He seemed actually to hear the
faint cry of an approaching being, the dim uproar of its violent efforts
to obtain its sinister will, and gain the power to make itself known to
him by some ghastly and malignant deed. He was unutterably afraid.
"The hand again!" Julian suddenly cried. "Valentine, is it yours? Why
don't you answer? I say, is it yours?"
"No," Valentine forced himself, with difficulty, to reply.
"For God's sake then--the light!"
Valentine felt for it, but his hand shook and did not find the button.
"Make haste, Val. What are you doing? Ah!"
The room sprang into view, and Julian's eyes, with a furious, sick
eagerness, sought his hands.
"Valentine," he exclaimed hoarsely, "I see nothing, but I've got hold of
the hand still. I've got it tight. Put your hand here--that's it--under
mine. Now d'you feel the thing?"
Julian's hand, contracted as if grasping another, was in the air, about
an inch, or an inch and a half, above the surface of the table. Valentine
obediently thrust his hand beneath it. He now shook his head.
"I feel nothing," he said. "There is nothing."
"Then am I mad?" said Julian. "I'm holding flesh and blood. I'll swear
that. Yes, I can feel the fingers twitching, the muscles, the bones.
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