"I don't
care _what_ you say," said Smithers. "It's all rot--it's all just
rot. Argue if you like--but have you convinced anybody? Put it to the
vote."
"That's democracy with a vengeance," said Lagune. "A general election
of the truth half-yearly, eh?"
"That's simply wriggling out of it," said Smithers. "That hasn't
anything to do with it at all."
Lagune, flushed but cheerful, was on his way downstairs when Lewisham
overtook him. He was pale and out of breath, but as the staircase
invariably rendered Lagune breathless he did not remark the younger
man's disturbance. "Interesting talk," panted Lewisham. "Very
interesting talk, sir."
"I'm glad you found it so--very," said Lagune.
There was a pause, and then Lewisham plunged desperately. "There is a
young lady--she is your typewriter...."
He stopped from sheer loss of breath.
"Yes?" said Lagune.
"Is she a medium or anything of that sort?"
"Well," Lagune reflected, "She is not a medium, certainly. But--why do
you ask?"
"Oh!... I wondered."
"You noticed her eyes perhaps. She is the stepdaughter of that man
Chaffery--a queer character, but indisputably mediumistic. It's odd
the thing should have struck you. Curiously enough I myself have
fancied she might be something of a psychic--judging from her face.
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