"Quite," she said. "You feel towards them just as I do. I was introduced
to them in Berlin. Mr. Tom Temple had formed their acquaintance somehow,
and seemed wonderfully fascinated by them. I scarcely spoke to them,
however, as I left Germany the next day, and was rather surprised to see
them here last night."

"Mr. Voltaire is a very fascinating man," I suggested.

"There can be no doubt about that," was her reply.

"And yet I fancy much of his high-flown talk about spiritualism was mere
imagination."

"I was inclined to think so at first, but I have heard strange things
about him. However, it is perhaps scarcely fair to talk about him thus."

All this time we had stood looking out of the window upon the wintry
landscape, and I, at least, was oblivious to all else but the fact that
I was talking with the woman whose interest for me was paramount, when a
lump of coal fell from the grate upon the fire-irons.

We both turned, and saw Herod Voltaire standing by a bookcase with an
open volume in his hand. A disinterested person might have fancied he
had not heard a word of our conversation, but I was sure I saw a steely
glitter in his eyes, and a cruel smile playing around his mouth.

"Then you go to church this morning?" I said, seeking to turn the
conversation as naturally as I could.

"Yes, I always do on Christmas morning," she replied, as if thankful I