“Is this the end of the world, mister?”
“No,” said the stranger, curtly.
“Is it the Second Coming?” asked another voice.
“Yes.”
With quick light steps he threaded his way among the chairs on the platform and stood near the door. When Malone next looked round he was gone.
“He is one of these Second-coming fanatics,” he whispered to Enid. “There are a lot of them—Christadelphians, Russellites, Bible Students and what-not. But he was impressive.”
“Very,” said Enid.
“We have, I am sure, been very interested in what our friend has told us,” said the chairman. “Mr. Miromar is in hearty sympathy with our movement even though he cannot be said actually to belong to it. I am sure he is always welcome upon our platforms. As to his prophecy, it seems to me the world has had enough trouble without our anticipating any more. If it is as our friend says, we can’t do much to mend the matter. We can only go about our daily jobs, do them as well as we can, and await the event in full confidence of help from above. If it’s the Day of Judgment to-morrow,” he added, smiling, “I mean to look after my provision store at Hammersmith to-day. We shall now continue with the service.”
There was a vigorous appeal for money and a great deal about the building-fund from the young secretary. “It’s a shame to think that there are more left in the street than in the building on a Sunday night. We all give our services. No one takes a penny. Mrs. Debbs is here for her bare expenses. But we want another thousand pounds before we can start. There is one brother here who mortgaged his house to help us. That’s the spirit that wins. Now let us see what you can do for us to-night.”
A dozen soup-plates circulated, and a hymn was sung to the accompaniment of much chinking of coin. Enid and Malone conversed in undertones.
“Professor Summerlee died, you know, at Naples last year.”
“Yes, I remember him well.”
“And ‘old C’ was, of course, your father.”
“It was really remarkable.”
“Poor old Summerlee. He thought survival was an absurdity. And here he is—or here he seems to be.”
The soup-plates returned—it was mostly brown soup, unhappily, and they were deposited on the table where the eager eye of the secretary appraised their value. Then the little shaggy man from Australia gave a benediction in the same simple fashion as the opening prayer. It needed no Apostolic succession or laying-on of hands to make one feel that his words were from a human heart and might well go straight to a Divine one. Then the audience rose and sang their final farewell hymn—a hymn with a haunting tune and a sad, sweet refrain of “God keep you safely till we meet once more.” Enid was surprised to feel the tears running down her cheeks. These earnest, simple folks with their direct methods had wrought upon her more than all the gorgeous service and rolling music of the cathedral.
Mr. Bolsover, the stout president, was in the waiting-room and so was Mrs. Debbs.
“Well, I expect you are going to let us have it,” he laughed. “We are used to it, Mr. Malone. We don’t mind. But you will see the turn some day. These articles may rise up in judgement.”
“I will treat it fairly, I assure you.”
“Well, we ask no more.”
The medium was leaning with her elbow on the mantelpiece, austere and aloof.
“I am afraid you are tired,” said Enid.
“No, young lady, I am never tired in doing the work of the spirit people. They see to that.”
“May I ask,” Malone ventured, “whether you ever knew Professor Summerlee?”
The medium shook her head.
“No, sir, no. They always think I know them. I know none of them. They come and I describe them.”
“How do you get the message?”
“Clairaudient. I hear it. I hear them all the time. The poor things all want to come through and they pluck at me and pull me and pester me on the platform. ‘Me next—me—me!’ That’s what I
hear. I do my best, but I can’t handle them all.”
“Can you tell me anything of that prophetic person?” asked Malone of the chairman. Mr. Bolsover shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating smile.