s on the dully
polished surface.

"Does it really ever move?" asked Shiela of Malcourt.

"It sometimes does."

"What's the explanation?" demanded Portlaw, incredulously; "spirits?"

"I don't think anybody here would credit such an explanation," said
Malcourt. "The table moves or it doesn't. If it does you'll see it. I'll
leave the explanation to you, William."

"Have you ever seen it move?" asked Shiela, turning again to Malcourt.

"Yes; so has my sister. It's not a trick." Lady Tressilvain looked
bored, but answered Shiela's inquiry:

"I've seen it often. Louis and I and my father used to do it. I don't
know how it's done, and nobody else does. Personally I think it's rather
a stupid way to spend an evening--"

"But," interrupted Portlaw, "there'll be nothing stupid about it if the
table begins to tip up here under our very fingers. I'll bet you, Louis,
that it doesn't. Do you care to bet?"

"Shouldn't the lights be put out?" asked Tressilvain.

Malcourt said it was not necessary, and cautioned everybody to sit
absolutely clear of the table, and to rest only the tips of the fingers
very lightly on the surface.

"Can we speak?" grinned Portlaw.

"Oh, yes, if you like." A bright colour glowed in Malcourt's face; he
looked down dreamily at the top of the table where his hands touched. A
sudden quiet fell over the company.

Shiela, sitting with her white fingers lightly brushing the smooth
mahogany, bent her head, mind wandering; and her thoughts were very far
away when, under her sensitive touch, a curious quiver seemed to run
through the very grain of the wood.

"What's that!" exclaimed Portlaw.

Deep in the wood, wave after wave of motion seemed to spread until the
fibres emitted a faint splintering sound. Then, suddenly, the heavy
table rose slowly, the end on which Shiela's hands rested sinking; and
fell back with a solid shock.

"That's--rather--odd!" muttered Tressilvain. Portlaw's distended eyes
were fastened on the table, which was now heaving uneasily like a boat
at anchor, creaking, cracking, rocking under their finger-tips.
Tressilvain rose from his chair and tried to see, but as everybody was
clear of the table, and their fingers barely touched the top, he could
discover no visible reason for what was occurring so violently under his
very pointed nose.

"It's like a bally earthquake," he said in amazement. "God bless my
soul! the thing is walking off with us!"

Everybody had risen from