She held out to them a dirty piece of drawing-paper on which was executed roughly in water colours a sketch of a woman. It was a mere daub, but the likeness was probably good enough. It represented a tall fair woman, with something subtly un-English in her face. She was standing by a table on which was standing a blue china jar.
“I only found it this morning,” explained Felise. “Monsieur le docteur, that is the face of the woman I saw in my dream, and that is the identical blue jar.”
“Extraordinary,” commented Lavington. “The key to the mystery is evidently the blue jar. It looks like a Chinese jar to me, probably an old one. It seems to have a curious raised pattern over it.”
“It is Chinese,” declared Jack. “I have seen an exactly similar one in my uncle’s collection — he is a great collector of Chinese porcelain, you know, and I remember noticing a jar just like this a short time ago.”
“The Chinese jar,” mused Lavington. He remained a minute or two lost in thought, then raised his head suddenly, a curious light shining in his eyes. “Hartington, how long has your uncle had that jar?”
“How long? I really don’t know.”
“Think. Did he buy it lately?”
“I don’t know — yes, I believe he did, now I come to think of it. I’m not very interested in porcelain myself, but I remember his showing me his ‘recent acquisitions,’ and this was one of them.”
“Less than two months ago? The Turners left Heather Cottage just two months ago.”
“Yes, I believe it was.”
“Your uncle attends country sales sometimes?”
“He’s always tooling round to sales.”
“Then there is no inherent improbability in our assuming that he bought this particular piece of porcelain at the sale of the Turners’ things. A curious coincidence — or perhaps what I call the groping of blind justice. Hartington, you must find out from your uncle at once where he bought this jar.”
Jack’s face fell.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Uncle George is away on the Continent. I don’t even know where to write to him.”
“How long will he be away?”
“Three weeks to a month at least.” There was a silence. Felise sat looking anxiously from one man to the other.
“Is there nothing that we can do?” she asked timidly.
“Yes, there is one thing,” said Lavington, in a tone of suppressed excitement. “It is unusual, perhaps, but I believe that it will succeed. Hartington, you must get hold of that jar. Bring it down here and, if Mademoiselle permits, we will spend a night in Heather Cottage, taking the blue jar with us.”
Jack felt his skin creep uncomfortably.
“What do you think will happen?” he asked uneasily.
“I have not the slightest idea — but I honestly believe that the mystery will be solved and the ghost laid. Quite possibly there may be a false bottom to the jar and something is concealed inside it. If no phenomena occurs, we must use our own ingenuity.”
Felise clasped her hands.
“It is a wonderful idea,” she exclaimed.
Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm. Jack did not feel nearly so enthusiastic — in fact, he was inwardly funking it badly, but nothing would have induced him to admit the fact before Felise. The doctor acted as though his suggestion were the most natural one in the world.
“When can you get the jar?” asked Felise, turning to Jack.
“To-morrow,” said the latter, unwillingly.
He had to go through with it now, but the memory of that frenzied cry for help that had haunted him each morning was something to be ruthlessly thrust down and not thought about more than could be helped.
He went to his uncle’s house the following evening, and took away the jar in question. He was more than ever convinced when he saw it again that it was the identical one pictured in the water colour sketch, but carefully as he looked it over he could see no sign that it contained a secret receptacle of any kind.
It was eleven o’clock when he and Lavington arrived at Heather Cottage. Felise was on the look-out for them, and opened the door softly before they had time to knock.
“Come in,” she whispered. “My father is asleep upstairs, and we must not wake him. I have made coffee for you in here.”
She led the way into a small cosy sitting-room. A spirit lamp stood in the grate, and bending over it, she brewed them both some fragrant coffee.
Then Jack unfastened the Chinese jar from its many wrappings. Felise gasped as her eyes fell on it.
“But yes, but yes,” she cried eagerly. “That is it — I would know it anywhere.”
Meanwhile Lavington was making his own preparations. He removed all the ornaments from a small table and set it in the middle of the room. Round it he placed three chairs. Then, taking the blue jar from Jack, he placed it in the centre of the table.
“Now,” he said, “we are ready. Turn off the lights, and let us sit round the table in the darkness.”
The others obeyed him. Lavington’s voice spoke again out of the darkness.
“Think of nothing — or of everything. Do not force the mind. It is possible that one of us has mediumistic powers. If so, that person will go into a trance. Remember, there is nothing to fear. Cast out fear from your hearts, and drift... drift—”
His voice died away and there was silence. Minute by minute, the silence seemed to grow more pregnant with possibilities. It was all very well for Lavington to say “Cast out fear.” It was not fear that Jack felt — it was panic. And he was almost certain that Felise felt the same way. Suddenly he heard her voice, low and terrified.
“Something terrible is going to happen. I feel it.”
“Cast out fear,” said Lavington. “Do not fight against the influence.”
The darkness seemed to get darker and the silence more acute. And nearer and nearer came that indefinable sense of menace.
Jack felt himself choking — stifling — the evil thing was very near...
And then the moment of conflict passed. He was drifting — drifting down stream — his lids closed — peace — darkness...
Jack stirred slightly. His head was heavy — heavy as lead. Where was he?
Sunshine... birds... He lay staring up at the sky.
Then it all came back to him. The sitting. The little room. Felise and the doctor. What had happened?
He sat up, his head throbbing unpleasantly, and looked round him. He was lying in a little copse not far from the cottage. No one else was near him. He took out his watch. To his amazement it registered half-past twelve.
Jack struggled to his feet, and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the cottage. They must have been alarmed by his failure to come out of the trance, and carried him out into the open air.
Arrived at the cottage, he knocked loudly on the door. But there was no answer, and no signs of life about it. They must have gone off to get help. Or else — Jack felt an indefinable fear invade him. What had happened last night?
He made his way back to the hotel as quickly as possible. He was about to make some inquiries at the office, when he was diverted by a colossal punch in the ribs which nearly knocked him off his feet. Turning in some indignation, he beheld a white-haired old gentleman wheezing with mirth.
“Didn’t expect me, my boy. Didn’t expect me, hey?” said this individual.
“Why, Uncle George, I thought you were miles away — in Italy somewhere.”
“Ah! but I wasn’t. Landed at Dover last night. Thought I’d motor up to town and stop here to see you on the way. And what did I find. Out all night, hey? Nice goings on—”
“Uncle George,” Jack checked him firmly. “I’ve got the most extraordinary story to tell you. I dare say you won’t believe it.”
He narrated the whole story. “And God knows what’s become of them,” he ended.