The cab drew up to the curb at the door of his rooms. Immediately she
became solicitous, helping him to alight. He used the broom for a
crutch, and, scratched and torn, his clothes still stained with clay,
she in her harlequin of dirt and rags, they presented an extraordinary
spectacle under the electric light, to a man on the sidewalk who was
approaching leisurely, swinging his stick. As they reached the entrance
he drew nearer, making as if to speak to them; instead, he lifted his
hat, stared at them and passed on. It was Blanchard Cayley.
Clytie's face went red. Cayley turned for an instant to look at them
again and then proceeded on his way. Granthope did not notice him.
Clytie disregarded his protest, and, saying that she would see him
safely to his room, at least, accompanied him up-stairs.
As he fumbled for his key in his pocket, the office door was suddenly
opened and Fancy Gray appeared upon the threshold.
Her eyebrows went up and Granthope's went down. Her eyes had flown past
him to stare at Clytie. The two women confronted each other for a tense
moment without a word.
Fancy had taken off her jacket; her hair was braided down her back. She
wore an embroidered linen blouse turned away at the neck, and pinned
over her heart was a little silver chatelaine watch with a blue dial. It
rose and fell as she drew breath suddenly.
"Mr. Granthope has met with an accident," Clytie announced, the first to
recover from the shock of surprise.
"I should say he had," was her comment, "and you, too?" Then she
laughed nervously. "It must have been a draw."
Clytie did not catch the allusion. "I happened to find him and brought
him back," she explained. "He had fallen down the cliff on Telegraph
Hill."
As Granthope limped in, Fancy put a few more wondering inquiries, which
he answered in monosyllables. Seeing Fancy so disconcerted, Clytie left
Granthope in a chair and turned directly to her with a conciliatory
gesture.
"We always seem to meet in queer circumstances, Miss Gray, don't we?"
she said kindly. "It's really most fortunate that you happened to be
here at work. I don't quite know what I should have done, all alone, but
I'm sure you will do all that's necessary for Mr. Granthope, better than
I. I must hurry home; father will be expecting me."
During this speech, Fancy's eyes had filled, and now they shone soft
with gratitude.
"Oh," she said, "I can fix him up all right. It's only a bad strain, I
guess."
Granthope watched the two women in silence.
"Well, then, I'll go." Clytie walked to the mirror, smiled with Fancy
at the image she saw there, touched her hat and rubbed her face with her
handkerchief. Then she held out her hand with a charming simplicity.
"I do wish you'd come and see me sometime, Miss Gray!" she said.
Fancy choked down something in her throat before she replied.
"I will--sometime--sure. If you _really_ want to see me."
"Yes, I really do." Clytie smiled again. Then she went up to
Granthope. "Good night, Mr. Granthope, I'm sure I'm leaving you in kind
hands. I hope it won't prove a serious injury. And--remember!" Then,
bowing to both, she left the room and went down to her cab.
Two vertical lines were furrowed in Granthope's brow. He turned to
Fancy with a look that barely escaped being angry.
"God! I'm sorry you were here!"
"Yes? That's easily remedied; you only have to say the word."
"Too late, now!" His tone was sad rather than cruel.
"I hardly expected you to bring home company--" she began.
"I'm sure it was as much a surprise to me--"
"I'm sorry, Frank, but I had to see you--Vixley was here after you
left."
He groaned with the pain his ankle gave him and she flew to him and
knelt before his chair.
"Oh, Frank, I'm so sorry. What can I do for you? First, let me take off
your shoe and attend to your foot. I can run out and get something to
put on it. It was awkward, my being here--but I don't mind on my own
account, so much. If it embarrassed you, forgive me."
"It's worse than that," he said.
"You mean--that you _care_ for her?"
"I don't know what I do mean--but you'll have to go."
She looked up at him for a moment, searching his drawn face.
"I will, just as soon as I've bound up your ankle and got your couch
ready. It won't take long."
"No, I can attend to that myself. I'll telephone for a doctor and have
him fix me up. You must go now."
"All right. Just wait till I put on my jacket and do up my hair."
Walking off, proudly, she opened the door of the closet and stood before
the mirror there, while he, a limp, relaxed figure in the arm-chair,
watched her as she unbraided her hair and combed it out in a magnificent
coppery cascade to her waist. Tossing her head, she said:
"Vixley's laying for you, Frank! You'd better watch out for him. It's
something shady about the old man's past, I believe. Anyway, I hope
you'll fool 'em, Frank!"
With this complication of his position, he bent his head on his hand as
if he were weary. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he said. "It's
too much for me, I'm afraid."
"What's the matter?" said Fancy solicitously. "Didn't I work it right?
Honest, Frank, I didn't give you away a bit--I didn't tell him a word.
You know my work isn't lumpy--I just pumped him. I beat him at his own
game, and it didn't taste so good, either. Oh, I'm so sorry if I did
anything to hurt you. I'd die first!"
As he did not answer her she came over to him and knelt on the floor,
seizing his hand. Her tears fell upon it.
"You've been mighty good to me, Frank, you sure have! You took me off
the streets when I was starving. I don't know whatever would have
become of me. I suppose I'd gone right down the line, if it hadn't been
for you. You're the only friend I've got, and I only wish I could do
something to prove how grateful I am. Honest, I thought I was helping
you out when I kept Vixley here. You don't think--you don't think I
_like_ him--do you? Don't say _that_, Frank!"
She was speaking in gasps now; her tears were unrestrained. Her hand
clutched his so fiercely that he could scarcely bear the pain. He did
not dare to look at her.
"I've always been square with you, Frank, haven't I?"
He patted her hand softly.
"We've kept to the compact, haven't we? The compact we made at Alma?
You trust me, don't you?"
"Of course! You're all right--you're true blue. I couldn't distrust
you. You'll always be the Maid of Alma. It was a game thing you did
for me. Nobody else would have done it. You have helped me, but I can't
tell you what a corner I'm in." He paused and looked at her intensely.
"Fancy--you haven't forgotten--have you?"
She forced a trembling smile, as she said bravely:
"'No fair falling in love'?"
"Yes."
She shook out a laugh and stroked his hand, looking up at him through
her tears. "Oh, no danger of that, Frank. You don't know me. I'm all
right, sure! Only--and I owe you so much! You've taught me everything.
If I could only do something to prove that I'm worth it."
"You can--that's the trouble. I believe I'm almost cur enough to ask it
of you."
"What is it? Tell me, quick! You know I'd black your boots for you.
I'd do anything."
"Did you notice Miss Payson's face when she saw you?"
"Yes." Fancy dropped her head.
"I'd hate to have her suspect--if she thought--"
"Oh!" She sprang to her feet and stood as proud as a lioness. "Is that
it? You want me to go for good?" Even now there was no anger in her
look or tone. The little silver watch heaved up and down on her breast.
He sought for a kind phrase. "I'm afraid it would be better--it makes
me feel like a beast--of course, you understand--" his eyes went to her,
pleading.
"Then it _is_ Miss Payson? Oh, Frank, why didn't you tell me! You
might have trusted me! You ought to have known better! Haven't I
always said that when the woman who could make you happy did come, how
glad I'd be for you?"
"You're really not hurt, then? I was afraid--"
"Poor old Frank! You goose! Of course not--it makes me sorry to think
of leaving you, that's all. Never mind--there's nothing in the race but
the finish! I'm all right." She had become a little hysterical in her
actions, but he was too distracted to notice it.
"I'll let you have all the money you want--I'll get you a good
place----" he began.
She shook her head decidedly. "Cut that out, please, Frank; but thanks,
all the same. If I ever want any money, I'll come to you. Why
shouldn't I? But not now. Don't pay me to go away--that sounds rotten.
I'll get a position all right. Didn't I turn down that secretary's
place only last week? But I guess I'll travel on my looks for a while.
I'm flush."
"I hope I can tell her all about this, sometime," he said wearily.
"Bosh! What's the use? Thank God some women know that some women are
square without being told. Men seem to think we're all cats. Even women
talk of each other as if they were a different sort of human animal.
But not Miss Payson--she's a thoroughbred. I can see _that_ all right.
You can't fool Fancy Gray about petticoats. I take off my hat to her.
She's got every woman _you_ ever had running after you beaten a mile.
Don't you worry--she'll never be surprised to find that a woman can be
square. Well, I'll fade away then."
As she talked she buttoned up her jacket and stuck the hat pin in her
hair. Now her eyes grew dreamier and she went over and sat on the arm
of his chair and put her hand on his hair affectionately, saying:
"Say, Frank, I don't know--after all, perhaps sometime you might just
tell her this--sometime when the thing's all going straight, when she's
got over--well, what I saw in her eyes to-night--when she finds out what
you're worth--when she really knows how good you are--you just tell her
this--say: 'There's one thing about Fancy Gray, she always played fair!'
She'll know then; but just now, you can be careful of her--watch out
what you do with her, she's going to suffer a whole lot if you don't.
You know something about women, but you'll find out that when you're
sure enough in love you'll need it all, and what you know isn't a drop
in the bucket to what you've got to learn. I hope you'll get it good and
hard. It'll do you good. You only know one side now. You'll learn the
rest from her. She's not the sort to do things half-way. When she
begins to go she'll go the limit."
She leaned over him. "You might give me one kiss just to brace me up,
will you? It may take the taste of Vixley off my lips. Well, so long.
Don't take any Mexican money! If there's anything I can do, let me
know." She rose and tossed a smile at him with her old jaunty grace.
Then she patted him on the cheek and went swiftly out.
*CHAPTER IX*
*COMING ON*
By artful questions, and apparently innocent remarks to lure his
confidence, by a little guess-work, more observation, and a profound
knowledge of the frailties of human nature, Madam Spoll had plied Oliver
Payson to good advantage.
She got a fact here, a suggestion there, and, one at a time, she
arranged these items in order, and with them wove a psychological web
strong enough to work upon. It was partly hypothetical, partly proved,
but, slender and shadowy as it was, upon it was portrayed a faint image
of her victim--a pattern sufficient for her use. Every new piece of
information was deftly used to strengthen the fabric, until at last it
was serviceable as a working theory of his life and could be used to
astonish and interest him. Of this whole process he was, of course,
unaware, so cleverly disguised was her method, so skilful was her tact.
She never frightened her quarry, never permitted him to suspect her.
Her errors she frankly acknowledged and set down to the ignorance of her
guides. She had, indeed, many holes by which she could escape--set
formulae for covering her petty failures.
After two or three interviews, she had filled up almost all the weak
spots in her web, and was prepared to encompass her victim by wiles with
which to bleed him.
Mr. Payson had gone away from his first interview limping slightly more
than usual, and had talked considerably about his ailment to his
daughter. Clytie, not knowing what had increased his hypochondria, was
inclined to laugh at his fears and complaints. He found a more
sympathetic listener in Blanchard Cayley, who took him quite seriously
and discoursed for an hour in Payson's office upon the possibilities of
internal disorders, such as the medium had mentioned.
The result was a visit to Doctor Masterson.
The healer's quarters were two flights up in one of the many gloomy
buildings on Market Street, half lodging-rooms, half offices, inhabited
by chiropodists, cheap tailors, "painless" dentists and such riffraff.
The stair was steep and the halls were narrow. The doctor's place was
filled with a sad half-light that made the rows of bottles on the
shelves, the skull in the corner and the stuffed owl seem even more
mysterious. The room was dusty and ill-kept; the floor was covered with
cold linoleum.
The magnetic healer's shrewd eyes glistened and shifted behind his
spectacles; the horizontal wrinkles in his forehead, under his bald
pate, drew gloomily together as Mr. Payson poured out the story of his
trouble. For a time the doctor said nothing. Then he took a vial full
of yellow liquid from his table, carried it to the window, held it to
the light, examined it solemnly and put it back. He sat down again and
looked Mr. Payson over. Then he tilted back in his chair, stuck a pair
of dirty thumbs in the armholes of his plaid waistcoat, and said, "H'm!"
Finally, his thin lips parted in a grisly smile showing his blackened
teeth.
His victim watched, anxiously waiting, with his two hands on the head of
his cane. The gloom appeared to affect his spirits; he seemed ready to
expect the worst.
Doctor Masterson took off his spectacles and wiped them on a yellow silk
handkerchief. "It looks pretty serious to me," he said, "but I
calculate I can fix you up. It'll cost some money, though. Ye see,
it's this way: I'm controlled by an Indian medicine-man named Hasandoka
and his band o' sperits. Now, in order to bring this here psychic force
to bear on your case, it's bound to take considerable o' my time and
their time, and I'll have to go to work and neglect my reg'lar patients.
It takes it out o' me, and I can't do but just so much or I peter out.
I'll go into a trance and see what Hasandoka has to say, and then you'll
be in a condition to know what to decide. O' course, you understand, I
ain't no doctor and don't claim to be, but I got control of a powerful
psychic force that guides me in my treatment, and I never knew it to
fail yet. If my band o' sperits can't help you, nobody can, and you
better go to work and make your will right away. See?"
Mr. Payson saw the argument and manifested a desire to proceed with the
investigation.
The doctor loosened his celluloid collar and closed his eyes. In a
minute or two he appeared to fall asleep, breathing heavily.
Then, through him, the great Hasandoka spoke, in the guttural dialect
such as is supposed to be affected by the American Indian, using flowery
metaphors punctuated by grunts.
The tenor of his communication was that Mr. Payson was undoubtedly
afflicted with something which was termed a "complication." He went
into fearsome prophecies as to its probable progress downward to the
feet, upward to the brain and forward to the kidney, with minor
excursions to the liver and lights. The patient's spine was preparing
itself for paralysis; it seemed that death was imminent at any moment.
Hasandoka expressed his willingness to accept the case, however, and
promised to effect a radical cure in a month at most, if treatment were
begun immediately, before it was too late. The cure would be
accomplished by massage, used in connection with a potent herb, known
only to the primitive Indian tribes. After this message Hasandoka
squirmed out of the medium's body and the soul of Doctor Masterson
squirmed in again. There were the customary spasmodic gestures of
awakening before he opened his eyes.
"Well, what did he tell you?" he asked.
Mr. Payson repeated the communication in a dispirited tone.
"Bad as that, is it?" said Masterson. "One foot in the grave, so to
speak. Well, I tell you what I'll do. I'm interested in your case, for
if I can go to work and cure you it'll be more or less of a feather in
my cap. See here; I won't charge you but fifty dollars a week till
you're cured, and if you ain't a well man in thirty days, I'll hand your
money back. That's a fair business proposition, ain't it? I guarantee
to put all my time on your case."
Mr. Payson gratefully accepted the terms. A meeting for a treatment was
appointed for the next day.
This time Doctor Masterson was prepared for his victim.
[Illustration: Doctor Masterson was prepared for his victim]
"I've been in direct communication with Hasandoka," he said, "and I'm
posted on your case now, and have full directions what to do. The first
thing is a good course of massage. Now, which would you prefer to have,
a man or a woman? I got a girl I sometimes employ who's pretty slick at
massage. She's good and strong and willing and as pretty as a peach, if
I do say it--she's got a figger like a waxwork--I think p'raps Flora
would help you more'n any one--"
Mr. Payson shook his head coldly, saying that he preferred a man.
"Oh, o' course," Doctor Masterson said apologetically, shrugging his
shoulders, "if you don't want her I guess I better go to work and do the
rubbing myself, if you'd be better satisfied."
The Indian herb prescribed by Hasandoka was, it appeared, a rare, secret
and expensive drug. The doctor's price was ten dollars a bottle, in
addition to his weekly charge for treatment. He presented Mr. Payson
with a bottle of dark brown fluid of abominable odor.
The treatment went on thrice a week, the massage being alternated with
trances in which the doctor, under the cogent spell of the medicine man,
uttered many strange things. The whole effect of this was to reassure
Mr. Payson upon the fact that powerful influences were at work for his
especial benefit.
Whether induced by Hasandoka's aid or by Doctor Masterson's suggestion,
an improvement in the patient's mind, at least, did come. He was met,
the following week, by the magnetic healer in his rooms with a
congratulatory smile. Doctor Masterson inaugurated the second stage of
his campaign.
"Say, you certainly are looking better, ain't you? How's the pain,
disappearing, eh? I thought we could bring you around. Yesterday I was
in a trance four hours on your case and it took the life out o' me
something terrible. I knew then that I was drawing the disease out o'
you. You just go to work and walk acrost the room, and see if you ain't
improved. We got you started now, and all we got to do is to keep it up
till you're absolutely well."
Blanchard Cayley also seemed interested when Mr. Payson told him of the
improvement.
"You certainly are growing younger every day," said Cayley. "I don't
know how you manage it at your age, in this vile weather, too, but I
notice you've got more color and more spring in you. You're a wonder!"
One afternoon, during the third week of his treatment, as Mr. Payson was
seated in his own office, the door opened and a chubby, roly-poly figure
of a woman, with soft brown eyes and hair, came in timidly and looked
about, seemingly perplexed and embarrassed. She walked up to his desk.
"I beg your pardon," she said, "but could you tell me where Mr.
Bigelow's office is, in this building? I thought it was on this floor,
but I can't find his name on any door."
He replied, scarcely glancing at her: "Down at the end of the corridor,
on the left."
She stood watching him for a moment as he continued his writing, and
then ventured to say:
"I beg your pardon, sir, but ain't you the gentleman that come to me
some time ago to have your life read?"
He looked up now and recognized her as the one who had initiated him
into the occult world, through the medium of the "Egyptian egg."
"Why, yes." He smiled benevolently. "You're Miss Ellis, aren't you?"
She seemed pleased. "Yes," she answered; "I hope you don't mind my
reminding you of it, but I took an interest in your case more than
usual, on account of your reading being so different, and I was
surprised to see you here. You're looking much better than you did
then. When you come into my place, I said to myself, 'There's a man
that'll pass out pretty soon if he don't take care of himself.' You
seemed so miserable. Why, I wouldn't know you now, you're so much
improved. You must have gained flesh, too. Well, I congratulate you.
If you ever want another reading, come around--here's my card, but
perhaps you've tried Madam Spoll since. She's the best in the business.
I go to her myself sometimes."
He walked to the door with her and bowed her out politely.
A week after he made another visit to Madam Spoll. The medium was
gracious and congratulatory.
"Why, you look like a new man, that's a fact!" she said. "Between you
and me, I never really expected that you could recover, but I knew if
anybody could help you it would be Masterson. I suppose he come pretty
high, didn't he? Two hundred! For the land sake! I'm sorry you had to
fall into the hands of that shark, but, after all, it's cheaper than
being dead, ain't it? A desperate disease requires a desperate remedy,
they say. I wouldn't take you for more than forty years old now, in
spite of your gray hairs.
"Now," she continued, "you've had experience and you're in a position to
know whether there's any truth in spiritualism or not. No matter what
anybody tells you about fakes or tricks and all that nonsense--I don't
say some so-called mediums ain't collusions--you've demonstrated the
truth of it for yourself, and you've found out that we can do what we
say. You can afford to laugh at the skeptics and these smart-Alecs who
pretend to know it all. What we claim can be proved and you've proved
it. Lord, I'd like to know where you'd be now if you hadn't. I've
always said: 'Investigate it for yourself, and if you don't get
satisfaction, leave it alone for them that do. Go at it in a frank and
honest spirit and try to find out the truth, and you'll generally come
out convinced.' I don't believe in no underhanded ways of going to work
at it neither. If you was going to study up Christian Science, or
Mo-homedism, we'll say, you wouldn't be trying to deceive them and
giving false names and all, and why should you when you want to find out
about the spirit world? What you want to do is to depend upon the
character of the information you get, to test the truth of what we
claim. You treat us square and we'll treat you square. We ain't
infalliable, but we can help. Whatever is to be had from the spirit
plane we can generally get it for you."
"I'm very much interested," Mr. Payson said. "There does seem to be
something in it, and I want to get to the bottom of it. There are
several things I'd like to get help on, too."
"Do you know, I knew they was something worrying you," she replied,
smiling placidly. She laid her fingers to her silken thorax. "I felt
your magnetism right here when you came in, and I got a feeling of
unpleasantness or worry. It ain't about a little thing either; it's an
important matter, now, ain't it?"
Mr. Payson, affected by her sympathy, admitted that it was. Under his
shaggy eyebrows, his cold eyes watched her anxiously, as if gazing at
one who might wrest secrets from him. His belief in her had increased
with every sitting, so that now the old man, gray and bald, in his
judicial frock-coat, lost something of his influential manner and became
more like a child before his teacher, swayed by every word that fell
from her lips.
Her manner was half patronizing, half domineering. "What did I tell you?
You feel as if, well, you don't quite know _what_ to do, and you're
saying to yourself all the time, 'Now, what _shall_ I do?' That's just
the condition I get."
"Do you think you could help me?"
"I don't know; I'll try. I ain't feeling very receptive to spirit
influence to-day; I guess I overeat myself some; but then, again, I
might be very successful; there's no telling. You just let me hold your
hands a few minutes and I can see right off whether conditions are
favorable or not."
He did so. Suddenly she turned her head to one side and spoke as if to
an invisible person beside her.
"Oh, she's here, is she? What is it? She says she can't find him?
Well, what about him? What? Shall I tell him that?"
She opened her eyes and drew a long breath.
"Luella is here and she says to tell you that Felicia wants to give you
a message. Do you understand who I mean?"
"Yes, I know. She's the lady you spoke to me about before, with the
white hair."
"Would her name be Felicia Grant?"
He assented timidly, as if fearing to acknowledge it.
"Well, Felicia says she has found the child--child, the one that was
lost. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes. Go on!"
"Really, I don't like to tell you this, Mr. Payson--"
"Tell anything."
Madam Spoll dropped her voice, as if fearful of being overheard. "You
was in love with her.
"Yes." He eyed her glassily.
"And you was the father of the child?"
He nodded, still staring.
Madam Spoll smiled complacently. "Well, Felicia says she has found the
boy, and she's going to bring him to you as soon as conditions are
favorable. She can't do it yet; the time ain't come for it. That's all
I can get from her. But Luella says you're worried about a book, and
she wants to help you."
"How can she help?"
"Wait a minute." Madam Spoll smoothed her forehead with both hands for
a while, then went on: "It seems that she can't work through me so well,
it being what you might call a business affair, and she recommends that
you try some one else, while I'll try to get the boy. I think a
physical medium could help you more. There's Professor Vixley; he's
something wonderful in a business way. I confess I can't comprehend it.
Are you selling books?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, whatever it is, Vixley's the one to go to. He'll do well by you
and you can trust him. I'll just write down his address; you go to see
him and tell him I sent you, and I guarantee he'll give satisfaction.
About the child, now, we'll have to wait. I shouldn't wonder if you
could be developed so you could handle the thing alone. You've got
strong mediumistic powers, only they're what you might call asleep and
dormant. If you could come to me oftener we might be able to produce
phenomena, for you're sensitive, only you don't know how to put your
powers to the right use. You could join a circle, I suppose, but the
quickest way is to have sittings with me, private."
The old man took off his spectacles and wiped off a mist. His hand was
trembling. "I might want to try it later," he said at last, "but I'm
not quite ready to, yet--I want to think it over. If you really think
that this Vixley can help about the book, I'll look him up first. I
want it to be a success, and I am a bit worried about it."
When he reached home he went into the living-room, to find Blanchard
Cayley sitting there at ease, bland, suave and nonchalant. Clytie had
not yet returned for dinner. Mr. Payson shook his hand cordially.
"I'm glad to see you, Blanchard. Been looking over that last chapter of
mine? What do you think of it?"
"I haven't had time to read it yet. I've been expecting Cly home any
minute."
"How are you getting on with her? Is she still skittish?"
"Oh, it'll come out all right, I expect," the young man said carelessly.
"I hope so! She's a good girl. I know she'll see it my way in the
end--you just hold on and be nice to her. You know I'm on your side.
I'd give a good deal to see Cly married to a good man like you. Strange,
she doesn't seem to take any interest in my work at all. If I didn't
have you to talk to, I don't know what I'd do. Suppose I read you that
last chapter while we're waiting for her. I'd like to get your
criticism of it. That trade dollar material has helped me immensely."
For half an hour, while Mr. Payson read the driest of dry manuscripts,
Blanchard Cayley yawned behind his hand or nodded wisely, with an
approving word or two. The old man had pushed up his spectacles over
his forehead and held the sheets close to his eyes. He read in a mellow,
deep voice, but it was the voice of a pedant.
"There," he said at last, stacking up the scattered papers. "I guess
that will open their eyes, won't it?"
"It's great; that book will make a sensation."
"Well, it isn't finished yet, and what's to come will be better than
what I've done. I'm on the track of something that may help it a good
deal."
"What's that?" said Cayley perfunctorily.
"See here," Mr. Payson drew his chair nearer and shook his pencil at the
young man. "I've had some wonderful experiences lately. You may not
believe it, but I tell you there's something in this spiritualistic
business. I've been investigating it for a month now all alone, and I'm
thoroughly convinced that these mediums do have some sort of power that
we don't understand."
"Really?" Cayley was beginning to be interested. "I knew you had always
been an agnostic, but I had no idea that you had gone into this sort of
thing. Have you struck anything interesting?"
"I certainly have. I went into it in a scientific spirit, as a skeptic,
pure and simple, but I've received some wonderful tests. Why, they told
me my name the very first thing and a lot about my life that they had no
possible way of finding out. The trouble is, they know too much."