which you won’t approve—we’re going to hold a séance, to see if we can’t learn how to get out of the strange situation in which we seem to have been thrown.”

Father Rooney stopped fanning himself. His hat half hid his face from the girl, as he looked sharply at her over its wide brim. There was an anxious note in his voice.

“A séance, my daughter? Is your father permitting it? Does he consider it a wise thing for—well, Clare, for you, my child? I’m speaking not only as a priest, but from the physician’s standpoint.”

Clare returned his grave query with a serene smile. “Oh, I don’t believe it can do me any harm,” she said thoughtfully. “Do you suppose anything could hurt me more than to believe that some malicious spirit is robbing me daily of strength in order to torment my poor sister? Besides, I’d rather risk a—a heart attack, Father, than continue to go through what I’ve been suffering for weeks.”