st corner of the cabinet. Here, however, was the grossest thing of all. It
was the mould of a hand, the hand of a man—a hand of wax, yet hardly a hand as
the word has meaning, more some awful tumes-cence—five bloated fingers and a
swollen, vein-ridged wrist, that glistened, where the gas-light caught it, as if moist.
The infant cast had made me queasy. This made me almost tremble, I cannot say
why.
And then I saw the label upon it—and then I did shake.
''Hand of Spirit-Control "Peter Quick",'' it said. ''Materialised by Miss
Selina Dawes.''
I looked once at Mr Hither—who was still nodding over
the dimpled baby''s arm—and then, trembling as I was, I couldn''t help but move
a little closer to the glass. I gazed at the bulging wax, and remembered Selina''s
own slender fingers, the delicate bones that move in her wrists as they arch and dip
above the putty-coloured wool of prison stockings. The comparison was horrible. I
became aware of myself suddenly, stooped low before the cabinet, misting the dull
glass with my quick breaths. I straightened—but must have done so too swiftly, for
what I felt next was the grip of Mr Hither''s fingers upon my arm. ''My dear, are you
quite well?'' he said. The lady at the table looked up and put one grimy white'' hand
before her mouth. Her pamphlet sprang closed again and tumbled to the floor.