ck at heart at her connivance in the trick, made no reply, but
silently took the seat which Clarke indicated.

Viola lay as silent as a statue, her face faintly showing, a diamond
in her corsage emitting a momentary gleam as she breathed tranquilly
at long intervals. There was nothing of the professional sibyl in her
dress, and her tall figure was very beautiful in this attitude of deep
sleep.

Clarke, mindful of effect, made explanation: "Professor Serviss, as
many of you know, is renowned in science, and the 'controls' are
especially anxious that he shall have the best possible opportunity to
hear and see. Will you play again, Mrs. Robinson?"

As the harp resumed its sadly sweet pulsations, the dead matter in the
room seemed to awake. Cracklings, snappings, as of a fire-log, arose
from the carpet. Rappings resounded from the walls. The piano began to
thrill as if a roguish child were thumping it.

"That's my little boy," whispered Mrs. Lambert.

Clarke shut off the light above his head till it was but a faint point
of yellow light, and then a hand, firm and broad, was laid for an
instant on Serviss's shoulder. Stars of phosphorescent fire floated
about. A small hand fluttered in a caress about the face of the
sleeping girl.

"That is her father's hand," again murmured Mrs. Lambert.

Serviss was willing to believe the girl's trance real, and that she
had no part in the hocus-pocus up to this point; but even as he leaned
forward to peer into the faintly visible face of the sleeper a voice,
breathy yet metallic, as though coming through the horn of a
phonograph, sounded in his ear. "Be not so doubting, my boy. I, too,
doubted."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Loggy," answered the voice, with a chuckle.

This answer, so unexpected, this chuckle, so familiar, startled him,
for it was his pet name for an uncle, a professor of mathematics who
used to call himself "Old Logarithms" when in play with his nephews;
but, before Serviss had time to put out his hand, the horn came down
softly on his head, then withdrew, and a boyish voice laughed in his
ear, "You're a dunce!"

Mrs. Lambert bent towards him. "Did some dear one speak to you? I hope
so. We are so anxious to have you one of us."

He did not reply, for a third voice, seemingly that of an old man, was
issuing from the horn in pompous, stolid, old-fashioned utterance.
"The reality of all you see, young man, can be proven. Set yourself to
the grand task of destr