There was a brief silence.

“Ah,” said Miss Cost. “Now that is the really rather wonderful part. The Green Lady!” She tipped her head to one side and looked at the Rector. “Mm…?” she invited.

“Poor Wally!” Mr. Carstairs rejoined. “All a fairy tale, I daresay. It’s a sad case.”

“The cure isn’t a fairy tale,” Jenny pointed out.

“No, no, no. Surely not. Surely not,” he said in a hurry.

“A fairy tale… I wonder. Still pixies in these yurr parts, Rector, d’y’m reckon?” asked Miss Cost, essaying a roguish burr.

Everybody looked extremely uncomfortable.

“All in the poor kid’s imagination, I should have thought,” said Major Barrimore and poured himself a double Scotch. “Still: damn’ good show, anyway.”

“What’s the medical opinion?” Patrick asked.

“Don’t ask me!” Dr. Mayne ejaculated, throwing up his beautifully kept hands. “There is no medical opinion as far as I know.” But seeing, perhaps, that they all expected more than this from him, he went on half-impatiently: “You do, of course, hear of these cases. They’re quite well established. I’ve heard of an eminent skin specialist who actually mugged up an incantation or spell or what-have-you and used it on his patients with marked success.”

“There! You see!” Miss Cost cried out, gently clapping her hands. She became mysterious. “You wait!” she said. “You jolly well wait!”

Dr. Mayne glanced at her distastefully.

“The cause of warts is not known,” he said. “Probably viral. The boy’s an epileptic,” he added. “Petit mal.”

“Would that predispose him to this sort of cure?” Patrick asked.

“Might;” Dr. Mayne said shortly. “Might predispose him to the right kind of suggestibility.” Without looking at the Rector, he added: “There’s one feature that sticks out all through the literature of reputed cures by some allegedly supernatural agency. The authentic cases have emotional or nervous connotations.”