“Tell them to sit down,” said the doctor.

The priest seemed to pull himself together. He turned and walked quickly to the steps into the pulpit. Nigel felt that he was making a deliberate effort to collect and control the congregation and to bend the full weight of his personality upon it.

“My friends,” — the magnificent voice rang out firmly — “will you all return to your seats and remain quiet? I believe, that the great rushing powers of endless space have chosen this moment to manifest themselves. Their choice has fallen upon our beloved sister in ecstasy, Cara Quayne.” The voice wavered a little, then dropped a tone. “We must strengthen our souls with the power of the Word. I call upon you to meditate upon the word “Unity.” Let there be silence among you.”

He was at once obeyed. A stillness fell upon the hall. The rustle of his vestments sounded loudly as he came down the steps from the pulpit. To Nigel he seemed a fabulous, a monstrous creature.

He turned to the two acolytes, who stood, the one mechanically swinging his censer, the other holding the jug of wine.

“Draw the chancel curtains,” whispered Father Garnette.

“Yes, Father,” lisped the red-headed acolyte.

“Yes, Father,” minced the dark acolyte.

A rattle of brass, the sweep of heavy fabric, and they were swiftly shut away from the congregation by a wall of thick brocade. The chancel became a room, torch-lit and rather horribly cosy.

“If we speak low,” said Father Garnette, “they cannot hear. The curtains are interlined and very thick.”

“For Gard’s sake!” said the American. “This is surely a turrible affair. Doctor, are you quite certain she’s gone?”

“Quite,” answered the doctor, who had again knelt down by the body.

“Yes, but there’s more in it than that,” began the young man. “What’s this about no one leaving? What does it mean?” He swung round to Nigel. “Why do you talk about unnatural death, and who the hell are you?”