The Shadow in the North
glass coffin ..."
    Frederick looked doubtftil. "Could be. I don't understand the glass coffin, though. I thought that was the Sleeping Beauty. Blood on the snow. . . that's what's-her-name, Snow White or Rose Red or someone. Fairy tales. But I thought you didn't believe him?"
    "You don't have to believe it to see a connection, do you? It is part of the Mackinnon business. Betcher ten bob."
    "Oh, no. I'm not taking bets where Mackinnon's concerned. He sounds as if he's likely to pop up all over the place. Look, I want to get this plate developed. You take the batteries to Burton Street, and I'll take a cab to Piccadilly and call on Charlie."

    S. LOCKHART, THE FINANCIAL CONSULTANT, WAS WORK-ing late. The city outside her office was dark and quiet, and her coal fire was burning low. A great deal of paper was scattered about the carpet, some of it crumpled and thrown toward the wastepaper basket, the rest of it arranged in rough piles according to some complicated system. Sally herself sat at the desk, scissors and paste at one elbow, a mass of newspapers, letters, certificates, and files at the other, while an atlas opened at a map of the Baltic countries occupied the blotting pad.
    Chaka lay in his place in front of the fire, his great head lolling sideways, his forefeet occasionally twitching as he dreamed.
    Sallys hair was giving her trouble; it would not stay up, and she frequently had to push it out of her eyes with an impatient hand. Her eyes were strained. She looked up for the twentieth time at the gaslight, measuring its distance from the desk and wondering whether it would be worth the effort to push the desk closer and disarrange the papers on the floor, and then

    decided it wouldn t. She turned back to the atlas with a magnifying glass.
    Suddenly the dog sat up and growled.
    "What is it, Chaka?" she said softly, and listened. After a moment there came a knock on the distant street door, and Sally got up, lit a candle from the gaslight, and fitted it into a little lantern to keep it from drafts.
    "Come on, boy," she said, taking a key from the table. "Lets go and see who it is."
    The massive creature got to his feet and stretched, yawning redly, before padding after her down the two flights of stairs. The empty building loomed dark and silent around the little moving pool of light, but she knew it well; it held no terrors.
    She unlocked the street door and looked coldly at the figure on the step.
    "Well?" she said.
    "Do you want me to go through it all on the doorstep?" said Frederick Garland. "Or am I invited in?"
    She moved aside without a word. Chaka growled, and she put a hand on his collar as Frederick moved ahead of her up the stairs. Neither of them spoke.
    When they reached her office, Frederick dropped his hat and coat on the floor and put the camera down carefully before pulling one of the chairs closer to the fire. The dog growled again.
    "Tell that brute I'm friendly," he said.

    Sally stroked the dogs head, and Chaka sat down alertly by her side. She remained standing.
    "I'm busy," she said. "What do you want?"
    "What do you know about spiritualism.^"
    "Oh, really, Fred," she said in exasperation. "Is this some silly game? I've got work to do."
    "Or a man called Mackinnon? A magician?"
    "Never heard of him."
    "All right, another man. His name's Bellmann. And something called North Star."
    Her eyes widened. She felt for her own chair and sat down slowly.
    "Yes, I've heard of him," she said. "What's it all about?"
    He told her briefly about the stance in Streatham and handed her the paper with Jim's writing on it. She blinked and screwed up her cyts.
    "Did Jim write this?" she said. "I can usually read his writing, but—"
    "He wrote it on the train," Frederick told her. "You ought to get this place fitted out with some decent lights. Here, let me read it to you."
    He did so. When he'd finished, he looked up and saw an expression of distant excitement on her face.
    "Well?" he

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