"Why, if they can influence the right forces so that it'll be a success,
why shouldn't I give them a trial? Look at hypnotism! Look at wireless
telegraphy! For that matter, look at the telephone! Fifty years ago no
one would believe that such things were possible. It may be the same
with this power, whatever it is, spirits or not. I'm an old man, but I
keep up with the times. I'm not going to set myself up for an authority
and say, because a thing hasn't seemed probable to me, that I know all
about the mysterious forces of nature. I've come to believe that there
are powers inherent in us that may be developed successfully."
The incipient smile, the attitude of bantering protest had faded from
Cayley's face, as the old man spoke. He listened sedately. Oliver
Payson was a rich man. He had an attractive, marriageable daughter.
Blanchard Cayley was poor, single and without prospects.
"Of course, there's much we don't yet understand," he said gravely.
"One hears all sorts of tales--there must be some foundation to them."
"That's so--why, just look at Cly! She's had queer things happen to her
ever since she was a child."
"Yes, I suppose that's why she's so interested in this palmist person;
though I confess I don't take much stock in him."
"What do you mean?" Mr. Payson demanded.
"Why, I thought of course you knew. Granthope, the palmist--you know,
the fellow everybody's taking up now--he has been here, hasn't he? I
had an idea that Cly had taken rather a fancy to him."
"He was here?" Mr. Payson seemed much surprised.
"Why, I wouldn't have spoken of it for the world if I had known you
didn't know--but I've seen her with him several times, and I thought, of
course--" Cayley threw it out apologetically in apparent confusion at
his indiscretion.
Mr. Payson stared. "Granthope, did you say? I believe I have heard of
him. Cly and a common palmist? I can't believe it. What can she want
of a charlatan like that?"
"I was sorry to see it myself," Cayley admitted, "but I suppose she
knows what she's doing. The man's notorious enough. Only, she ought to
be careful."
"I won't have it!" Mr. Payson began to storm. "Reading palms for a lot
of silly women is a very different thing from spiritualism. I don't
mind her going to see him once for the curiosity of the thing, but I
won't have him in the house. I'll put a stop to that in a hurry. You
say you've seen them together? Where?"
"Oh, I think it was probably an accidental meeting," he said. "I wish
you wouldn't say anything about it, Mr. Payson. Very likely it doesn't
mean anything at all. Tell me about this fellow you spoke of going to.
Do you think he's all right?"
"I'll soon find out if he isn't--trust me!" Mr. Payson wagged his head
wisely. "His name is Professor Vixley, and I've heard he's a very
remarkable man. I'm going to see him next week and see what he can do
for me. I'm not one to be fooled by any claptrap; I intend to sift this
thing to the bottom."
"How do you intend to go about it?" Cayley asked. "I'll tell you what
I'd do. I'd ask him to answer a few definite questions. If he can do
that, it'll be a pretty good test, even if it is only thought-reading."
"If there's anything in thought transference there may be something in
spiritualism, too. One's as unexplainable as the other. See here!
Suppose I ask him something that I don't know the answer to
myself--wouldn't that prove it is not telepathy?"
"I should say so; but what could you ask?"
Mr. Payson had arisen, and was walking up and down the room with his
hands behind his back. He stopped to deliberate beside the bookcase,
then he took down a volume at random. "Suppose I ask him what the first
word is on page one hundred of this book."
He looked over at Cayley, then down at the title of the book.
"_The Astrology of the Old Testament_--queer I should put my hand on
that! I'll try it. I won't look at the page at all." He put the book
back on the shelf. "Can't you suggest something? Suppose you give me a
question that you know the answer of and I don't."
Blanchard Cayley sought for an idea, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Then he said slowly: "I used to know a girl once in Sacramento who lived
next door to me. Try Vixley on her name, why don't you?"
"Good! I'll do it. Now one more."
"You might ask him the number of your watch."
"That's a good idea; then I can corroborate that on the spot."
"You'd better let me see if there's one there, though," Cayley
suggested. "I believe sometimes they are not numbered. Just let me
look."
Mr. Payson took out his watch and handed it to the young man, who opened
the back cover and inspected the works. He noted the number, took a
second glance at it and then snapped the cover shut. "All right, if he
can tell that number, he's clever." He handed it back to Mr. Payson.
"When did you say you were going to see him?" he asked.
"Next Tuesday or Wednesday, I expect," was the reply. "I've got to go
up to Stockton to-morrow, and I may be gone two or three days attending
to some business. By the by, Cayley, I heard rather a queer story last
week when I was up there. You're interested in these romantic yarns of
California; perhaps you'd like to hear this."
"Certainly, I should. It may do for my collection of Improbabilities."
"Well, I met the cashier of the Savings Bank up there--he's been with
the bank nearly thirty years and he told me the story. It seems one
noon, about twenty years ago, while he was alone in the bank, a little
boy of seven or eight years of age came in, and said he wanted to
deposit some money. The cashier asked him how much he had, thinking, of
course, that he'd hand out a dollar or two. The boy put a packet
wrapped in newspaper on the counter, and by Jove! if there wasn't
something over five thousand dollars, in hundred-dollar greenbacks!
What do you think of that? The cashier asked the boy where he got so
much money, suspecting that it must have been stolen. The boy wouldn't
tell him. The cashier started round the counter to hold the boy till he
could investigate, and, if necessary, hand him over to the police. The
little fellow saw him coming, got frightened, and ran out the door,
leaving the money on the counter. He has never been heard from since."
"Well, what became of the money, then?"
"Why, it had to be entered as deposited, of course. The boy had written
a name--the cashier doesn't know whether it was the boy's own name or
not--on the margin of the newspaper, and the account stands in that
name, awaiting a claimant."
"What was the name?"
"The cashier wouldn't tell me, naturally. It has been kept a secret.
With the compound interest, the money now amounts to something like
double the original deposit."
"It's a pity I don't know the name; I might prove an alibi."
"Oh, I forgot--and it really is the point of the whole story. The
package was wrapped in a copy of _Harper's Weekly_, and the boy, whose
hands were probably dirty, had happened to press a perfect thumb-print
on the smooth paper. Of course, that would identify him, and if any one
could prove he was in Stockton at that time, give the name and show that
his thumb was marked like that impression, the bank would have to permit
him to draw that account."
"That lets me out," said Cayley, "unless that particular thumb-print
happens to show a banded, duplex, spiral whorl."
"What in the world do you mean?" Payson asked.
"Why, you know thumb-prints have all been classified by Gallon, and
every possible variation in the form of the nucleal involution and its
envelope has been named and arranged."
"I didn't know that," said Payson. "But I did know there were no two
thumbs alike. That's the way they identified my partner when he was
drowned. He was interested in the subject, having read of the Chinese
method, and he happened to have a collection of thumb-prints, including
his own, of course, done in India ink. His body was so disfigured and
eaten by fishes that he couldn't be recognized until, suspecting it
might be he, we proved it by his own marks."
"I didn't know you ever had a partner."
"Oh, that was years ago, soon after Cly was born. His name was Ichabod
Riley. That was a queer story, too. His wife was a regular Jezebel,
Madge Riley was, and there's no doubt she poisoned her first two
husbands. She was arrested and tried for the murder of the second, but
the jury was hung, and she wasn't. Ichabod was supposed to have been
accidentally drowned off Black Point, but I have good reason to believe
that he committed suicide on account of her. He was afraid of being
poisoned as well. She is supposed to have killed her own baby, too.
"Well," Mr. Payson added, rising, "I've got to go up-stairs and get
ready for dinner. You'll stay, won't you?"
"I'll wait till Cly gets home, at any rate, but I'll not promise to
dine."
The old man went up-stairs, leaving Cayley alone beside the bookcase.
When he returned he found Cayley, cool and suave as ever. Clytie was
with him, standing proudly erect on the other side of the room, a red,
angry spot on either cheek. She held no dreamy, listless pose now;
something had evidently fully awakened her, stinging her into an
unaccustomed fervor. Her slender white hands were clasped in front of
her, her bosom rose and fell. Her lips were tightly closed.
Mr. Payson, near-sighted and egoistic, was oblivious of these stormy
signs, and remarked genially: "You're going to stay to dinner, aren't
you, Blanchard?"
Blanchard Cayley drawled, "I think not, Mr. Payson; I'll be going on, if
you'll excuse me," smiling, "and if Cly will."
"Don't let us keep you if you have another appointment," she said,
without looking at him.
He left after a few more words with the old man, who began at last to
smell something wrong.
"What's the matter, Cly?" he asked.
She had sat down and was pretending to read. Now she looked up
casually:
"Oh, nothing much, father, except that he was impertinent enough to
question me about something that didn't concern him."
"H'm!" Mr. Payson took a seat with a grunt and unfolded his newspaper.
"I'm sorry you two don't get on any better."
"We'd get on well enough if he'd only believe that when I say 'no' I
mean it."
He stared at her, suddenly possessed by a new thought. "Is there
anybody else in the field, Cly?"
"There are many other men that I prefer to Blanchard Cayley."
"What is this about your being with this palmist chap?"
"Did Blanchard tell you that?" she asked with exquisite scorn.
"Have you seen much of this Granthope?"
"I've seen him four times."
"And you have invited him to my house?"
"He has been here."
Mr. Payson rose and shook his eye-glasses at her. "I must positively
forbid that!" he exclaimed. "I won't have you receiving that fellow
here. From what I hear of him he's a fakir, and I won't encourage him
in his attempts to get into society at my expense."
"Do you mean to say that you forbid him the house, father? Isn't that a
bit melodramatic? I wouldn't make a scene about it. I am twenty-seven
and I'm not absolutely a fool. I think you can trust me."
"Then what have you been doing with him? What does it all mean,
anyway?"
"As soon as I know what it means, I'll tell you. At present, I think we
had better not discuss Mr. Granthope."
He blustered for a while longer, iterating his reproaches, then simmered
down into a morose condition, which lasted through dinner. Clytie knew
better than to discuss the subject with him. Her calmness had returned,
though she kept her color and did not talk. The two went into the
library and read.
Shortly after eight o'clock the door-bell rang. As it was not answered
promptly, Mr. Payson, still nervous, irascible and impatient, went out
into the hall, growling at the servant's delay.
He opened the door, to see Francis Granthope, rather white-faced under
his black hair, supporting himself on crutches.
"Is Miss Payson at home?" he asked, taking off his hat.
"Yes, she is. Won't you step in? What name shall I give her, please?"
Mr. Payson spoke hospitably.
"Thank you. Mr. Granthope," was the answer.
The old man turned suddenly and returned his visitor's hat.
"I beg your pardon," he said sternly, "but Miss Payson is not at
home--for you--and I don't intend that she ever shall be. I have heard
enough about you, Mr. Granthope, and I desire to say that I can not
consent to your being received in my house. You're a charlatan and a
fakir, sir, and I do not consider you either my daughter's social equal
nor one with a character respectable enough to associate with her. I
must ask you to leave this house, sir, and not to come again."
Granthope's eyes glowed, and his jaws came together with determination.
But he said only:
"Very well, Mr. Payson, I'm sure that I do not care to call if I'm not
welcome. This is, of course, no place to discuss the subject, but I
shall not come here again without your consent. As to my meeting her
again, that lies wholly with her. You may be sure that I shall not
annoy her with my attentions if she doesn't care to see me. But I ask
you, as a matter of courtesy, to let Miss Payson know that I have
called."
"See that you keep your word, sir--that's all I have to say," was Mr.
Payson's reply, and he stood in the doorway to watch his visitor down
the garden walk. He remained there until Granthope had descended the
steps, then walked down after him and watched him to the corner.
Mr. Payson returned to the library sullenly.
"That palmist of yours had the impertinence to come here and ask for
you," he informed Clytie, "but I sent him about his business, and I
expect he won't be back in a hurry."
Clytie looked up with a white face. "Mr. Granthope, father?" She rose
proudly and faced him. "Do you mean to say that you were rude enough to
turn him away? It's impossible!"
Mr. Payson walked up and down the room in a dudgeon.
"I certainly did send him away, and what's more, I told him not to come
back."
Clytie, without another word, ran out into the hall. The front door was
flung open and her footsteps could be heard on the gravel walk. Mr.
Payson seated himself sulkily.
In five minutes more she had returned, slowly, her hair blown into a
fine disorder, the color flaming in her cheeks, her eyes quickened.
"What in the world have you been doing?" her father demanded.
"I wanted to apologize for your rudeness," she answered, "but I was too
late."
*CHAPTER X*
*A LOOK INTO THE MIRROR*
"He gives exact and truthful revelations of all love affairs,
settles lovers' quarrels, enables you to win the affection and
esteem of any one you desire, causes speedy and happy
marriages--"
Granthope put down the paper with a look of disgust. It was his own
advertisement, and it had appeared daily for months. He took up his
desk telephone with a jerk, and called up the _Chronicle_ business
office.
"This is Granthope, the palmist. Please take out my displayed ad., and
insert only this: 'Francis Granthope, Palmist. 141 Geary St., Readings,
Ten Dollars. Only by Appointment. Ten till Four.'"
There was now a red-headed office boy in the corner where Fancy Gray
used to sit. Granthope missed her jaunty spirit and unfailing
comradeship. Not even his endeavor to give his profession a scientific
aspect amused him any longer. He had lost interest in his work. He was
uneasy, dissatisfied, blue. He went into his studio listlessly, with a
frown printed on his brow. Until his first client appeared he lay upon
the big couch, his eyes fixed upon the light.
He had been there a few moments when his office boy knocked, and opening
the door, injected his red head.
"Say, dere's a lady in here to see you, Mr. Granthope!"
"Who is she?"