WHICH DESCRIBES AN EVENING IN STRANGE COMPANY
The love-affair of Enid Challenger and Edward Malone is not of the
slightest interest to the reader, for the simple reason that it is not
of the slightest interest to the writer. The unseen, unnoticed lure of
the unborn babe is common to all youthful humanity. We deal in this
chronicle with matters which are less common and of higher interest. It
is only mentioned in order to explain those terms of frank and intimate
comradeship which the narrative discloses. If the human race has
obviously improved in anything--in Anglo-Celtic countries, at least--it
is that the prim affectations and sly deceits of the past are lessened,
and that young men and women can meet in an equality of clean and honest
comradeship.
A taxi took the adventurers down Edgware Road and into the side-street
called “Helbeck Terrace.” Halfway down, the dull line of brick houses
was broken by one glowing gap, where an open arch threw a flood of light
into the street. The cab pulled up and the man opened the door.
“This is the Spiritualist Church, sir,” said he. Then, as he saluted to
acknowledge his tip, he added in the wheezy voice of the man of all
weathers: “Tommy-rot, I call it, sir.” Having eased his conscience thus
he climbed into his seat and a moment later his red rear-lamp was a
waning circle in the gloom. Malone laughed.
“_Vox populi_, Enid. That is as far as the public has got at the
present.”
“Well, it is as far as we have got, for that matter.”
“Yes, but we are prepared to give them a show. I don’t suppose Cabby is.
By Jove, it will be hard luck if we can’t get in!”
There was a crowd at the door and a man was facing them from the top of
the step, waving his arms to keep them back.
“It’s no good, friends. I am very sorry, but we can’t help it. We’ve
been threatened twice with prosecution for over-crowding.” He turned
facetious. “Never heard of an Orthodox Church getting into trouble for
that. No, sir, no.”
“I’ve come all the way from ’Ammersmith,” wailed a voice. The light beat
upon the eager, anxious face of the speaker, a little woman in black
with a baby in her arms.
“You’ve come for clairvoyance, Mam,” said the usher, with intelligence.
“See here, give me the name and address and I will write you, and Mrs.
Debbs will give you a sitting gratis. That’s better than taking your
chance in the crowd when, with all the will in the world, you can’t all
get a turn. You’ll have her to yourself. No, sir, there’s no use
shovin’.... What’s that?... Press?”
He had caught Malone by the elbow.
“Did you say Press? The Press boycott us, sir. Look at the weekly list
of services in a Saturday’s _Times_ if you doubt it. You wouldn’t know
there was such a thing as Spiritualism.... What paper, sir?... ‘The
_Daily Gazette_.’ Well, well, we are getting on. And the lady, too?...
Special article--my word! Stick to me, sir, and I’ll see what I can do.
Shut the doors, Joe. No use, friends. When the building fund gets on a
bit we’ll have more room for you. Now, miss, this way, if you please.”
This way proved to be down the street and round a side-alley which
brought them to a small door with a red lamp shining above it.
“I’ll have to put you on the platform--there’s no standing room in the
body of the hall.”
“Good gracious!” cried Enid.
“You’ll have a fine view, miss, and maybe get a readin’ for yourself if
you’re lucky. It often happens that those nearest the medium get the
best chance. Now, sir, in here!”
Here was a frowsy little room with some hats and top-coats draping the
dirty, white-washed walls. A thin, austere woman, with eyes which
gleamed from behind her glasses, was warming her gaunt hands over a
small fire. With his back to the fire in the traditional British
attitude was a large, fat man with a bloodless face, a ginger moustache
and curious, light-blue eyes--the eyes of a deep-sea mariner. A little
bald-headed man with huge horn-rimmed spectacles, and a very handsome
and athletic youth in a blue lounge-suit, completed the group.
“The others have gone on the platform, Mr. Peeble. There’s only five
seats left for ourselves.” It was the fat man talking.
“I know, I know,” said the man who had been addressed as Peeble, a
nervous, stringy, dried-up person as he now appeared in the light. “But
this is the Press, Mr. Bolsover. _Daily Gazette_--special article....
Malone the name, and Challenger. This is Mr. Bolsover, our President.
This is Mrs. Debbs of Liverpool, the famous clairvoyante. Here is Mr.
James, and this tall young gentleman is Mr. Hardy Williams, our
energetic secretary. Mr. Williams is a nailer for the buildin’ fund.
Keep your eye on your pockets if Mr. Williams is around.”
They all laughed.
“Collection comes later,” said Mr. Williams, smiling.
“A good, rousing article is our best collection,” said the stout
president. “Ever been to a meeting before, sir?”
“No,” said Malone.
“Don’t know much about it, I expect.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, well, we must expect a slating. They get it from the humorous
angle at first. We’ll have you writing a very comic account. I never
could see anything very funny in the spirit of one’s dead wife, but it’s
a matter of taste and of knowledge also. If they don’t know, how can
they take it seriously? I don’t blame them. We were mostly like that
ourselves once. I was one of Bradlaugh’s men, and sat under Joseph
MacCabe until my old Dad came and pulled me out.”
“Good for him!” said the Liverpool medium.
“It was the first time I found I had powers of my own. I saw him like I
see you now.”
“Was he one of us in the body?”
“Knew no more than I did. But they come on amazin’ at the other side if
the right folk get hold of them.”
“Time’s up!” said Mr. Peeble, snapping his watch. “You are on the right
of the chair, Mrs. Debbs. Will you go first? Then you, Mr. Chairman.
Then you two and myself. Get on the left, Mr. Hardy Williams, and lead
the singin’. They want warmin’ up and you can do it. Now then, if _you_
please!”
The platform was already crowded, but the newcomers threaded their way
to the front amid a decorous murmur of welcome. Mr. Peeble shoved and
exhorted and two end seats emerged upon which Enid and Malone perched
themselves. The arrangement suited them well, for they could use their
notebooks freely behind the shelter of the folk in front.
“What is your reaction?” whispered Enid.
“Not impressed as yet.”
“No, nor I,” said Enid, “but it’s very interesting all the same.”
People who are in earnest are always interesting, whether you agree with
them or not, and it was impossible to doubt that the people were
extremely earnest. The hall was crammed, and as one looked down one saw
line after line of upturned faces, curiously alike in type, women
predominating, but men running them close. That type was not
distinguished nor intellectual, but it was undeniably healthy, honest
and sane. Small trades-folk, male and female shop-walkers, better class
artisans, lower middle-class women worn with household cares, occasional
young folk in search of a sensation--these were the impressions which
the audience conveyed to the trained observation of Malone.
The fat president rose and raised his hand.
“My friends,” said he, “we have had once more to exclude a great number
of people who’d desired to be with us to-night. It’s all a question of
the building-fund, and Mr. Williams on my left will be glad to hear from
any of you. I was in a hotel last week and they had a notice hung up in
the reception bureau. ‘No cheques accepted.’ That’s not the way Brother
Williams talks. You just try him.”
The audience laughed. The atmosphere was clearly that of the
lecture-hall rather than of the Church.
“There’s just one more thing I want to say before I sit down. I’m not
here to talk. I’m here to hold this chair down and I mean to do it. It’s
a hard thing I ask. I want Spiritualists to keep away on Sunday nights.
They take up the room that inquirers should have. You can have the
morning service. But it’s better for the cause that there should be room
for the stranger. You’ve had it. Thank God for it. Give the other man a
chance.” The president plumped back into his chair.
Mr. Peeble sprang to his feet. He was clearly the general utility man
who emerges in every society and probably becomes its autocrat. With his
thin, eager face and darting hands he was more than a live wire--he was
a whole bundle of live wires. Electricity seemed to crackle from his
finger-tips.
“Hymn One!” he shrieked.
A harmonium droned and the audience rose. It was a fine hymn and lustily
sung:
“The world hath felt a quickening breath
From Heaven’s eternal shore,
And souls triumphant over death
Return to earth once more.”
There was a ring of exultation in the voices as the refrain rolled out:
“For this we hold our Jubilee
For this with joy we sing,
‘Oh Grave, where is thy victory,
Oh Death, where is thy sting?’”
Yes, they were in earnest, these people. And they did not appear to be
mentally weaker than their fellows. And yet both Enid and Malone felt a
sensation of great pity as they looked at them. How sad to be deceived
upon so intimate a matter as this, to be duped by impostors who used
their most sacred feelings and their beloved dead as counters with which
to cheat them. What did they know of the laws of evidence, of the cold,
immutable decrees of scientific law? Poor earnest, honest, deluded
people!
“Now!” screamed Mr. Peeble. “We shall ask Mr. Munro from Australia to
give us the invocation.”
A wild-looking old man with a shaggy beard and slumbering fire in his
eyes rose up and stood for a few seconds with his gaze cast down. Then
he began a prayer, very simple, very unpremeditated. Malone jotted down
the first sentence: “Oh, Father, we are very ignorant folk and do not
well know how to approach you, but we will pray to you the best we know
how.” It was all cast in that humble key. Enid and Malone exchanged a
swift glance of appreciation.
There was another hymn, less successful than the first, and the chairman
then announced that Mr. James Jones of North Wales would now deliver a
trance address which would embody the views of his well-known control,
Alasha the Atlantean.
Mr. James Jones, a brisk and decided little man in a faded check suit,
came to the front and, after standing a minute or so as if in deep
thought, gave a violent shudder and began to talk. It must be admitted
that save for a certain fixed stare and vacuous glazing of the eye there
was nothing to show that anything save Mr. James Jones of North Wales
was the orator. It has also to be stated that if Mr. Jones shuddered at
the beginning it was the turn of his audience to shudder afterwards.
Granting his own claim, he had proved clearly that an Atlantean spirit
might be a portentous bore. He droned on with platitudes and
ineptitudes while Malone whispered to Enid that if Alasha was a fair
specimen of the population it was just as well that his native land was
safely engulfed in the Atlantic Ocean. When, with another rather
melodramatic shudder, he emerged from his trance, the chairman sprang to
his feet with an alacrity which showed that he was taking no risks lest
the Atlantean should return.
“We have present with us to-night,” he cried, “Mrs. Debbs, the
well-known clairvoyante of Liverpool. Mrs. Debbs is, as many of you
know, richly endowed with several of those gifts of the spirit of which
Saint Paul speaks, and the discerning of spirits is among them. These
things depend upon laws which are beyond our control, but a sympathetic
atmosphere is essential, and Mrs. Debbs will ask for your good wishes
and your prayers while she endeavours to get into touch with some of
those shining ones on the other side who may honour us with their
presence to-night.”
The president sat down and Mrs. Debbs rose amid discreet applause. Very
tall, very pale, very thin, with an aquiline face and eyes shining
brightly from behind her gold-rimmed glasses, she stood facing her
expectant audience. Her head was bent. She seemed to be listening.
“Vibrations!” she cried at last. “I want helpful vibrations. Give me a
verse on the harmonium, please.”
The instrument droned out “Jesus, Lover of my soul.” The audience sat in
silence, expectant and a little awed. The hall was not too well lit and
dark shadows lurked in the corners. The medium still bent her head as if
her ears were straining. Then she raised her hand and the music stopped.
“Presently! Presently! All in good time,” said the woman, addressing
some invisible companion. Then to the audience, “I don’t feel that the
conditions are very good to-night. I will do my best and so will they.
But I must talk to you first.”
And she talked. What she said seemed to the two strangers to be absolute
gabble. There was no consecutive sense in it, though now and again a
phrase or sentence caught the attention. Malone put his stylo in his
pocket. There was no use reporting a lunatic. A Spiritualist next him
saw his bewildered disgust and leaned towards him.
“She’s tuning in. She’s getting her wave length,” he whispered. “It’s
all a matter of vibration. Ah, there you are!”
She had stopped in the very middle of a sentence. Her long arm and
quivering forefinger shot out. She was pointing at an elderly woman in
the second row.
“You! Yes, you, with the red feather. No, not you. The stout lady in
front. Yes, you! There is a spirit building up behind you. It is a man.
He is a tall man--six foot maybe. High forehead, eyes grey or blue, a
long chin, brown moustache, lines on his face. Do you recognise him,
friend?”
The stout woman looked alarmed, but shook her head.
“Well, see if I can help you. He is holding up a book--brown book with a
clasp. It’s a ledger same as they have in offices. I get the words
‘Caledonian Insurance.’ Is that any help?”
The stout woman pursed her lips and shook her head vigorously.
“Well, I can give you a little more. He died after a long illness. I get
chest trouble--asthma.”
The stout woman was still obdurate, but a small, angry, red-faced
person, two places away from her, sprang to her feet.
“It’s my ’usband, ma’am. Tell ’im I don’t want to ’ave any more dealin’s
with him.” She sat down with decision.
“Yes, that’s right. He moves to you now. He was nearer the other. He
wants to say he’s sorry. It doesn’t do, you know, to have hard feelings
to the dead. Forgive and forget. It’s all over. I get a message for you.
It is: ‘Do it and my blessings go with you!’ Does that mean anything to
you?”
The angry woman looked pleased and nodded.
“Very good.” The clairvoyante suddenly darted out her finger towards the
crowd at the door. “It’s for the soldier.”
A soldier in khaki, looking very much amazed, was in the front of the
knot of people.
“Wot’s for me?” he asked.
“It’s a soldier. He has a corporal’s stripes. He is a big man with
grizzled hair. He has a yellow tab on his shoulders. I get the initials
J. H. Do you know him?”
“Yes--but he’s dead,” said the soldier.
He had not understood that it was a Spiritualistic Church, and the whole
proceedings had been a mystery to him. They were rapidly explained by
his neighbours. “My Gawd!” cried the soldier, and vanished amid a
general titter. In the pause Malone could hear the constant mutter of
the medium as she spoke to someone unseen.
“Yes, yes, wait your turn! Speak up, woman! Well, take your place near
him. How should I know? Well, I will if I can.” She was like a janitor
at the theatre marshalling a queue.
Her next attempt was a total failure. A solid man with bushy
side-whiskers absolutely refused to have anything to do with an elderly
gentleman who claimed kinship. The medium worked with admirable
patience, coming back again and again with some fresh detail, but no
progress could be made.
“Are you a Spiritualist, friend?”
“Yes, for ten years.”
“Well, you know there are difficulties.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Think it over. It may come to you later. We must just leave it at that.
I am only sorry for your friend.”
There was a pause during which Enid and Malone exchanged whispered
confidences.
“What do you make of it, Enid?”
“I don’t know. It confuses me.”
“I believe it is half guess-work and the other half a case of
confederates. These people are all of the same church and naturally they
know each other’s affairs. If they don’t know they can enquire.”
“Someone said it was Mrs. Debbs’ first visit.”
“Yes, but they could easily coach her up. It is all clever quackery and
bluff. It _must_ be, for just think what is implied if it is not.”
“Telepathy, perhaps.”
“Yes, some element of that also. Listen! She is off again.”
Her next attempt was more fortunate. A lugubrious man at the back of the
hall readily recognised the description and claims of his deceased wife.
“I get the name Walter.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“She called you Walt?”
“No.”
“Well, she calls Wat now. ‘Tell Wat to give my love to the children.’
That’s how I get it. She is worrying about the children.”
“She always did.”
“Well, they don’t change. Furniture. Something about furniture. She says
you gave it away. Is that right?”
“Well, I might as well.”
The audience tittered. It was strange how the most solemn and the comic
were eternally blended--strange and yet very natural and human.
“She has a message: ‘The man will pay up and all will be well. Be a good
man, Wat, and we will be happier here than ever we were on earth.’”
The man put his hand over his eyes. As the seeress stood irresolute the
tall young secretary half rose and whispered something in her ear. The
woman shot a swift glance over her left shoulder in the direction of the
visitors.
“I’ll come back to it,” said she.
She gave two more descriptions to the audience, both of them rather
vague, and both recognised with some reservations. It was a curious fact
that her details were such as she could not possibly see at the
distance. Thus, dealing with a form which she claimed had built up at
the far end of the hall, she could none the less give the colour of the
eyes and small points of the face. Malone noted the point as one which
he could use for destructive criticism. He was just jotting it down when
the woman’s voice sounded louder and, looking up, he found that she had
turned her head and her spectacles were flashing in his direction.
“It is not often I give a reading from the platform,” said she, her face
rotating between him and the audience, “but we have friends here
to-night, and it may interest them to come in contact with the spirit
people. There is a presence building up behind the gentleman with a
moustache--the gentleman who sits next to the young lady. Yes, sir,
behind you. He is a man of middle size, rather inclined to shortness. He
is old, over sixty, with white hair, curved nose and a white, small
beard of the variety that is called goatee. He is no relation, I gather,
but a friend. Does that suggest anyone to you, sir?”
Malone shook his head with some contempt. “It would fit nearly any old
man,” he whispered to Enid.
“We will try to get a little closer. He has deep lines on his face. I
should say he was an irritable man in his lifetime. He was quick and
nervous in his ways. Does that help you?”
Again Malone shook his head.
“Rot! Perfect rot,” he muttered.
“Well, he seems very anxious so we must do what we can for him. He holds
up a book. It is a learned book. He opens it and I see diagrams in it.
Perhaps he wrote it--or perhaps he taught from it. Yes, he nods. He
taught from it. He was a teacher.”
Malone remained unresponsive.
“I don’t know that I can help him any more. Ah! there is one thing. He
has a mole over his right eyebrow.”
Malone started as if he had been stung.
“One mole?” he cried.
The spectacles flashed round again.
“Two moles--one large, one small.”
“My God!” gasped Malone. “It’s Professor Summerlee!”
“Ah, you’ve got it. There’s a message: Greetings to old----’ It’s a
long name and begins with a C. I can’t get it. Does it mean anything?”
“Yes.”
In an instant she had turned and was describing something or someone
else. But she had left a badly-shaken man upon the platform behind her.
It was at this point that the orderly service had a remarkable
interruption which surprised the audience as much as it did the two
visitors. This was the sudden appearance beside the chairman of a tall,
pale-faced, bearded man dressed like a superior artisan, who held up his
hand with a quietly impressive gesture as one who was accustomed to
exert authority. He then half turned and said a word to Mr. Bolsover.
“This is Mr. Miromar of Dalston,” said the Chairman. “Mr. Miromar has a
message to deliver. We are always glad to hear from Mr. Miromar.”
The reporters could only get a half-view of the newcomer’s face, but
both of them were struck by his noble bearing and by the massive outline
of his head which promised very unusual intellectual power. His voice
when he spoke rang clearly and pleasantly through the hall.
“I have been ordered to give the message wherever I think that there are
ears to hear it. There are some here who are ready for it, and that is
why I have come. They wish that the human race should gradually
understand the situation so that there shall be the less shock or panic.
I am one of several who are chosen to carry the news.”
“A lunatic, I’m afraid!” whispered Malone, scribbling hard upon his
knee. There was a general inclination to smile among the audience. And
yet there was something in the man’s manner and voice which made them
hang on every word.
“Things have now reached a climax. The very idea of progress has been
made material. It is progress to go swiftly, to send swift messages, to
build new machinery. All this is a diversion of real ambition. There is
only one real progress--spiritual progress. Mankind gives it a lip
tribute but presses on upon its false road of material science.
“The Central Intelligence recognised that amid all the apathy there was
also much honest doubt which had outgrown old creeds and had a right to
fresh evidence. Therefore fresh evidence was sent--evidence which made
the life after death as clear as the sun in the heavens. It was laughed
at by scientists, condemned by the churches, became the butt of the
newspapers and was discarded with contempt. That was the last and
greatest blunder of humanity.”
The audience had their chins up now. General speculations were beyond
their mental horizon. But this was very clear to their comprehension.
There was a murmur of sympathy and applause.
“The thing was now hopeless. It had got beyond all control. Therefore
something sterner was needed since Heaven’s gift had been disregarded.
The blow fell. Ten million men were laid dead upon the ground. Twice as
many were mutilated. That was God’s first warning to mankind. But it was
vain. The same dull materialism prevailed as before. Years of grace were
given, and save the stirrings of the spirit seen in such churches as
these, no change was anywhere to be seen. The nations heaped up fresh
loads of sin and sin must ever be atoned for. Russia became a cesspool.
Germany was unrepentant of her terrible materialism which had been the
prime cause of the war. Spain and Italy were sunk in alternate atheism
and superstition. France had no religious ideal. Britain was confused
and distracted, full of wooden sects which had nothing of life in them.
America had abused her glorious opportunities and instead of being the
loving younger brother to a stricken Europe she held up all economic
reconstruction by her money claims; she dishonoured the signature of her
own president, and she refused to join that League of Peace which was
the one hope of the future. All have sinned, but some more than others,
and their punishment will be in exact proportion.
“And that punishment comes soon. These are the exact words I have been
asked to give you. I read them lest I should in any way garble them.”
He took a slip of paper from his pocket and read:
“‘What we want is, not that folk should be frightened, but that they
should begin to change themselves--to develop themselves on more
spiritual lines. We are not trying to make people nervous, but to
prepare while there is yet time. The world cannot go on as it has done.
It would destroy itself if it did. Above all we must sweep away the dark
cloud of theology which has come between mankind and God.’”
He folded up the paper and replaced it in his pocket.
“That is what I have been asked to tell you. Spread the news where there
seems to be a window in the soul. Say to them, ‘Repent! Reform! the Time
is at hand.’”
He had paused and seemed about to turn. The spell was broken. The
audience rustled and leaned back in its seats. Then a voice came from
the back.
“Is this the end of the world, mister?”
“No,” said the stranger, curtly.
“Is it the Second Coming?” asked another voice.
“Yes.”
With quick, light steps he threaded his way among the chairs on the
platform and stood near the door. When Malone next looked round he was
gone.
“He is one of these Second-coming fanatics,” he whispered to Enid.
“There are a lot of them--Christadelphians, Russellites, Bible Students
and what-not. But he was impressive.”
“Very,” said Enid.
“We have, I am sure, been very interested in what our friend has told
us,” said the chairman. “Mr. Miromar is in hearty sympathy with our
movement even though he cannot be said actually to belong to it. I am
sure he is always welcome upon our platforms. As to his prophecy, it
seems to me the world has had enough trouble without our anticipating
any more. If it is as our friend says, we can’t do much to mend the
matter. We can only go about our daily jobs, do them as well as we can,
and await the event in full confidence of help from above. If it’s the
Day of Judgment to-morrow,” he added, smiling, “I mean to look after my
provision store at Hammersmith to-day. We shall now continue with the
service.”
There was a vigorous appeal for money and a great deal about the
building-fund from the young secretary. “It’s a shame to think that
there are more left in the street than in the building on a Sunday
night. We all give our services. No one takes a penny. Mrs. Debbs is
here for her bare expenses. But we want another thousand pounds before
we can start. There is one brother here who mortgaged his house to help
us. That’s the spirit that wins. Now let us see what you can do for us
to-night.”
A dozen soup-plates circulated, and a hymn was sung to the accompaniment
of much chinking of coin. Enid and Malone conversed in undertones.
“Professor Summerlee died, you know, at Naples last year.”
“Yes, I remember him well.”
“And ‘old C.’ was, of course, your father.”
“It was really remarkable.”
“Poor old Summerlee. He thought survival was an absurdity. And here he
is--or here he seems to be.”
The soup-plates returned--it was mostly brown soup, unhappily, and they
were deposited on the table where the eager eye of the secretary
appraised their value. Then the little shaggy man from Australia gave a
benediction in the same simple fashion as the opening prayer. It needed
no Apostolic succession or laying-on of hands to make one feel that his
words were from a human heart and might well go straight to a Divine
one. Then the audience rose and sang their final farewell hymn--a hymn
with a haunting tune and a sad, sweet refrain of “God keep you safely
till we meet once more.” Enid was surprised to feel the tears running
down her cheeks. These earnest, simple folk with their direct methods
had wrought upon her more than all the gorgeous service and rolling
music of the cathedral.
Mr. Bolsover, the stout president, was in the waiting-room and so was
Mrs. Debbs.
“Well, I expect you are going to let us have it,” he laughed. “We are
used to it, Mr. Malone. We don’t mind. But you will see the turn some
day. These articles may rise up in judgment.”
“I will treat it fairly, I assure you.”
“Well, we ask no more.”
The medium was leaning with her elbow on the mantelpiece, austere and
aloof.
“I am afraid you are tired,” said Enid.
“No, young lady, I am never tired in doing the work of the spirit
people. They see to that.”
“May I ask,” Malone ventured, “whether you ever knew Professor
Summerlee?”
The medium shook her head.
“No, sir, no. They always think I know them. I know none of them. They
come and I describe them.”
“How do you get the message?”
“Clairaudient. I hear it. I hear them all the time. The poor things all
want to come through and they pluck at me and pull me and pester me on
the platform. ‘Me next--me--me!’ That’s what I hear. I do my best, but I
can’t handle them all.”
“Can you tell me anything of that prophetic person?” asked Malone of the
chairman. Mr. Bolsover shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating smile.
“He is an Independent. We see him now and again as a sort of comet
passing across us. By the way, it comes back to me that he prophesied
the war. I’m a practical man myself. Sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof. We get plenty in ready cash without any bills for the future.
Well, good night! Treat us as well as you can.”
“Good night,” said Enid.
“Good night,” said Mrs. Debbs. “By the way, young lady, you are a medium
yourself. Good night!”
And so they found themselves in the street once more inhaling long
draughts of the night air. It was sweet after that crowded hall. A
minute later they were in the rush of the Edgware Road and Malone had
hailed a cab to carry them back to Victoria Gardens.[A]