o down. I don't intend to see him again if I can avoid it.
Ring for your coffee and take your breakfast here with me this
morning."

"No. That would only make him angry. I'll go down."

"I don't care what he says, mamma, I shall do as I like hereafter."

With this defiant reply ringing in her ears, Mrs. Lambert went slowly
down the stairs to find the master of the house, sullen, sour, and
vindictive, breakfasting alone in his great dining-room. As she
timidly entered he looked up from his toast with a grunt of greeting,
and Mrs. Lambert, seeing that his resentment still smouldered, stopped
on the threshold pale with premonition of assault. She would have fled
had she dared to do so, but the maid drew a chair for her, and so she
seated herself opposite him in silence.

"Where's that girl?" he asked, harshly.

"She's not feeling very well this morning, so I told her she needn't
come down to breakfast."

He grunted in scorn. "What happened over there last night? Everybody
seems upset by it. I want to know all about it. You had a sitting, did
you?"

"Yes."

"Whose idea was that--Clarke's?"

"No, father wanted to speak with Dr. Serviss and Dr. Weissmann."

"Weissmann was there, was he? What did _he_ say?"

"He seemed impressed."

"What happened?"

"Father came, as usual--"

"I mean what happened outside the seance? Something set that girl
against me and upset Clarke. I want to know what it was."

"I don't think anything was said of you at all."

"Yes, there was. You can't fool me. Somebody warned that girl against
me. The whole thing seems funny to me." (By funny he meant strange.)
"You go away from my house for a dinner against my will--leave me in
the lurch--and come home at one o'clock in the morning with faces that
would sour milk, and now here you are all avoiding me this morning. It
just convinces me that if we're going to carry on this work together
we've got to have a definite understanding. You've got to stop going
to such houses and giving seances without my permission. I won't have
that under any conditions."

Clarke, who had appeared at the doorway, a worn, and troubled spectre
of dismay, now put in a confirmatory word. "You are quite right,
Simeon. That house reeks with the talk of wine-bibbers and those who
make life a witticism. Such an atmosphere profoundly affects Viola."

Pratt glowered at him with keen, contemptuous glance. "You look as if
you'd been drawn through a knot-hole. What