III

It was a singular thing, but so convincing had my vision been to me

that I felt no immediate desire to verify the details of its setting by

an examination of Gertrude's boudoir. It had come to me bearing its own

credentials, its own satisfying accent of truth. One question did,

however, fasten upon me, as I followed Conlon's bulky form, down the

hall to Lucette's bedroom. Whence had this vision, this psychic reel

come to me? What was its source? How could the mere fact of

it--clearing, as it did, at least, all perplexities from my own

mind--have occurred? For the moment I could find no answer; the mystery

had happened, had worked, but remained a mystery.

Like most men in this modern world I had taken a vague, mild interest in

psychical research, reading more or less casually, and with customary

suspension of judgment, anything of the sort that came in my way. I had

a bowing acquaintance with its rapidly growing literature; little more;

and until now I had had no striking psychical experiences of my own, and

had never, as it happened, attended a seance of any kind, either popular

or scientific. Nevertheless, I could--to put it so--speak that language.

I was familiar with the described phenomena, in a general way, and with

the conflicting theories of its leading investigators; but I

had--honestly speaking--no pet theories of my own, though always

impatient of spiritistic explanations, and rather inclined to doubt,

too, the persistent claim that thought transference had been

incontrovertibly established. On the whole, I suppose I was inclined to

favor common-sense mechanistic explanations of such phenomena, and to

regard all others with alert suspicion or wearily amused contempt.

Now at last, in my life's most urgent crisis, I had had news from

nowhere; now, furthermore, the being I loved and would protect, _must_

protect, had been thrown by psychic shock into that grim borderland, the

Abnormal: that land of lost voices, of the fringe of consciousness, of

dissociated personalities, of morbid obsession, and wild symbolic

dreams. Following on Conlon's heels, then, I entered a softly illumined

room--a restrained _Louis Seize_ room--a true Gertrude room, with its

cool French-gray panelled walls; but entered there as into sinister

darkness, as if groping for light. The comfortably accustomed, the

predictable, I felt, lay all behind me; I must step warily henceforth

among shifting shadows and phosphoric blurs. The issues were too

terrifying, too vast, for even one little false move; Susan's future,

the very health of her soul, might depend now upon the blundering

clumsiness or the instinctive tact with which I attempted to pick and

choose my way. It was with a secret shuddering of flesh and spirit that

I entered that discreet, faultless room.

Susan was lying on the low single French bed, a coverlet drawn over her;

they had removed her trim tailored hat, the jacket of her dark suit, and

her walking-boots, leaving them on the couch by the silk-curtained

windows, where they had perhaps first placed her. She had not dressed

for the evening before coming up to Gertrude's; it was evidently to have

been a businesslike call. Her black weblike hair--smoky, I always called

it, to tease her; it never fell lank or separated into strings--had been

disordered, and a floating weft of it had drifted across her forehead

and hung there. Her face was moon-white, her lips pale, the lines of

cheek and chin had sharpened, her eyes were closed. It was very like

death. My throat tightened and ached....

Doctor Askew stood across the bed from us, looking down at her.

"Here's Mr. Hunt," said Conlon, without further introduction. "He wants

to see you." Then he stepped back to the door and shut it, remaining

over by it, at some distance from the bed. His silence was expressive.

"Now show me!" it seemed to say. "This may be a big case for me and it

may not. If not, I'm satisfied; I'm ready for anything. Go on, show me!"

Doctor Askew was not, as I had expected to find him, old; nor even

middle-aged; an expectation caught, I presume, from Conlon's laconic

"One of the best--a big rep"; he was, I now estimated, a year or so

younger than I. I had never heard of him and knew nothing about him, but

I liked him at once when he glanced humorously up at Conlon's "He wants

to see you," nodded to me, and said: "I've been hoping you'd come soon,

Mr. Hunt. I've a mind to try something here--if you've no objection to

an experiment?"

He was a short man, not fat, but thickset like Conlon; only, with a

higher-strung vitality, carrying with it a sense of intellectual

eagerness and edge. He had a sandy, freckled complexion, bronzy,

crisp-looking hair with reddish gleams in it, and an unmistakably red,

aggressive mustache, close-clipped but untamed. Green-blue eyes. A man,

I decided, of many intensities; a willful man; but thoughtful, too, and

seldom unkind.

"Why did you wait for my permission?" I asked.

"I shouldn't have--much longer," he replied, his eyes returning to

Susan's unchanging face. "But I've read one or two of your essays, so I

know something of the feel of your mind. It occurred to me you might be

useful. And besides, I badly need some information about this"--he

paused briefly--"this very lovely child." Again he paused a moment,

adding: "This is a singular case, Mr. Hunt--and likely to prove more

singular as we see it through. I acted too impulsively in sending for

Conlon; I apologize. It's not a police matter, as I at first supposed.

However, I hope there's no harm done. Conlon is holding his horses and

trying to be discreet. Aren't you, Conlon?"

"What's the idea?" muttered Conlon, from the doorway; Conlon was not

used to being treated thus, _de haut en bas_. "Even if that poor little

girl's crazy, we'll have to swear out a warrant for her. It's a police

matter all right."

"I think _not_," said Doctor Askew, dismissing Conlon from the

conversation. "Have you ever," he then asked me, "seen Miss Blake like

this before?"

I was about to say "No!" with emphasis, when a sudden memory returned

to me--the memory of a queer, crumpled little figure lying on the

concrete incline of the Eureka Garage; curled up there, like an

unearthed cutworm, round a shining dinner-pail. "Yes," I replied

instead; "once--I think."

"You think?"

I sketched the occasion for him and explained all its implications as

clearly and briefly as I could; and while I talked thus across her bed

Susan's eyes did not open; she did not stir. Doctor Askew heard me out,

as I felt, intently, but kept his eye meanwhile--except for a keen

glance or two in my direction--on Susan's face.

"All right," he said, when I had concluded; "that throws more or less

light. There's nothing to worry us, at least, in Miss Blake's condition.

Under psychical trauma--shock--she has a tendency to pass into a trance

state--amounting practically to one of the deeper stages of hypnosis.

She'll come out of it sooner or later--simply wake up--if we leave her

alone. Perhaps, after all, that's the wisest thing for us to do."

On this conclusion he walked away from the bed, as if it ended the

matter, and lit a cigarette.

"Well, Conlon," he grinned, "we're making a night of it, eh? Come, let's

all sit down and talk things over." He seated himself on the end of the

couch as he spoke, lounging back on one elbow and crossing his knees. "I

ought to tell you, Mr. Hunt," he added, "that nervous disorders are my

specialty; more than that, indeed--my life! I studied under Janet in

Paris, and later put in a couple of years as assistant physician in the

Clinic of Psychiatry, Zurich. Did some work, too, at Vienna--with Stekel

and Freud. So I needn't say a problem of this kind is simply meat and

drink to me. I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world!"

I was a little chilled by his words, by an attitude that seemed to me

cold-bloodedly professional; nevertheless, I joined him, drawing up a

chair, and Conlon gradually worked his way toward us, though he remained

standing.

"What I want to know, doc," demanded Conlon, "is why you've changed your

mind?"

"I haven't," Doctor Askew responded. "I can't have, because I haven't

yet formed an opinion. I'm just beginning to--and even that may take me

some time." He turned to me. "What's your theory, Mr. Hunt?"

I was prepared for this question; my mind had been busying itself

foresightedly with every possible turn our conversation was likely to

take. All my faculties were sharpened by strain, by my pressing sense

that Susan's future, for good or evil, might somehow be linked to my

lightest word. I had determined, then, in advance, not to speak in

Conlon's presence of my inexplicable vision, not to mention it at all to

anyone unless some unexpected turn of the wheel might make it seem

expedient. I could use it to Susan's advantage, I believed, more

effectively by indirection; I endeavored to do so now.

"My theory?" I queried.

"As to how Mrs. Hunt met her death. However painful, we've got to face

that out, sooner or later."

"Naturally. But I have no theory," I replied; "I have an unshakable

conviction."

"Ah! Which is----"

"That the whole thing was accidental, of course; just as Miss Blake

affirmed it to be over the telephone."

"You believe that _because_ she affirmed it?"

"Exactly."

"That won't go down with the coroner," struck in Conlon. "How could it?

I'd like to think it, well enough--but it don't with me!"

"Wait, Conlon!" suggested Doctor Askew, sharply. "I'll conduct this

inquiry just now, if you don't mind--and if Mr. Hunt will be good enough

to answer."

"Why not?" I replied.

"Thank you. Conlon's point is a good one, all the same. Have you been

able to form any reasonable notion of how such an accident could have

occurred?"

"Yes."

"The hell you have!" exclaimed Conlon excitedly, not meaning, I think,

to be sarcastic. "Why, you haven't even been in there"--he referred to

Gertrude's boudoir--"or seen the body!"

"No," I responded, "but you and Doctor Askew have, so you can easily put

me right. Extraordinary as the whole thing is--the one deadly chance in

perhaps a million--there's nothing impossible about it. Merely from the

facts you've given me, Sergeant Conlon, I can reconstruct the whole

scene--come pretty near it, at any rate. But the strength of my

conviction is based on other grounds--don't lose sight of that! Miss

Blake didn't kill Mrs. Hunt; she's incapable of such an action; and if

she didn't, no one else did. An accident is the only alternative."

"Well, then," grunted Conlon, "tell us about it! It'll take some

tellin'!"

"Hold on!" exclaimed Doctor Askew before I could begin. "Sorry, Mr.

Hunt--but you remember, perhaps--when you first came in--I had half a

mind to try something--an experiment?" I nodded. "Well, I've made up my

mind. We'll try it right now, before it's too late. If it succeeds, it

may yield us a few facts to go on. Your suppositions can come

afterward."

I felt, as he spoke, that something behind his words belied their

rudeness, that their rudeness was rather for Conlon's benefit than for

mine. He got up briskly and crossed to the bedside. There after a moment

he turned and motioned us both to join him.

As we did so, tiptoeing instinctively: "Yes--this is fortunate," he

said; "she's at it again. Look."

Susan still lay as I had first seen her, with shut eyes, her arms

extended outside the coverlet; but she was no longer entirely

motionless. Her left arm lay relaxed, the palm of her left hand upward.

I had often seen her hands lie inertly thus in her lap, the palms

upward, in those moments of silent withdrawal which I have more than

once described. But now her right hand was turned downward, the fingers

slightly contracted, as if they held a pen, and the hand was creeping

slowly on the coverlet from left to right; it would creep slowly in this

way for perhaps eight inches, then draw quickly back to its point of

starting and repeat the manoeuvre. It was uncanny, this patient

repetition--over and over--of a single restricted movement.

"My God," came from Conlon in a husky whisper, "is she dyin'--or what?"

"Far from it!" said Doctor Askew, his abrupt, crisp speech in almost

ludicrous contrast to Conlon's sudden awe. "Get me some paper from that

desk over there, Conlon. A pad, if possible."

He drew out a pencil from his pocket as he spoke. Conlon hesitated an

instant, then obeyed, tiptoeing ponderously, with creaking boots, over

to a daintily appointed writing-table, and returning with a block of

linen paper. Doctor Askew, meanwhile, holding the pencil between his

teeth, had lifted Susan's unresisting shoulders--too roughly, I

thought--from the bed.

"Stick that other pillow under her," he ordered me, sharply enough in

spite of the impeding pencil. "A little farther down--so!"

Susan now lay, no less limply than before, with her trunk, shoulders,

and head somewhat raised. Her right hand had ceased its slow, patient

movement.

"What's the idea?" Conlon was muttering. "What's the idea, doc?"

Whatever it was, it was evident that Conlon didn't like it.

"Got the pad?" demanded Doctor Askew. "Oh, good! Here!"

He almost snatched the pad from Conlon and tore the blotter cover from

it; then he slipped it beneath Susan's right palm and finally thrust his

pencil between her curved fingers, its point resting on the linen block,

which he steadied by holding one corner between finger and thumb. For a

moment the hand remained quiet; then it began to write. I say "it"

advisedly; no least trace of consciousness or purposed control could be

detected in Susan's impassive face or heavily relaxed body. _Susan_ was

not writing; her waking will had no part in this strange automatism; so

much, at least, was plain to me and even to Conlon.

"Mother of God," came his throaty whisper again, "it's not _her_ that's

doin' it. Who's pushin' that hand?"

"It's not _sperits_, Conlon," said Doctor Askew ironically; "you can

take my say-so for that." With the words he withdrew the scribbled top

sheet from the pad, glanced at it, and handed it to me. The hand

journeyed on, covering a second sheet as I read. "That doesn't help us

much, does it?" was Doctor Askew's comment, when I had devoured the

first sheet.

"No," I replied; "not directly. But I'll keep this if you don't mind."

I folded the sheet and slipped it into my pocket. Doctor Askew removed

the second sheet.

"Same sort of stuff," he grunted, passing it over to me. "It needs

direction." And he began addressing--not _Susan_, to Conlon's

amazement--the _hand_! "What happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night?" he

demanded firmly of the hand. "Tell us exactly what happened in Mrs.

Hunt's room to-night! It's important. What happened in Mrs. Hunt's room

to-night?"

Always addressing the hand, his full attention fixed upon it as it

moved, he repeated this burden over and over. "We must know exactly what

happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night! Tell us what happened in Mrs.

Hunt's room to-night.... What happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night?"

Conlon and I both noted that Susan's breathing, hitherto barely to be

detected, gradually grew more labored while Doctor Askew insisted upon

and pressed home his monotonous refrain. He had so placed himself now

that he could follow the slowly pencilled words. More and more

deliberately the hand moved; then it paused....

"What happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night?" chanted Doctor Askew.

"This ain't right," muttered Conlon. "It's worse'n the third degree. I

don't like it."

He creaked uneasily away. The hand moved again, hesitatingly, briefly.

"Ah," chanted Doctor Askew--always to the hand--"it was an accident, was

it? How did it happen? Tell us exactly how it happened--exactly how it

happened. _We must know_.... How did the accident happen in Mrs. Hunt's

room to-night?"

Again the hand moved, more steadily this time, and seemingly in response

to his questions.

Doctor Askew glanced up at me with an encouraging smile. "We'll get it

now--all of it. Don't worry. The hand's responding to control."

Though sufficiently astonished and disturbed by this performance, I was

not, like Conlon, wholly at sea. Sober accounts of automatic writing

could be found in all modern psychologies; I had read some of these

accounts--given with all the dry detachment of clinical data. They had

interested me, not thrilled me. No supernatural power was involved. It

was merely the comparative rarity of such phenomena in the ordinary

normal course of experience that made them seem awe-inspiring. And yet,

the _hand_ there, solely animate, patiently writing in entire

independence of a consciously directing will----! My spine, too, like

Conlon's, registered an authentic shiver of protest and atavistic fear.

But, throughout, I kept my tautened wits about me, busily working; and

they drove me now on a sudden inspiration to the writing-table, where I

seized pen and paper and wrote down with the most collected celerity a

condensed account of--for so I phrased it--"what must, from the

established facts, be supposed to have taken place in Mrs. Hunt's

boudoir, just after Miss Blake had entered it." I put this account

deliberately as my theory of the matter, as the one solution of the

problem consistent with the given facts and the known characters

involved; and I had barely concluded when I was startled to my feet by

Doctor Askew's voice--raised cheerily above its monotonous murmur of

questions to the hand--calling my name.

"What are you up to, Mr. Hunt? My little experiment's over. It's a

complete success."

He was walking toward me with a handful of loose scribbled sheets from

the linen block.

"How is she now?" I inquired anxiously, as if she had just been

subjected to a dangerous operation.

"All right. Deep under. I shan't try to pull her out yet. Much better

for her to come out of it naturally herself. I suggest we darken the

room and leave her."

"That suits _me_!" I just caught from Conlon, over by the door.

"She'll be quite safe alone?"

"Absolutely. I want to read this thing to Conlon and Mrs. Arthur and Mr.

Phar, before the coroner gets here. I rather think they'll find it

convincing."

"Good," I responded. "But, first of all, let me read them this. I've

just jotted down my analysis of the whole situation. It's a piece of

cold constructive reasoning from the admitted data, and I shall be

greatly surprised if it doesn't on the whole agree with what you've been

able to obtain."

Doctor Askew stared at me a moment curiously. "And if it doesn't agree?"

he asked.

"If it don't," exclaimed Conlon, with obvious relief, "it may help us,

all the same! This thing can't be settled by _that_ kind of stuff, doc."

He gave a would-be contemptuous nod toward Doctor Askew's handful of

scrawled pages. "That's no evidence--whatever it says. Where does it

come from? Who's givin' it? It can't be sworn to on the Book, that's

certain--eh? Let's get outa here and begin to talk sense!" Conlon opened

the door eagerly, and creaked off through the hall.

"Go with him," ordered Doctor Askew. "I'll put out the lights." Then he

touched my elbow and gave me a slight nod. "I see your point of course.

But I hope to God you've hit somewhere near it?"

"Doctor," I replied, "this account of mine is exact. I'll tell you

later how I know that."

"Ah!" he grunted, with a green-blue flash of eyes. "What a lucky devil I

am!... But I've felt all along this would prove a rewarding case."