time.

"On my life?" Chris demanded between yawns. "Why, my life hasn't been
attempted even once. My! I am sleepy!"

"Ah, my boy, you are thinking of flesh-and-blood men," Uncle Robert
laughed. "But this is a spirit. Your life has been attempted by unseen
things. Most likely ghostly hands have tried to throttle you in your
sleep."

"Oh, Chris!" Lute cried impulsively. "This afternoon! The hand you said
must have seized your rein!"

"But I was joking," he objected.

"Nevertheless..." Lute left her thought unspoken.

Mrs. Grantly had become keen on the scent. "What was that about this
afternoon? Was your life in danger?"

Chris's drowsiness had disappeared. "I'm becoming interested myself,"
he acknowledged. "We haven't said anything about it. Ban broke his back
this afternoon. He threw himself off the bank, and I ran the risk of
being caught underneath."

"I wonder, I wonder," Mrs. Grantly communed aloud. "There is something
in this.... It is a warning.... Ah! You were hurt yesterday riding Miss
Story's horse! That makes the two attempts!"

She looked triumphantly at them. Planchette had been vindicated.

"Nonsense," laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritation
in his manner. "Such things do not happen these days. This is the
twentieth century, my dear madam. The thing, at the very latest, smacks
of mediaevalism."

"I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette," Mrs. Grantly began,
then broke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on the
board.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What is your name?"

The board immediately began to write. By this time all heads, with the
exception of Mr. Barton's, were bent over the table and following the
pencil.

"It's Dick," Aunt Mildred cried, a note of the mildly hysterical in her
voice.

Her husband straightened up, his face for the first time grave.

"It's Dick's signature," he said. "I'd know his fist in a thousand."

"'Dick Curtis,'" Mrs. Grantly read aloud. "Who is Dick Curtis?"

"By Jove, that's remarkable!" Mr. Barton broke in. "The handwriting in
both instances is the same. Clever, I should say, really clever," he
added admiringly.

"Let me see," Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it.
"Yes, it is Dick's handwriting."

"But who is Dick?" Mrs. Grantly insisted. "Who is this Dick Curtis?"

"Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis," Uncle Robert
answered.

"He was Lute's father," Aunt Mildred supplement