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trickster leading a campaign against spiritualism?” pouted V. T. Podmord. “Is he not the greatest medium-baiter of the age?”
    “He has lately embarked on a very public vendetta, attacking every medium, whether false or true, with equal fervor.” Sir Arthur sighed. “I believe this serves Houdini a two-fold purpose. First, he has never been adverse to publicity, however lurid. But, more importantly, there is no better smoke screen than just such an antispiritualist posture, not if you are trying to conceal being the greatest physical medium ofall time.”
    Brigadier General Soames swirled his brandy and shook his head. “Why should an entertainer wish to conceal his greatest selling point? Especially one who so courts the press?”
    “Houdini is a great student of the history and literature of magic. He, more than anyone, is aware of the fate suffered by those conjurors whose tricks were found to be accomplished through supernatural means. The stake awaits the warlock.”
    After the steward cleared the table, they all gathered around. “I’ve had sittings with Hartlepool, the trumpet medium,” Sir Arthur said to Lord Burliegh as the ladies took their seats and the steward closed the drapes. “And with Gladys Piper, the flower medium, not to mention the Bangs Sisters of Chicago. All with remarkable results.”
    “We’ve used the Bangs,” Mrs. Randell commented. “Very inspirational … “
    The steward retired, shouldering a tray piled with cups and glasses. He turned off the lights and closed the double doors on his way out. It was pitch dark. Shadows masked the gray sycamore paneling and gilded furniture. Sir Arthur had arranged for the disbeliever, Brigadier General Soames, to be seated as far from the medium as possible. It was essential at these times to give the sensitive psychic support and he made sure Lady Jean was placed on Podmord’s right. His wife had the gift of “inspired writing.” Her faith was a beacon.
    Following a short prayer, Sir Arthur spoke of the Titanic, mentioning they presently passed through water where more than a thousand bodies had drifted for days, if not weeks. He quoted Thomas Hardy’s poem on the calamity, telling them that his friend, the journalist W. T. Stead, who perished in the accident, had also known the poet. “If his spirit is at large, perhaps he will reveal himself to us here tonight.”
    Although Stead had not been personally acquainted with anyone else present, both General Soames and the Burlieghs had friends among the passengers lost on the Titanic. V. T. Podmord expressed his opinion that this would “most exquisitely facilitate contact.” All the psychic signs were auspicious and they sat together holding hands in the dark as the great ship steamed on its course through the icy sea. Other than occasional small talk, nothing of interest occurred.

4
ISIS IN SEARCH
    H ER HAIR GLEAMED MIDNIGHT black. When she was a farm girl in New Hampshire, it had hung past her waist, but now, fashionably bobbed, it curved like a raven’s wing along the ivory line of her jaw. Blessed with striking features (high sculpted cheekbones, large wide-spaced wave-green eyes, a prominent nose with nostrils delicate as seashells, lips full and red, parted by a slight overbite, giving her smile a perpetually mocking air), she ignored her detractors, who joked about a predatory look, calling her “fox-faced” behind her back. Most people, men especially, found Opal Crosby Fletcher impossibly beautiful.
    Born in the final year of the old century, she seemed to belong more to that vanished time. Her rural upbringing kept her distant from the stunning changes bedazzling a new era. Like many imaginative youngsters, Opal had played with an imaginary friend, sharing secret confidences with him. Other children played with invisible fairies and nonexistent talking rabbits. She insisted her phantom playmate was the spirit of a priest of Ra from Old Kingdom Heliopolis, that the secrets