The Greatest Works of E. F. Benson (Illustrated Edition). E. F. Benson

there's 'Museum' or 'Mouse' again there," said Georgie, "and surely that word in front of it — It is! It's Riseholme! Riseholme Mouse or Riseholme Museum! I don't know what either would mean."

      "You may depend upon it that it means something," said Daisy, "and there's another capital 'L.' Does it mean Lucia, do you think? But 'dead' . . ."

      "No: dead's got nothing to do with the 'L,' " said Georgie. "Museum comes in between, and quantities of Arabic."

      "I think I'll just record the exact time; it would be more scientific," said Daisy. "A quarter to eleven. No, that clock's three minutes fast by the church time."

      "No, the church time is slow," said Georgie.

      Suddenly he jumped up.

      "I've got it," he said. "Look! 'L from L.' That means a letter from Lucia. And it's quite true. I heard this morning, and it's in my pocket now."

      "No!" said Daisy, "that's just a sign Abfou is giving us, that he really is with us, and knows what is going on. Very evidential."

      The absorption of them both in this script may be faintly appreciated by the fact that neither Daisy evinced the slightest curiosity as to what Lucia said, nor Georgie the least desire to communicate it.

      "And then there's 'dead'," said Georgie, looking out of the window. "I wonder what that means."

      "I'm sure I hope it's not Lucia," said Daisy with stoical calmness, "but I can't think of anybody else."

      Georgie's eyes wandered over the green; Mrs Boucher was speeding round in her bath-chair, pushed by her husband, and there was the vicar walking very fast, and Mrs Antrobus and Piggy and Goosey . . . nobody else seemed to be dead. Then his eye came back to the foreground of Daisy's front garden.

      "What has happened to your mulberry tree?" he said parenthetically. "Its leaves are all drooping. You ought never to have pruned its roots without knowing how to do it."

      Daisy jumped up.

      "Georgie, you've got it!" she said. "It's the mulberry tree that's dead. Isn't that wonderful?"

      Georgie was suitably impressed.

      "That's very curious: very curious indeed," he said. "Letter from Lucia, and the dead mulberry tree. I do believe there's something in it. But let's go on studying the script. Now I look at it again I feel certain it is Riseholme Museum, not Riseholme Mouse. The only difficulty is that there isn't a Museum in Riseholme."

      "There are plenty of mice," observed Daisy, who had had some trouble with these little creatures. "Abfou may be wanting to give me advice about some kind of ancient Egyptian trap . . . But if you aren't very busy this morning, Georgie, we might have another sitting and see if we get anything more definite. Let us attain collectedness as the directions advise."

      "What's collectedness?" asked Georgie.

      Daisy gave him the directions. Collectedness seemed to be a sort of mixture of intense concentration and complete vacuity of mind.

      "You seem to have to concentrate your mind upon nothing at all," said he after reading it.

      "That's just it," said Daisy. "You put all thoughts out of your head, and then focus your mind. We have to be only the instrument through which Abfou functions."

      They sat down again after a little deep breathing and relaxation, and almost immediately the planchette began to move across the paper with a firm and steady progression. It stopped sometimes for a few minutes, which was proof of the authenticity of the controlling force, for in spite of all efforts at collectedness, both Daisy's and Georgie's minds were full of things which they longed for Abfou to communicate, and if either of them was consciously directing those movements, there could have been no pause at all. When finally it gave that great dash across the paper again, indicating that the communication was finished, they found the most remarkable results.

      Abfou had written two pages of foolscap in a tall upright hand, which was quite unlike either Daisy's or Georgie's ordinary script, and this was another proof (if proof were wanted) of authenticity. It was comparatively easy to read, and, except for a long passage at the end in Arabic, was written almost entirely in English.

      "Look, there's Lucia written out in full four times," said Daisy eagerly. "And 'Pepper.' What's Pepper?"

      Georgie gasped. "Why Peppino, of course," he said. "I do call that odd. And see how it goes on — 'Muck company ', no 'Much company, much grand company, higher and higher.' "

      "Poor Lucia!" said Daisy. "How sarcastic! That's what Abfou thinks about it all. By the way, you haven't told me what she says yet; never mind, this is far more interesting . . . Then there's a little Arabic, at least I think it's Arabic, for I can't make anything out of it, and then — why, I believe those next words are 'From Olga.' Have you heard from Olga?"

      "No," said Georgie, "but there's something about her in Lucia's letter. Perhaps that's it."

      "Very likely. And then I can make out Riseholme, and it isn't 'mouse,' it's quite clearly 'Museum,' and then — I can't read that, but it looks English, and then 'opera,' that's Olga again, and 'dead,' which is the mulberry tree. And then 'It is better to work than to be idle. Think not — ' something —"

      "Bark," said Georgie. "No, 'hard.' "

      "Yes. 'Think not hard thoughts of any, but turn thy mind to improving work.' — Georgie, isn't that wonderful? — and then it goes off into Arabic, what a pity! It might have been more about the museum. I shall certainly send all the first Arabic scripts to the British Museum."

      Georgie considered this.

      "Somehow I don't believe that is what Abfou means," said he. "He says Riseholme Museum, not British Museum. You can't possibly get 'British' out of that word."

      Georgie left Daisy still attempting to detect more English among Arabic passages and engaged himself to come in again after tea for fresh investigation. Within a minute of his departure Daisy's telephone rang.

      "How tiresome these interruptions are," said Daisy to herself, as she hurried to the instrument. "Yes, yes. Who is it?"

      Georgie's voice had the composure of terrific excitement.

      "It's me," he said. "The second post has just come in, and a letter from Olga. 'From Olga,' you remember."

      "No!" said Daisy. "Do tell me if she says anything about —"

      But Georgie had already rung off. He wanted to read his letter from Olga, and Daisy sat down again quite awestruck at this further revelation. The future clearly was known to Abfou as well as the past, for Georgie knew nothing about Olga's letter when the words 'From Olga' occurred in the script. And if in it she said anything about 'opera' (which really was on the cards) it would be more wonderful still.

      The morning was nearly over, so Daisy observed to her prodigious surprise, for it had really gone like a flash (a flash of the highest illuminative power), and she hurried out with a trowel and a rake to get half an hour in the garden before lunch. It was rather disconcerting to find that though she spent the entire day in the garden, often not sitting down to her planchette till dusk rendered it impossible to see the mazes of cotton threads she had stretched over newly-sown beds, to keep off sparrows (she had on one occasion shattered with a couple of hasty steps the whole of those defensive fortifications) she seemed, in spite of blistered hands and aching back, to be falling more and more into arrears over her horticulture. Whereas that ruffian Simkinson, whom she had dismissed for laziness when she found him smoking a pipe in the potting-shed and doing a crossword puzzle when he ought to have been working, really kept her garden in very good order by slouching about it for three half-days in the week. To be sure, she had pruned the roots of the mulberry tree, which had taken a whole day (and so incidentally had killed the mulberry tree) and though the death of that antique vegetable had given Abfou a fine opportunity for proving himself, evidence now was getting so abundant that Daisy almost wished it hadn't happened. Then, too, she was beginning to have secret qualms that she had torn up as weeds a quantity of seedlings which the indolent Simkinson had just pricked out, for though the beds were now certainly weedless,