marked nine-thirty.

"Now," Sperry said in a soothing tone, "you said there was a shot
fired and a man was killed. Where was this? What house?"

"Two shots. One is in the ceiling of the dressing-room."

"And the other killed him?"

But here, instead of a reply we got the words, "library paste."

Quite without warning the medium groaned, and Sperry believed the
trance was over.

"She's coming out," he said. "A glass of wine, somebody." But she
did not come out. Instead, she twisted in the chair.

"He's so heavy to lift," she muttered. Then: "Get the lather off
his face. The lather. The lather."

She subsided into the chair and began to breathe with difficulty.
"I want to go out. I want air. If I could only go to sleep and
forget it. The drawing-room furniture is scattered over the house."

This last sentence she repeated over and over. It got on our
nerves, ragged already.

"Can you tell us about the house?"

There was a distinct pause. Then: "Certainly. A brick house. The