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 mind as he heard her. He lit a cigarette and smoked some minutes in silence. Lady Statham and her nephew waited for him to speak. At length, after some inner battling and hesitation, he put the question that he knew they waited for. It was impossible to resist any longer.

'It would be interesting to know the method,' he said, 'and to revive, perhaps, by experiment⁠'

Before he could complete his thought, she took him up:

'There are some who claim to know it,' she said gravely⁠—her eyes a moment masterful. 'A clue, thus followed, might lead to the entire reconstruction I spoke of.'

'And the method?' he repeated faintly.

'Evoke the Power by ceremonial evocation⁠—the ritual is obtainable⁠—and note the form it assumes. Then establish it. This shape or outline once secured, could then be made permanent⁠—a mould for its return at will⁠—its natural physical expression here on earth.'

'Idol!' he exclaimed.

'Image,' she replied at once. 'Life, before we can know it, must have a body. Our souls, in order to manifest here, need a material vehicle.'

'And⁠—to obtain this form or outline?' he began; 'to fix it, rather?'

'Would be required the clever pencil of a fearless looker-on⁠—someone not engaged in the actual evocation. This form, accurately made permanent in solid matter, say in stone, would provide a channel always open. Experiment, properly speaking, might then begin. The cisterns of Power behind would be accessible.'

'An amazing proposition!' Henriot exclaimed.