‘Do?’ replied Mrs. Mercer-Laporte. ‘He draws the pearl from the Secret Lotus! He will tell you your heart’s desire. He will tell you of the sweet spirits hovering round you. He can see them all easily, and the colour of your own soul’s halo he will tell you too. Sometimes it is pink and sometimes it is blue. Mine,’ she added with pride, ‘is purple. No one but me has a purple halo, Mr. Darnley. But every one of us has a colour of our own, and dear Mr. Minch sees them distinctly and clearly, and tells you all about them, and about the dear spirits as well. And then, if there is anyone among them, anyone in the precious company of the invisible with whom you particularly wish to enter into sweet converse, Mr. Darnley, you might go on to Mr. Muddock at Hindhead. Mention my name, though, just to show that you have a reverend and faithful spirit. Mr. Muddock has _the_ most marvellous powers. He is more than a mere psychometrist. He can actually make the dead resume the garb of flesh, Mr. Darnley!’ perorated Mrs. Mercer-Laporte with awful solemnity.
Suddenly Kingston’s resolve of twenty years weakened and broke. The long odds were that this talk of spirits was the mere nonsense he had always believed it. But still there could be no possible harm in trying to find out. And if, in sober truth, Isabel were really hovering on the edge of the other world, perpetually longing to enter into communication with him again, how tragically foolish to neglect the blessed opportunity because of any stupid materialistic qualm of incredulity. After all, there might be something in it. In the avowed belief that there was nothing, and the secret trust that there might be a great deal, he resolved that he would go and see the wonderful Mr. Minch. He intimated his decision to Mrs. Mercer-Laporte. The sibyl showed much mystic rapture.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘sweet and holy, sweet and holy. The blessed ones are waiting for you, Mr. Darnley, I feel convinced of it. I almost think I see one near you now, but alas, I have not quite reached the percipient plane as yet. But do go to dear Mr. Minch, and he will tell you her name and all about her, and what she wants to say to you. I have had the strangest, most marvellous experiences myself. My own sweet sister Margaret is always hovering round me, Mr. Darnley. She died when she was only six days old, and grew up in the spirit world. I recognised her distinctly, as soon as dear Mr. Minch described her.... Golden hair, he said, tall, blue eyes, high forehead, graceful figure. Then, to make _quite_ sure, I said, “Does your name begin with M?” and Mr. Minch asked the sweet spirit, and told me it said “Yes.” Then, of course, I knew. “Margaret,” I cried--just like that--“is it Margaret?” And it _was_ Margaret; she had come to tell me that I must go on bravely, and everything would come right. Now, wasn’t that a holy, happy experience, Mr. Darnley? Oh yes, you must go to Mr. Minch. Go to-morrow night at eight. He has a public circle then, and crowds of dear poor creatures go to him for help and comfort, and he heals them all--not only people like you and me, Mr. Darnley, but all the poor sweet cooks and housemaids.’