Moir was late that evening, and when he did arrive he brought with him,
rather to our surprise, a small, stout Frenchman, whom he introduced as
Monsieur Paul Le Duc. I say to our surprise, for we held a theory that
any intrusion into our spiritual circle deranged the conditions, and
introduced an element of suspicion. We knew that we could trust each
other, but all our results were vitiated by the presence of an outsider. However, Moir soon reconciled us to the innovation. Monsieur Paul Le Duc
was a famous student of occultism, a seer, a medium, and a mystic. He
was travelling in England with a letter of introduction to Moir from the
President of the Parisian brothers of the Rosy Cross. What more natural
than that he should bring him to our little séance, or that we should
feel honoured by his presence? He was, as I have said, a small, stout man, undistinguished in
appearance, with a broad, smooth, clean-shaven face, remarkable only for
a pair of large, brown, velvety eyes, staring vaguely out in front of
him. He was well dressed, with the manners of a gentleman, and his
curious little turns of English speech set the ladies smiling. Mrs.
Deacon had a prejudice against our researches and left the room, upon
which we lowered the lights, as was our custom, and drew up our chairs
to the square mahogany table which stood in the centre of the studio. The light was subdued, but sufficient to allow us to see each other
quite plainly. I remember that I could even observe the curious, podgy
little square-topped hands which the Frenchman laid upon the table. “What a fun!” said he. “It is many years since I have sat in this
fashion, and it is to me amusing. Madame is medium. Does madame make the
trance?”

“Well, hardly that,” said Mrs. Delamere. “But I am always conscious of
extreme sleepiness.”

“It is the first stage. Then you encourage it, and there comes the
trance. When the trance comes, then out jumps your little spirit and in
jumps another little spirit, and so you have direct talking or writing. You leave your machine to be worked by another. _Hein?_ But what have
unicorns to do with it?”

Harvey Deacon started in his chair. The Frenchman was moving his head
slowly round and staring into the shadows which draped the walls. “What a fun!” said he. “Always unicorns. Who has been thinking so hard
upon a subject so bizarre?”

“This is wonderful!” cried Deacon. “I have been trying to paint one all
day. But how could you know it?”

“You have been thinking of them in this room.”

“Certainly.”

“But thoughts are things, my friend. When you imagine a thing you make a
thing. You did not know it, _hein_? But I can see your unicorns because
it is not only with my eye that I can see.”

“Do you mean to say that I create a thing which has never existed by
merely thinking of it?”

“But certainly. It is the fact which lies under all other facts. That is
why an evil thought is also a danger.”

“They are, I suppose, upon the astral plane?” said Moir. “Ah, well, these are but words, my friends. They are
there—somewhere—everywhere—I cannot tell myself. I see them. I could not
touch them.”

“You could not make _us_ see them.”

“It is to materialize them. Hold! It is an experiment. But the power is
wanting. Let us see what power we have, and then arrange what we shall
do. May I place you as I should wish?”

“You evidently know a great deal more about it than we do,” said Harvey
Deacon; “I wish that you would take complete control.”

“It may be that the conditions are not good. But we will try what we can
do. Madame will sit where she is, I next, and this gentleman beside me. Meester Moir will sit next to madame, because it is well to have blacks
and blondes in turn. So! And now with your permission I will turn the
lights all out.”

“What is the advantage of the dark?” I asked. “Because the force with which we deal is a vibration of ether and so
also is light. We have the wires all for ourselves now—_hein_? You will
not be frightened in the darkness, madame? What a fun is such a séance!”

At first the darkness appeared to be absolutely pitchy, but in a few
minutes our eyes became so far accustomed to it that we could just make
out each other’s presence—very dimly and vaguely, it is true. I could
see nothing else in the room—only the black loom of the motionless
figures. We were all taking the matter much more seriously than we had
ever done before. “You will place your hands in front. It is hopeless that we touch, since
we are so few round so large a table. You will compose yourself, madame,
and if sleep should come to you you will not fight against it. And now
we sit in silence and we expect——_hein_?”

So we sat in silence and expected, staring out into the blackness in
front of us. A clock ticked in the passage. A dog barked intermittently
far away. Once or twice a cab rattled past in the street, and the gleam
of its lamps through the chink in the curtains was a cheerful break in
that gloomy vigil. I felt those physical symptoms with which previous
séances had made me familiar—the coldness of the feet, the tingling in
the hands, the glow of the palms, the feeling of a cold wind upon the
back. Strange little shooting pains came in my forearms, especially as
it seemed to me in my left one, which was nearest to our visitor—due no
doubt to disturbance of the vascular system, but worthy of some
attention all the same. At the same time I was conscious of a strained
feeling of expectancy which was almost painful. From the rigid, absolute
silence of my companions I gathered that their nerves were as tense as
my own. And then suddenly a sound came out of the darkness—a low, sibilant
sound, the quick, thin breathing of a woman. Quicker and thinner yet it
came, as between clenched teeth, to end in a loud gasp with a dull
rustle of cloth. “What’s that? Is all right?” someone asked in the darkness. “Yes, all is right,” said the Frenchman. “It is madame. She is in her
trance. Now, gentlemen, if you will wait quiet you will see something, I
think, which will interest you much.”

Still the ticking in the hall. Still the breathing, deeper and fuller
now, from the medium. Still the occasional flash, more welcome than
ever, of the passing lights of the hansoms. What a gap we were bridging,
the half-raised veil of the eternal on the one side and the cabs of
London on the other. The table was throbbing with a mighty pulse. It
swayed steadily, rhythmically, with an easy swooping, scooping motion
under our fingers. Sharp little raps and cracks came from its substance,
file-firing, volley-firing, the sounds of a fagot burning briskly on a
frosty night. “There is much power,” said the Frenchman. “See it on the table!”

I had thought it was some delusion of my own, but all could see it now. There was a greenish-yellow phosphorescent light—or I should say a
luminous vapour rather than a light—which lay over the surface of the
table.