Lawford could survey her there
unmoved. ‘Are you there, Ada?’ she called discreetly. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ answered the faint voice from below. ‘You have not heard anything—no knock?’

‘No, ma’am, no knock.’

‘The door is open if you should call.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘The girl’s scared out of her wits,’ said Sheila returning to her
audience. ‘I’ve told you all that miserable Ferguson story—a piece of
calm, callous presence of mind I should never have dreamed my husband
capable of. And the curious thing is—at least, it is no longer curious
in the light of the ghastly facts I am only waiting for Mr Bethany to
tell you—from the very first she instinctively detested the very
mention of his name.’

‘I believe, you know,’ said Mr Craik with some decision, ‘that servants
must have the same wonderful instinct as dogs and children; they are
natural, _intuitive_ judges of character.’

‘Yes,’ said Sheila gravely, ‘and it’s only through that that I got to
hear of the—the mysterious friend in the little pony-carriage. Ada’s
magnificently loyal—I will say that.’

‘I don’t want to suggest anything, Mrs Lawford,’ began Mr Craik rather
hurriedly, ‘but wouldn’t it perhaps be wiser not to wait for Mr
Bethany? It is not at all unusual for him to be kept a considerable
time in the vestry after service, and to-day is the Feast of St
Michael’s and all Angels, you know. Mightn’t your husband be—er—coming
back, don’t you think?’

‘Craik’s right, Mrs Lawford; it’s not a bit of good waiting. Bethany
would stick there till midnight if any old woman’s spiritual state
could keep her going so long. Here we all are, and at any moment we may
be interrupted. Mind you, I promise nothing—only that there shall be no
scene. But here I am, and if he does come knocking and ringing and
lunging out in the disgusting manner he—well, all I ask is permission
to speak for _you_. ‘Pon my soul, to think what you must have gone
through! It isn’t the place for ladies just now—honestly it ain’t.’

‘Besides, supposing the romantic lady of the pony-carriage has friends? Are _you_ a pugilist, Mr Craik?’

‘I hope I could give some little account of myself, Mrs Lovat; but you
need have no anxiety about that.’

‘There, Mr Danton. So as there is not the least cause for anxiety even
if poor Arthur _should_ return to his earthly home, may we share your
dreadful story at once, Sheila; and then, perhaps, hear Mr Bethany’s
exposition of it when he _does_ arrive? We are amply guarded.’

‘Honestly, you know, you are a bit of a sceptic, Mrs Lovat,’ pleaded
Danton playfully. ‘I’ve _seen_ him.’

‘And seeing is disbelieving, I suppose. Now then, Sheila.’

‘I don’t think there’s the least chance of Arthur returning to-night,’
said Sheila solemnly. ‘I am perfectly well aware it’s best to be as
cheerful as one can—and as resolved; but I think, Bettie, when even you
know the whole horrible secret, you won’t think Mr Danton was—was
horrified for nothing. The ghastly, the awful truth is that my
husband—there is no other word for it—is—possessed!’

‘“Possessed,” Sheila! What in the name of all the creeps is that?’

‘Well, I dare say Mr Craik will explain it much better than I can. By a
devil, dear.’ The voice was perfectly poised and restrained, and Mr
Craik did not see fit for the moment to embellish the definition. Lawford, with an almost wooden immobility, listened on. ‘But _the_ devil, or _a_ devil? Isn’t there a distinction?’ inquired
Mrs Lovat. ‘It’s in the Bible, Bettie, over and over again. It was quite a common
thing in the Middle Ages; I think I’m right in saying that, am I not,
Mr Craik?’ Mr Craik must have solemnly nodded or abundantly looked his
unwilling affirmation. ‘And what _has_ been,’ continued Sheila
temperately, ‘I suppose may be again.’

‘When the fellow began raving at me the other night,’ began Danton
huskily, as if out of an unfathomable pit of reflection, ‘among other
things he said that I haven’t any wish to remember was that I was a
sceptic. And Bethany said _ditto_ to it. I don’t mind being called a
sceptic: why, I said myself Mrs Lovat was a sceptic just now! But when
it comes to “devils,” Mrs Lawford—I may be convinced about the other,
but “devils”! Well, I’ve been in the City nearly twenty-five years, and
it’s my impression human nature can raise all the devils _we_ shall
ever need. And another thing,’ he added, as if inspired, and with an
immensely intelligent blink, ‘is it just precisely that word in the
Revised Version—eh, Craik?’

‘I’ll certainly look it up, Danton. But I take it that Mrs Lawford is
not so much insisting on the word, as on the—the manifestation. And I’m
bound to confess that the Society for Psychical Research, which has
among its members quite eminent and entirely trustworthy men of
_science_—I am bound to admit they have some very curious stories to
tell. The old idea was, you know, that there are seventy-two princely
devils, and as many as seven million—er—commoners. It may very well
sound quaint to _our_ ears, Mrs Lovat; but there it is. But whether
that has any bearing on—on what you were saying, Danton, I can’t say. Perhaps Mrs Lawford will throw a little more light on the subject when
she tells us on what precise facts her—her distressing theory is
based.’

Lawford had soundlessly stolen a pace or two nearer, and by stooping
forward a little he could, each in turn, scrutinise the little intent
company sitting over his story around the lamp at the further end of
the table; squatting like little children with their twigs and pins,
fishing for wonders on the brink of the unknown. ‘Yes,’ Mrs Lovat was saying, ‘I quite agree, Mr Craik. Seventy-two
princes, and no princesses. Oh, these masculine prejudices! But do
throw a little more _modern_ light on the subject, Sheila.’

‘I mean this,’ said Sheila firmly. ‘When I went in for the last time to
say good-bye—and of course it was at his own wish that I did leave him;
and precisely _why_ he wished it is now unhappily only too apparent—I
had brought him some money from the bank—fifty pounds, I think; yes,
fifty pounds. And quite by the merest chance I glanced down, in
passing, at a book he had apparently been reading, a book which he
seemed very anxious to conceal with his hand. Arthur is not a great
reader, though I believe he studied a little before we were married,
and—well, I detest anything like subterfuge, and I said it out without
thinking, “Why, you’re reading French, Arthur!” He turned deathly white
but made no answer.’

‘And can’t you even confide to us the title, Sheila?’ sighed Mrs Lovat
reproachfully. ‘Wait a minute,’ said Sheila; ‘you shall make as much fun of the thing
as you like, Bettie, when I’ve finished. I don’t know why, but that
peculiar, stealthy look haunted me. “Why French?” I kept asking myself. “Why French?” Arthur hasn’t opened a French book for years. He doesn’t
even approve of the entente_. His argument was that we ought to be
friends with the Germans because they are more hostile. Never mind.