It was after six o'clock when a knock awoke him from his reverie. He called out a moody, annoyed, "Come in!" without rising.Mrs. Page rustled in, bringing an odor of sandalwood. She was dressed in a squirrel-coat and a Cossack cap, from which a long veil floated. Her cheeks were rosy with the wind, her glossy hair coquetted over her forehead in dark, springy curls. She stopped, her head on one side, her arms saucily akimbo, as Granthope sprang up and snapped on the electric light."Oh, I'msoglad I found you!" she bubbled. "You're run after so much now that I knew it was only a chance, my finding you in. I hope I didn't disturb you at silent prayer, or anything, did I? You looked terribly serious. Were you thinking of home and mother? If you don't look out, some day you'll be framed and labeledPictures in the Fire. Now, you're angry with me! What's the matter? Don't frown, please; it isn't at all becoming!"She walked up to him, her hand outstretched. Lightly he evaded her and forced a smile."What an iceberg you are, nowadays, Frank!" she laughed. "Don't be afraid; I'm not going to kiss you! It's only little Violet, the Pride of the Presidio. Please laugh! You used to think that was funny.""Do have a seat, won't you?" he said, in a half-hearted attempt to conceal his distaste."Thanks, awfully, but really I can't wait. I just simply tore to get here, and I must go right off. You must come along with me; so get on your hat and coat." She looked about the room for them."What is it?" he asked without curiosity."Why, a dinner, of course! What else could it be at this time of day? It's Mr. Summer's affair, and I promised to get you.""Mr. Summer is the latest, I suppose?"She came back to him and took his coat by the two lapels, smiling up at him."That's mean, Frank! You know I never went back on you. But you as much as gave me notice, as if I was a servant-girl. Gay's a nice boy, and I like him—that's all. I'm educating him. Of course, he doesn't know what's what, yet, but he's rather fun. Do come—we're going to have dinner at the Poodle Dog, and the Orpheum afterward perhaps—Heaven knows where it'll end. There's an awfully swell New York girl coming, a Miss Cavendish, and she's simplydyingto meet you. You'll like her. She's a sport—you can't feaze her—and she's pretty enough to suit even you. You can have her all to yourself. Come on!""I'm sorry, but I can't go to-night," he said wearily."Oh, Frank, please! Not if I beg you?" She looked at him languishingly, and tried for his hand."Really, no! I'm sorry, but I'm too busy."Mrs. Page pouted and turned slowly toward the door."I suppose you're afraid Gay'll bore you. I'll manage him. I've got him trained. Or, if you say so—we'll go alone? Just you and me. I can get rid of them, some way."He shook his head decidedly."Did you have such a dull time the last time over at the Hermitage?" she tempted. "We might go there. I don't knowwhenI'll have another chance. Edgar will be back soon." She raised her brows meaningly."It's awfully good of you—but I can't, possibly.""You might say you'dliketo!""I don't really care to, if you must have it!"She bridled and tossed her head. "Oh, very well!" she sniffed, and was off in a huff.Granthope went to the desk, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the two lower drawers. The first contained a collection of photographs of women. He drew them out in handfuls, stopping at one occasionally, or turning it over to see what was written upon it. The most were inscribed, on the back, or scrawled across the face, "To Mr. Granthope"—several "To Francis"—one or two "To Frank, with love." All types of beauty were represented, all sorts of costumes, all ages, all phases of pretty women's vanity. He looked at some with a puzzled expression, searching his memory for a clue to their identity. At a few he smiled sarcastically, at some he frowned. Once or twice his face softened to tenderness or pity. There was one of Fancy amongst them, showing her in costume. It had been taken years ago, while she was acting. He looked at it with a sort of wonder, she seemed so young, so girlish. On the back was written, "N.F.F.I.L." He put it back into the drawer and gathered up the others.He made a heap of them and threw them upon the fire, then dropped into the arm-chair to watch them burn. The flames passed from face to face, licking up the features. It was like a mimic death.The other drawer was filled with letters, tied into bunches. They were all addressed in feminine handwriting, mostly of the fashionable, angular sort. The envelopes were postmarked chiefly from San Francisco, but there were not a few from Eastern cities and abroad. One out of five bore special delivery stamps. A scent of mingled perfumes came from them. He cut the packages open and threw them into the wastebasket without stopping to read a word.He poked up the fire, and, carrying the basket over, fed in the letters, a handful at a time. The flames roared up the chimney, sending out a fierce heat. It took an hour to destroy the whole collection. A mass of distorted, blackened, filmy sheets remained.As he looked, a sudden draft made one leaf of charcoal glow to a red heat, and the writing showed plain—black on a cherry-colored ground. He stooped curiously to read it, and saw that it was the remains of a card, filled with Fancy Gray's handwriting. He remembered abstracting her notes upon Clytie, made after that first day's reading. He had placed it in the letter-drawer for safe keeping, and had forgotten to remove it.Only the lower part was legible:"... intuitive powers (?!) Play her Mysticism...... Easy. Sympathetic fool ...."The glow suddenly faded, the charred paper writhed again, black and impotent. He gave it a vicious jab with the poker, and scattered it to ashes.CHAPTER XIIITHE BLOODSUCKERProfessor Vixley's place was on Turk Street, the lower flat of three, whose separate doors made a triplet at the top of a tri-divided flight of wooden steps up from the sidewalk. The door had a plate-glass window, behind which was a cheap lace curtain. At the side, nailed over the letter slip, was a card bearing the written inscription,+--------------------------+| || PROF. P. VIXLEY. || |+--------------------------+Inside, a narrow hall ran down into the house, doors leading at intervals on the right hand, to small box-like rooms. The first one was the Professor's sitting- and reception-room, the shearing place for his lambs. The small type-writer on a stand and his roll-top desk attempted to give the room a businesslike aspect, while the homelier needs of comfort were satisfied by the machine-carved Morris chair, a padded, quilted couch with "hand-painted" sofa cushions and a macramé fringe along the mantel. Art was represented by the lincrusta-walton dado below the blank white plastered walls, partly covered with "spirit photographs," and a small parlor organ in the corner. A canary in a gilded cage gave a touch of gaiety to the apartment.Here Professor Vixley sat smoking a terrible cigar. Beside him, upon a small draped table, was a pile of small school slates, a tumbler of water and a sad towel.Opposite him, in a patent rocking-chair, was a young woman of some twenty-four or five years. She was a blonde, with pompadoured citron-yellow hair. Her eyes were deep violet, her nose slightly retroussé, giving her a whimsical, almost petulantly juvenile look that was decidedly engaging. She was dressed in black, so fittingly that no man would remember what she wore five minutes after he left her. This attractive creature, for she was indubitably winsome, was Flora Flint, by profession a materializing medium. Her past was prolific in adventure; by her alluring person and the dashing spirit shown in her eyes, her future promised as much as her past."Are you busy to-day, Vixley?" she said."That's what," said Vixley. "I've got a good graft doped out, and it's liable to be a big thing. First time to-day. One of Gertie Spoll's strikes, and we're working him together. Old man Payson it is.""Oh, that's the one Doc Masterson expected me to help him with, isn't it?" Flora asked. "I wish you'd let me in on that.""He ain't in your line, Flo, I expect. Ain't you doin' anything now?""Only the regular set, the same old stand-bys, and there's nothing in it at four bits apiece. I've got so many people to pay that even if I get forty or fifty in a circle my expenses eat it all up. Then I have to keep thinking up new stunts and buy props.""You don't have to spend much on gas," Vixley laughed, as he began washing off his slates.Flora smiled. "No, but it comes to about the same thing in luminous paint.""Why don't you make it yourself? It ain't nothin' but ground oyster-shells and sulphur.""Oh, it ain't only that. I only use the best silk gauze that'll fold up small—that's expensive; then there's a lot of work on the forms.""Don't you get your forms from Chicago now?" Vixley asked."No, they're no good. I can make better ones myself. Oh, occasionally I send for a rubber face or two or some cabinet attachments and extensions. I wish I was clever enough to do the slates." She watched the Professor sharply."Oh, they ain't nothin' in slates nowadays—it don't seem to take, somehow. They mostly prefer the psychics. I s'pose slate-writin' has been wrote up too much—I know a dozen books describin' the tricks, and here's this Drexel chap teachin' 'em at a dollar apiece, even. He's a queer guy. When he can get a bookin' he travels as a magician; durin' his off-times he sells his tricks to amachures, and then when he's down on his uppers he does the medium. I'm sorry I went into physical mediumship; the graft's about played out—people is gettin' too intelligent. I've a good mind to try the developin' stunt again.""Say, do you think Madam Spoll has any real power?" Flora asked.Vixley stopped in his work to become epigrammatic. "Some mediums are 'on' and some are honest—them that's honest are fools and them that's 'on' are foolin'. Gertie's 'on' all right, and she does considerable fishin'. I don't say that when she started she didn't have some faculty—she used to scare me good, sometimes, and she could catch a name occasional. But Lord, it's so much easier to fake it; you can generally depend on human nature, and you can't on psychometry.""I can tell things sometimes," Flora ventured."Can you?" said Vixley. "Say, I wish you'd give me a readin'; they's somethin' I want to know about pretty bad; p'raps you could get it for me.""Oh, I know you too well. I can't do it much, except the first time I see a party; but sometimes, when I'm materializing, I can go right down and say 'I'm Henry,' or whatever the name is.""I guess they're more likely to say, 'Are you Henry?' They're so crazy to be fooled that it's a crime to take their money.""Women are. They're easy. They simply won't go away without a wonderful story to tell to their friends, but men are more skeptical, as a rule.""That's right. But, Lord, when they do swallow it, they take the hook, bait and sinker. Why, look here, I had a party what used to come regular about a girl he was stuck on, a Swede he was. Well, one day he went up to this Drexel and he showed him one or two easy ways o' workin' the slates, provin' it was all tricks. The Swede comes back to me and says, 'Oh,' says he, 'I know it's all a fake now; you can't foolmeno more.' I looked him straight in the eye and I says: 'Don't you know that fellow is really one of the best mediums in the business, and he's controlled by Martin Luther? He was just tryin' to test your belief by denyin' the truth o' spiritualism, and seein' if you'd have the courage to stand up for what you believed. If your faith ain't no stronger than that, after the tests I gave you, you'd better go into Mormonism and be done with it.'""Did that hold him?""I've got that fellow yet; twice a month, regular, I get his little old two dollars; Lord, he swears by me now. No, them that want to believewillbelieve, and you can't pry 'em off with a crowbar. Ain't that right?""I guess yes!" said Flora. "But what gets my game is the widow that used to quarrel like cats and dogs when her husband was alive and leaks on his shoulder when he comes to her in the spirit! They're the limit! When a woman once gets it into her head that the dear departed can take possession of a living body, there ain't anything she won't stand for. My brother had a lovely case once. It was a woman whose husband hadn't passed out more than two months and she was all broke up. Well, Harry got her to believe that her husband could get control of his body and talk to her. At first the woman wasn't quite sure, so Harry, talking to her as her husband, claimed that he himself was in a dead trance. 'Why,' he said, 'if you should stick a pin into this medium's leg here, he wouldn't feel it at all!' That was where he was foolish, for the woman said, 'Is that so? I guess I'll just try it and see.' So Harry had to stand for it while she jabbed a hat pin into him, but he was game and didn't whimper. Of course that convinced the woman that she was really communicating with her lawful husband, and she begun to kiss and hug Harry to beat the cars, she was so glad to get hubby back.""Well, it's all in a day's work!" Vixley showed his sharp yellow fangs in a grin."Oh, you have to make it pleasant for sitters, sometimes," Flora yawned."I guess it's no trouble for you," Vixley said, looking at her with admiration.Flora yawned. "Well, I guess we earn our money, what with skeptics and all. Now, if you have any of these reporters come in you can get rid of them easy—but we can't. We've got to make good for the sake of the rest of the crowd, unless they get so gay with us that we can fire 'em out.""That's right. I never bother with skeptics; what's the use? I don't want their money enough to risk their jumpin' up and gettin' on to the game. No, sir! When any of these slick chaps that look like newspaper men or sports, come in, I just do a few lines and then tell 'em conditions ain't satisfactory and let 'em go. It ain't no use takin' chances.""You're in luck, Vixley, I tell you! I've had no end of trouble. Why, last week a couple o' fresh guys come in and scattered a package of tacks all over the floor. When I come out in my stocking feet I thought I'd die, it hurt so. But I had to just grin and bear it! My feet are so sore yet I can hardly walk. I have to sweep the carpet now, just as soon as it's dark, every time, unless Lulu's there to watch out!"Vixley laughed for almost five minutes. He had to dry his eyes with a silk handkerchief."Oh, Professor," said Flora, "I almost forgot what I came for. You know Harry's doing the Middle West now with Mademoiselle Laflamme, the Inspirational Contralto, and he wanted me to ask you if you had anything on Missouri and Iowa. Would you mind lending him your test-book? You was out there a few years ago, wasn't you?""Sure. I'll look and see if I can find it," and Vixley arose and left the room. He was gone a few minutes, and returned with a small, blue-covered note-book."Here's my test-book," he said, handing it over. "It's rather behind the times. It was five years ago that I was out there, but maybe Harry can get something out of it.""How did you get the dope, swapping?""Oh, no, I done it all myself, and it's O.K. I went through the country first as a book-agent, and I kep' my eyes and ears open. I took a look or two through the cemeteries, when I had time, and I read up the local papers pretty good. Of course I wouldn't go back till a year after I got a town planted, but then it was easy graft.""I suppose these abbreviations are all plain?""Yes, Harry will read that all right, he knows the regular cipher. The name after the first one is the party's control. I've writ in a few messages that'll work, and all the tests I know."She opened the book and ran through the pages which ran something like this:Jefferson City, Mo.Mrs. Henry Field "Mayflower" hb John diedpneumonia 1870 good wishes from littleEmily broken leg.Cameron, Mo.Mrs. Osborne "Pauline" hub James calls him Jimmieda disappeared July 1897 found drowned in RedRiver August Aunt Molly is happy Love to Belleand Joe.Flora put the book in her bag, and then reached over and took up one of the slates. The one on top was marked diagonally with two chalk-lines, and over this was written in slate-pencil the following inscription:801,101ChapterMarigold.Beside this, was a thin sheet of slate. She placed it over the marked surface. It fitted the frame exactly and looked, at a cursory glance, precisely like the other slates, its dark surface being clean.She took up another slate. On this was written:Unforeseen difficulties will prevent yourbook being successful, if you do not takecare. Felicia.The Professor grinned. "That's the dope for old Payson," he explained. "He ought to be here any time, now." He went to the window and looked out."What game are you going to work with him?" Flora asked."Oh, only a few of the old stunts. He's so easy that it won't be nothin' but child's play. I got a lot of the old-fashioned slab-slates for a starter, and I can change 'em on him whenever I want. He won't insist on test conditions. Anyways, if he does, I got my little spirit friend here handy."He reached up his sleeve, and pulled down a thimble attached to an elastic cord. To the end of the thimble a small piece of slate-pencil was affixed."The only hard part about it is learnin' to write backwards and upside down," he commented, as he let the instrument snap back out of sight. "Say, I wish't I had a double-jointed leg like Slade! I tell you I'd give some sittin's in this town that would paralyze the Psychical Research!""But what's this stuff on the slates mean?""Oh, them is the answers I've prepared. You see, I happened to get hold of some questions he's goin' to ask, from a young fellow who goes to his house; and so havin' inside information, it saves considerable trouble. Funny thing—this chap wants to marry the daughter, who'll have money, I suppose, and he's standin' in with me on account o' what I can do for him through the old man.""Why, I heard that Granthope was setting his traps for her!"Vixley scowled. "That's right, too. Frank's got something up his sleeve that I can't fathom. He's been trying to buy me off, in fact, but he'll never do it. This fellow Cayley naturally has got it in for him, Frank bein' pretty thick with the girl. So I got to play both ends and work the old man for Cayley and against Frank. But I can do it all right. The old man's a cinch!"Flora walked up to him. "You're in luck," she said. She permitted him to put his arm about her small trim waist and looked at him good-naturedly. "Say, Vixley, if he's as easy as that, why can't you fix it for some good materializing? We could do all sorts of things for him.""I'd thought of that. It might be a good idea later, and we may talk business with you.""Well, when you're ready, I'll do anything you say. You know me."At that moment the front door-bell rang."Here he is now!" Vixley exclaimed. "Say, Flora, you go out the back door through the kitchen, will you? It won't do for him to see you here.""Sure! I'll spare him. The Doc says he's scared to death of a pretty woman," and she disappeared down the hall.Professor Vixley went to the front door, welcomed Mr. Payson with an oily smile, took his hat and coat and then let him into a small chamber next to the front room. There were two straight chairs here on either side of a table which was draped with an embroidered cloth. Behind was a high bookcase."Well, I'm all ready for you, Mr. Payson," said the medium. "We'll see what we can do. If we don't get anything I won't charge you a cent. Have you ever seen any slate-writin' done before?""No, I haven't," said Mr. Payson, "but I've heard a good deal about it.""It's a very interestin' phenomena. Now, before we begin, p'raps you'd like to examine this table; it's been examined so often, that it's pretty well used to it by this time, but I want to have you satisfied that there's no possibility of trickery or deceit."As he spoke, he took off the cover, and turned the table upside down. Mr. Payson looked it over gravely and knocked on the top to see if it were hollow. The investigation finished, Professor Vixley said:"May I ask who recommended you to me?""Madam Spoll—I suppose you know her.""Oh, yes, and I admire her, too. Madam Spoll is a wonderful woman. I don't know how this community could get on without her. She's brought more satisfaction to them desirin' communication with their dear departed than all the rest of us mediums put together. She's doin' a great work, Mr. Payson. But she has more success with what you might call affairs of the heart, while I find my control prefers generally to help out in the way of business. We're all specialists, nowadays, you know.""I should think that the spirits could help in one way as well as another.""Now would you?" said Vixley, fixing the old man with his glittering eyes. "Spirits ain't so much different from people on this side. Some o' them is interested in one thing, and some in another, same as we are. Some is nearer what I might call the material plane and some has progressed so they don't take much interest in earthly affairs.""It seems to me that I'd always have an interest in my friends," said Mr. Payson."Does it?" Vixley replied. "Where was you raised?""In Vermont. I lived there till I was ten years old.""Well, are you much interested in the kids you knew when you went to school there?""Perhaps not.""Well, then, that's the way it is with spirits who have got progression. Their life on earth seems like childhood's days to them. Lord, they have their own business to attend to. I expect it keeps 'em pretty busy.""Well, I don't know." Mr. Payson shook his head and seated himself. "It's all very strange and mysterious. But I'm only an investigator, and what I want is the truth, no matter what it may be.""That's the right frame o' mind to come in," said Vixley; "you treat me right and I'll treat you right. Have a cigar?" He took one from his pocket and put it unlighted into his mouth, offering another to Mr. Payson."No, thanks, I don't smoke.""Well, if you don't mind, I will. It's a bad habit, I'm told, but it sorts o' helps me when I'm nervous."Mr. Payson placed the tips of his fingers together, palm to palm, and gestured with them. "Now, Professor Vixley, seeing that I know nothing about you, would you mind letting me see what you can do first in the way of a test, before we go to the main object of my visit?""Why, certainly, though I can't promise to do anything conclusive the first time. I want you to feel at liberty to try me in any way you wish.""Well, I've got three questions I'd like to have you answer. I happen to know that you couldn't possibly know what they are. If you can answer them, I'll be satisfied that you can help me.""I'll try," said Vixley modestly. "It all depends upon my guides, and we can't tell till we begin." He arose, walked to the mantel and brought back a small pad of paper."Here's what I generally use. This paper is magnetized in order to make it easier. Examine it all you please—you won't find no carbon transfer paper nor nothin' like that.""Why can't I use my own paper?""I ain't got no more idea than you have," the medium confessed candidly. "Why can't a photographer take a picture on common glass? I don't know. I ain't a photographer. All I do know is, that we can get results from this paper that my control has magnetized, when we can't from yours. The spirits may be able to explain it—I can't. Now you write down the name of your control and your three questions, one on each piece and fold it over twice. Then I'll pull down the shades and see what I can do."Mr. Payson brought his hand down on the table querulously. "That's another thing I don't like," he said. "Why can't spirits work in the light as well as in the dark, I'd like to know? It looks suspicious to me."Vixley took the cigar from his teeth and sat down patiently before his dupe. He rapped with his forefinger upon the table. "See here, it's this way, Mr. Payson; every science has its own condition that has got to be fulfilled before any experiment can be a success, hasn't it? You can't go against nature. If you want an electric light or telephone, you have to run wires, don't you? Why? I don't know—I'm not an electrician. If you want to develop a photograph, you have to do it in the dark. Why? I don't know—go ask a photographer. If you want to make a seed grow, you put it down into the dirt and water it. Why? I don't know. Nobody knows. It's one o' the mysteries o' life. In the same way, if you want to get results in spiritualism, you have to submit to the conditions that are imposed by my guide. Why? I don't know. And what's more, I don't care. If I can get the results, it makes no difference to me how they come. All I do know is that fifty years' experience has shown us mediums the proper conditions necessary for the physical manifestation of phenomena. Full daylight is all right for psychic influences, but it don't do for slate-writin'. The question is whether you want to accept the conditions I give you, or do you expect the spirits to work in a way that's impossible?"Mr. Payson, overcome with this profound logic, submitted without further protest to having the shades drawn down. The Professor reseated himself and waited till the three slips were written and folded according to direction. In his own lap were three blank slips folded in exactly the same manner.Vixley now pressed his brow and smoothed it with both hands. "Some fakirs will palm a blank slip and exchange it for your written one, but you see I ain't got nothin' in my hands," he said, showing them empty. Even as he spoke he dropped his hands into his lap, and secreted one of his folded slips in his palm. Then he reached for one of Payson's written questions and seemed to place it on the old man's forehead, but quick as was the motion, he had made the substitution."You hold this paper there while I go and get the slates. And keep your mind on the question as hard as you can."He returned in a moment, having glanced meanwhile at Mr. Payson's first question, while he was outside, bringing back a dozen or more slates which he put on the book-shelf. He took off the top one and handed it to Mr. Payson."Just look at it, examine it all you want to, and then take this wet towel, wash it off clean and dry it with the other end, please."As the old man did so, the Professor went to the pile and took down the next slate. This was the first one which Flora had read, the writing being now concealed by the thin slab which fitted neatly into the frame. As Mr. Payson handed back the first slate, Professor Vixley, looking him intently in the eye, said:"Now, can you tell me about how many years ago it was that your control passed out? Was it five years, twenty, or how long?"The question was accurately timed so as to be put just as Mr. Payson extended his hand. Vixley's eyes held the old man's in a direct gaze. During this psychological moment while his victim was intently trying to answer the question, the Professor, with a facile movement, put the two slates together and handed back the same one that had been washed."I should say it would be nearly thirty years—twenty-seven.""All right," said Vixley. "Now, take this slate and wash it off like you did the other." The old man did so without noticing that it was the same one he had had before.Vixley took back the slate when he had finished, and, with a piece of chalk, drew diagonal lines from corner to corner upon each of the faces of both slates."That will show you that the writin' hasn't been prepared beforehand, for you'll see that the pencil will write through the chalk, showin' it's been done after I made these lines."As he held the two slates together in his hand, the false sheet from the upper one fell into the frame of the lower. He laid the two upon the table and took off the top one. The lower surface upon which the writing was now exposed he took care to hold so that it could not be seen. Next, he took the slip of paper which Mr. Payson had been holding, substituted for it with a deft motion the written question which he had previously palmed, and, throwing the blank into his lap, dropped the real one, with a small fragment of slate-pencil, upon the slate. He put the written slate on top of the other, writing down, then asked the old man to hold it in position, laying his own fingers upon it as well. A faint scratching was heard. It was too dark for the old man to notice the slight motions of Vixley's finger-nail upon the surface. After a moment he removed the top slate and showed the writing, then, unfolded the slip.Mr. Payson looked at the inscription with curiosity and surprise. "Marvelous!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's incredible. I didn't know it could be done as simply as that. Why, all three of my questions are answered and they haven't left my possession.""You seem to have a very strong control. Are the answers correct?""I'll soon find out," said Mr. Payson, "if you'll raise the shades while I look at this book." He cut the strings of a package he had brought into the room, showed his copy of theAstrology of the New Testamentand turned to page one hundred."Here it is, 'Chapter IX.' It's most extraordinary, indeed! Now for the number of my watch. Do you know, I didn't even know these answers myself. That would tend to prove it's not mere telepathy, wouldn't it?"He took out his watch and opened the back covers. Upon the frame were engraved the figures "801,101.""That's correct, too. Now for the last one—have you a telephone?""Right down at the end of the hall.""If you'll excuse me a moment I'll ring up a friend of mine who will know whether this is the right name or not."In five minutes he returned with an expression of wonder upon his face. "I wanted to make sure that this couldn't be got from my mind, so I asked a friend of mine to select a name for me. It seems that Marigold was the name. This is a most wonderful and convincing test, Mr. Vixley; I must say that I'm amazed."The Professor took his praise modestly. "Oh, I hope to do much better for you than this after a while, Mr. Payson. The main point is, that now we can get to work in such a way as to help you practically, without wastin' your time on mere experiments. These test conditions is very apt to deteriorate mediumship and I don't like to do no more of it than is absolutely necessary to convince you of the genuineness of my manifestations."Now," he added, "before we draw down the shades again, you write down some important question you want answered and we'll get down to business."When Mr. Payson had finished writing, the medium, taking a slip of paper from his vest pocket unobserved, held it under the table, saying:"Now you fold it twice, each time in half." As Payson did so, Vixley folded his own slip in a similar manner and held it palmed in his left hand. After drawing the shades, he said: "Now, then, will you please hold that paper to your forehead? Not like that—here, let me show you."He took the slip from Mr. Payson and dexterously substituting for it his own duplicate, held it to his own forehead. "This way, so that it will be in plain sight all the time." He gave the blank slip to his sitter, who obeyed the directions."I think we'll do better if there's less light," Vixley said, as he arose to draw the shades. "You keep hold of that paper. I don't want it to go out of your possession for a moment. You see I couldn't read it even if I had it, it's so dark. But if you'll excuse me, I'll light this cigar; I haven't had a smoke all day."As he spoke, he went to the bookcase, and standing, facing Mr. Payson, he took a match from a box on the top and lighted the cigar which was between his teeth. His left hand, which had already secretly unfolded the ballot, covered the paper. He put it up with a natural gesture to keep the match from being blown out as he lighted his cigar. The operation took only a few seconds, but in that time, illuminated by the match, he was able to read the words: "Will my book be a success?" He dropped his hand, refolded the ballot with his fingers and held it hidden. Then he took two slates from the pile.There are many well-known ways of slate-writing, and the sleight-of-hand necessary in obtaining the ballots and writing the answers is simple compared with the sort of psychological juggling in which the medium must be an adept. Professor Vixley, however, had no need of any special craft with the old man. Mr. Payson was by no means a skilled observer, and, credulous and desirous of a marvel, was easily hoodwinked by Vixley's talk. The simplest methods sufficed, and he worked with increasing confidence, preparing his sitter's mind, till it would be possible for the medium merely to sit at the table and write openly under the supposititious influence of his control.The second experiment terminated with the appearance of the message that Flora Flint had read in the front room, the message signed "Felicia."Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown. "That's bad," he said, "I'm very sorry to find that this answer isn't favorable.""What's the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically."Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I'm writing a book, Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping his spectacles, "and, of course, I am anxious that it should be a success. It seems from this that there is likely to be some trouble about it—I don't quite understand how."Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. "I thought you looked like an intellectual-minded man. O' course, it wan't my place to ask no questions, but when you come in I sized you up as a party who wan't entirely devoted to a pure business life. So you've written a book, eh? Well, I'm sure my control could help you. I'll ask him, and see what's to be done. But for that, I think we'll be more liable to be successful at automatic writin' than by independent slate-writin'. It's more quicker and satisfactory all round.""How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson."Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o' ways. It's like this: I don't know nothing about your book, but I do know what's happened before. Take Gibbon'sDecline and Fall of the Roman Empire, for instance. He predicted that there wouldn't never be no more wars—he claimed we'd outlived the possibility of it, and everything would be settled peaceably. What happened? Why, Napoleon arose inside o' fifty years and they was wars like never had been seen on earth. Now, if Gibbon had only been able to put himself in communication with the spirit intelligence, he wouldn't have made that mistake—the spirits would have told him what was goin' to happen. Look at Voltaire! He went on record by sayin' that in fifty years they wouldn't be no more churches. Now he's a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people. If he'd only consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn't have made a fool of hisself. But, o' course, spiritualism wan't heard of then no more than Voltaire's heard of now. Now let's say, for example, you was writin' a book on evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin' in Darwin's theory o' the origin of species. Up to that time nobody believed that a new specie had been evolved since man. But look at this here Burbank up to Santa Rosa—he has gone to work and produced some absolutely new species, and what's more, I predicted his success in this very room ten years ago. If you'd written on evolution then, you might have taken advantage o' what I could have gave you. Now, for all I know, some man may come along and breed two different animals together, p'raps through vivisection or what not, and develop a bran' new kind of specie in the animal world. Heart disease and cancer and consumption are supposed by modern science to be incurable, but I wouldn't venture to write that down in a book till I had taken the means at my disposal o' findin' out whether they was or wasn't."He arose and let up the window-shades; the level rays of the sunshine illuminated his figure and burnished his purpling coat. He shook his finger at Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed with the glib argument."Now, my control is Theodore Parker. You've heard of him—p'raps you knew him. You wouldn't hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on the flesh plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more, now he's passed out and gone beyond, into a fuller development and comprehension of the universe! I don't know what your subject is, but whatever it is, he can help and he will help. I'm sure o' that. It's for you to say whether you'll avail yourself of his guidance or not. I can give you all the tests you want, but I tell you, you're only wastin' your time, while you might be in daily communication with one of the grandest minds this country and this century has produced. I can get into communication with him and give you his messages by means of automatic writin', or I can develop you so's you can do it yourself."Professor Vixley's victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood.
It was after six o'clock when a knock awoke him from his reverie. He called out a moody, annoyed, "Come in!" without rising.
Mrs. Page rustled in, bringing an odor of sandalwood. She was dressed in a squirrel-coat and a Cossack cap, from which a long veil floated. Her cheeks were rosy with the wind, her glossy hair coquetted over her forehead in dark, springy curls. She stopped, her head on one side, her arms saucily akimbo, as Granthope sprang up and snapped on the electric light.
"Oh, I'msoglad I found you!" she bubbled. "You're run after so much now that I knew it was only a chance, my finding you in. I hope I didn't disturb you at silent prayer, or anything, did I? You looked terribly serious. Were you thinking of home and mother? If you don't look out, some day you'll be framed and labeledPictures in the Fire. Now, you're angry with me! What's the matter? Don't frown, please; it isn't at all becoming!"
She walked up to him, her hand outstretched. Lightly he evaded her and forced a smile.
"What an iceberg you are, nowadays, Frank!" she laughed. "Don't be afraid; I'm not going to kiss you! It's only little Violet, the Pride of the Presidio. Please laugh! You used to think that was funny."
"Do have a seat, won't you?" he said, in a half-hearted attempt to conceal his distaste.
"Thanks, awfully, but really I can't wait. I just simply tore to get here, and I must go right off. You must come along with me; so get on your hat and coat." She looked about the room for them.
"What is it?" he asked without curiosity.
"Why, a dinner, of course! What else could it be at this time of day? It's Mr. Summer's affair, and I promised to get you."
"Mr. Summer is the latest, I suppose?"
She came back to him and took his coat by the two lapels, smiling up at him.
"That's mean, Frank! You know I never went back on you. But you as much as gave me notice, as if I was a servant-girl. Gay's a nice boy, and I like him—that's all. I'm educating him. Of course, he doesn't know what's what, yet, but he's rather fun. Do come—we're going to have dinner at the Poodle Dog, and the Orpheum afterward perhaps—Heaven knows where it'll end. There's an awfully swell New York girl coming, a Miss Cavendish, and she's simplydyingto meet you. You'll like her. She's a sport—you can't feaze her—and she's pretty enough to suit even you. You can have her all to yourself. Come on!"
"I'm sorry, but I can't go to-night," he said wearily.
"Oh, Frank, please! Not if I beg you?" She looked at him languishingly, and tried for his hand.
"Really, no! I'm sorry, but I'm too busy."
Mrs. Page pouted and turned slowly toward the door.
"I suppose you're afraid Gay'll bore you. I'll manage him. I've got him trained. Or, if you say so—we'll go alone? Just you and me. I can get rid of them, some way."
He shook his head decidedly.
"Did you have such a dull time the last time over at the Hermitage?" she tempted. "We might go there. I don't knowwhenI'll have another chance. Edgar will be back soon." She raised her brows meaningly.
"It's awfully good of you—but I can't, possibly."
"You might say you'dliketo!"
"I don't really care to, if you must have it!"
She bridled and tossed her head. "Oh, very well!" she sniffed, and was off in a huff.
Granthope went to the desk, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the two lower drawers. The first contained a collection of photographs of women. He drew them out in handfuls, stopping at one occasionally, or turning it over to see what was written upon it. The most were inscribed, on the back, or scrawled across the face, "To Mr. Granthope"—several "To Francis"—one or two "To Frank, with love." All types of beauty were represented, all sorts of costumes, all ages, all phases of pretty women's vanity. He looked at some with a puzzled expression, searching his memory for a clue to their identity. At a few he smiled sarcastically, at some he frowned. Once or twice his face softened to tenderness or pity. There was one of Fancy amongst them, showing her in costume. It had been taken years ago, while she was acting. He looked at it with a sort of wonder, she seemed so young, so girlish. On the back was written, "N.F.F.I.L." He put it back into the drawer and gathered up the others.
He made a heap of them and threw them upon the fire, then dropped into the arm-chair to watch them burn. The flames passed from face to face, licking up the features. It was like a mimic death.
The other drawer was filled with letters, tied into bunches. They were all addressed in feminine handwriting, mostly of the fashionable, angular sort. The envelopes were postmarked chiefly from San Francisco, but there were not a few from Eastern cities and abroad. One out of five bore special delivery stamps. A scent of mingled perfumes came from them. He cut the packages open and threw them into the wastebasket without stopping to read a word.
He poked up the fire, and, carrying the basket over, fed in the letters, a handful at a time. The flames roared up the chimney, sending out a fierce heat. It took an hour to destroy the whole collection. A mass of distorted, blackened, filmy sheets remained.
As he looked, a sudden draft made one leaf of charcoal glow to a red heat, and the writing showed plain—black on a cherry-colored ground. He stooped curiously to read it, and saw that it was the remains of a card, filled with Fancy Gray's handwriting. He remembered abstracting her notes upon Clytie, made after that first day's reading. He had placed it in the letter-drawer for safe keeping, and had forgotten to remove it.
Only the lower part was legible:
"... intuitive powers (?!) Play her Mysticism...... Easy. Sympathetic fool ...."
The glow suddenly faded, the charred paper writhed again, black and impotent. He gave it a vicious jab with the poker, and scattered it to ashes.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BLOODSUCKER
Professor Vixley's place was on Turk Street, the lower flat of three, whose separate doors made a triplet at the top of a tri-divided flight of wooden steps up from the sidewalk. The door had a plate-glass window, behind which was a cheap lace curtain. At the side, nailed over the letter slip, was a card bearing the written inscription,
+--------------------------+| || PROF. P. VIXLEY. || |+--------------------------+
Inside, a narrow hall ran down into the house, doors leading at intervals on the right hand, to small box-like rooms. The first one was the Professor's sitting- and reception-room, the shearing place for his lambs. The small type-writer on a stand and his roll-top desk attempted to give the room a businesslike aspect, while the homelier needs of comfort were satisfied by the machine-carved Morris chair, a padded, quilted couch with "hand-painted" sofa cushions and a macramé fringe along the mantel. Art was represented by the lincrusta-walton dado below the blank white plastered walls, partly covered with "spirit photographs," and a small parlor organ in the corner. A canary in a gilded cage gave a touch of gaiety to the apartment.
Here Professor Vixley sat smoking a terrible cigar. Beside him, upon a small draped table, was a pile of small school slates, a tumbler of water and a sad towel.
Opposite him, in a patent rocking-chair, was a young woman of some twenty-four or five years. She was a blonde, with pompadoured citron-yellow hair. Her eyes were deep violet, her nose slightly retroussé, giving her a whimsical, almost petulantly juvenile look that was decidedly engaging. She was dressed in black, so fittingly that no man would remember what she wore five minutes after he left her. This attractive creature, for she was indubitably winsome, was Flora Flint, by profession a materializing medium. Her past was prolific in adventure; by her alluring person and the dashing spirit shown in her eyes, her future promised as much as her past.
"Are you busy to-day, Vixley?" she said.
"That's what," said Vixley. "I've got a good graft doped out, and it's liable to be a big thing. First time to-day. One of Gertie Spoll's strikes, and we're working him together. Old man Payson it is."
"Oh, that's the one Doc Masterson expected me to help him with, isn't it?" Flora asked. "I wish you'd let me in on that."
"He ain't in your line, Flo, I expect. Ain't you doin' anything now?"
"Only the regular set, the same old stand-bys, and there's nothing in it at four bits apiece. I've got so many people to pay that even if I get forty or fifty in a circle my expenses eat it all up. Then I have to keep thinking up new stunts and buy props."
"You don't have to spend much on gas," Vixley laughed, as he began washing off his slates.
Flora smiled. "No, but it comes to about the same thing in luminous paint."
"Why don't you make it yourself? It ain't nothin' but ground oyster-shells and sulphur."
"Oh, it ain't only that. I only use the best silk gauze that'll fold up small—that's expensive; then there's a lot of work on the forms."
"Don't you get your forms from Chicago now?" Vixley asked.
"No, they're no good. I can make better ones myself. Oh, occasionally I send for a rubber face or two or some cabinet attachments and extensions. I wish I was clever enough to do the slates." She watched the Professor sharply.
"Oh, they ain't nothin' in slates nowadays—it don't seem to take, somehow. They mostly prefer the psychics. I s'pose slate-writin' has been wrote up too much—I know a dozen books describin' the tricks, and here's this Drexel chap teachin' 'em at a dollar apiece, even. He's a queer guy. When he can get a bookin' he travels as a magician; durin' his off-times he sells his tricks to amachures, and then when he's down on his uppers he does the medium. I'm sorry I went into physical mediumship; the graft's about played out—people is gettin' too intelligent. I've a good mind to try the developin' stunt again."
"Say, do you think Madam Spoll has any real power?" Flora asked.
Vixley stopped in his work to become epigrammatic. "Some mediums are 'on' and some are honest—them that's honest are fools and them that's 'on' are foolin'. Gertie's 'on' all right, and she does considerable fishin'. I don't say that when she started she didn't have some faculty—she used to scare me good, sometimes, and she could catch a name occasional. But Lord, it's so much easier to fake it; you can generally depend on human nature, and you can't on psychometry."
"I can tell things sometimes," Flora ventured.
"Can you?" said Vixley. "Say, I wish you'd give me a readin'; they's somethin' I want to know about pretty bad; p'raps you could get it for me."
"Oh, I know you too well. I can't do it much, except the first time I see a party; but sometimes, when I'm materializing, I can go right down and say 'I'm Henry,' or whatever the name is."
"I guess they're more likely to say, 'Are you Henry?' They're so crazy to be fooled that it's a crime to take their money."
"Women are. They're easy. They simply won't go away without a wonderful story to tell to their friends, but men are more skeptical, as a rule."
"That's right. But, Lord, when they do swallow it, they take the hook, bait and sinker. Why, look here, I had a party what used to come regular about a girl he was stuck on, a Swede he was. Well, one day he went up to this Drexel and he showed him one or two easy ways o' workin' the slates, provin' it was all tricks. The Swede comes back to me and says, 'Oh,' says he, 'I know it's all a fake now; you can't foolmeno more.' I looked him straight in the eye and I says: 'Don't you know that fellow is really one of the best mediums in the business, and he's controlled by Martin Luther? He was just tryin' to test your belief by denyin' the truth o' spiritualism, and seein' if you'd have the courage to stand up for what you believed. If your faith ain't no stronger than that, after the tests I gave you, you'd better go into Mormonism and be done with it.'"
"Did that hold him?"
"I've got that fellow yet; twice a month, regular, I get his little old two dollars; Lord, he swears by me now. No, them that want to believewillbelieve, and you can't pry 'em off with a crowbar. Ain't that right?"
"I guess yes!" said Flora. "But what gets my game is the widow that used to quarrel like cats and dogs when her husband was alive and leaks on his shoulder when he comes to her in the spirit! They're the limit! When a woman once gets it into her head that the dear departed can take possession of a living body, there ain't anything she won't stand for. My brother had a lovely case once. It was a woman whose husband hadn't passed out more than two months and she was all broke up. Well, Harry got her to believe that her husband could get control of his body and talk to her. At first the woman wasn't quite sure, so Harry, talking to her as her husband, claimed that he himself was in a dead trance. 'Why,' he said, 'if you should stick a pin into this medium's leg here, he wouldn't feel it at all!' That was where he was foolish, for the woman said, 'Is that so? I guess I'll just try it and see.' So Harry had to stand for it while she jabbed a hat pin into him, but he was game and didn't whimper. Of course that convinced the woman that she was really communicating with her lawful husband, and she begun to kiss and hug Harry to beat the cars, she was so glad to get hubby back."
"Well, it's all in a day's work!" Vixley showed his sharp yellow fangs in a grin.
"Oh, you have to make it pleasant for sitters, sometimes," Flora yawned.
"I guess it's no trouble for you," Vixley said, looking at her with admiration.
Flora yawned. "Well, I guess we earn our money, what with skeptics and all. Now, if you have any of these reporters come in you can get rid of them easy—but we can't. We've got to make good for the sake of the rest of the crowd, unless they get so gay with us that we can fire 'em out."
"That's right. I never bother with skeptics; what's the use? I don't want their money enough to risk their jumpin' up and gettin' on to the game. No, sir! When any of these slick chaps that look like newspaper men or sports, come in, I just do a few lines and then tell 'em conditions ain't satisfactory and let 'em go. It ain't no use takin' chances."
"You're in luck, Vixley, I tell you! I've had no end of trouble. Why, last week a couple o' fresh guys come in and scattered a package of tacks all over the floor. When I come out in my stocking feet I thought I'd die, it hurt so. But I had to just grin and bear it! My feet are so sore yet I can hardly walk. I have to sweep the carpet now, just as soon as it's dark, every time, unless Lulu's there to watch out!"
Vixley laughed for almost five minutes. He had to dry his eyes with a silk handkerchief.
"Oh, Professor," said Flora, "I almost forgot what I came for. You know Harry's doing the Middle West now with Mademoiselle Laflamme, the Inspirational Contralto, and he wanted me to ask you if you had anything on Missouri and Iowa. Would you mind lending him your test-book? You was out there a few years ago, wasn't you?"
"Sure. I'll look and see if I can find it," and Vixley arose and left the room. He was gone a few minutes, and returned with a small, blue-covered note-book.
"Here's my test-book," he said, handing it over. "It's rather behind the times. It was five years ago that I was out there, but maybe Harry can get something out of it."
"How did you get the dope, swapping?"
"Oh, no, I done it all myself, and it's O.K. I went through the country first as a book-agent, and I kep' my eyes and ears open. I took a look or two through the cemeteries, when I had time, and I read up the local papers pretty good. Of course I wouldn't go back till a year after I got a town planted, but then it was easy graft."
"I suppose these abbreviations are all plain?"
"Yes, Harry will read that all right, he knows the regular cipher. The name after the first one is the party's control. I've writ in a few messages that'll work, and all the tests I know."
She opened the book and ran through the pages which ran something like this:
Jefferson City, Mo.Mrs. Henry Field "Mayflower" hb John diedpneumonia 1870 good wishes from littleEmily broken leg.
Cameron, Mo.Mrs. Osborne "Pauline" hub James calls him Jimmieda disappeared July 1897 found drowned in RedRiver August Aunt Molly is happy Love to Belleand Joe.
Flora put the book in her bag, and then reached over and took up one of the slates. The one on top was marked diagonally with two chalk-lines, and over this was written in slate-pencil the following inscription:
801,101ChapterMarigold.
Beside this, was a thin sheet of slate. She placed it over the marked surface. It fitted the frame exactly and looked, at a cursory glance, precisely like the other slates, its dark surface being clean.
She took up another slate. On this was written:
Unforeseen difficulties will prevent yourbook being successful, if you do not takecare. Felicia.
The Professor grinned. "That's the dope for old Payson," he explained. "He ought to be here any time, now." He went to the window and looked out.
"What game are you going to work with him?" Flora asked.
"Oh, only a few of the old stunts. He's so easy that it won't be nothin' but child's play. I got a lot of the old-fashioned slab-slates for a starter, and I can change 'em on him whenever I want. He won't insist on test conditions. Anyways, if he does, I got my little spirit friend here handy."
He reached up his sleeve, and pulled down a thimble attached to an elastic cord. To the end of the thimble a small piece of slate-pencil was affixed.
"The only hard part about it is learnin' to write backwards and upside down," he commented, as he let the instrument snap back out of sight. "Say, I wish't I had a double-jointed leg like Slade! I tell you I'd give some sittin's in this town that would paralyze the Psychical Research!"
"But what's this stuff on the slates mean?"
"Oh, them is the answers I've prepared. You see, I happened to get hold of some questions he's goin' to ask, from a young fellow who goes to his house; and so havin' inside information, it saves considerable trouble. Funny thing—this chap wants to marry the daughter, who'll have money, I suppose, and he's standin' in with me on account o' what I can do for him through the old man."
"Why, I heard that Granthope was setting his traps for her!"
Vixley scowled. "That's right, too. Frank's got something up his sleeve that I can't fathom. He's been trying to buy me off, in fact, but he'll never do it. This fellow Cayley naturally has got it in for him, Frank bein' pretty thick with the girl. So I got to play both ends and work the old man for Cayley and against Frank. But I can do it all right. The old man's a cinch!"
Flora walked up to him. "You're in luck," she said. She permitted him to put his arm about her small trim waist and looked at him good-naturedly. "Say, Vixley, if he's as easy as that, why can't you fix it for some good materializing? We could do all sorts of things for him."
"I'd thought of that. It might be a good idea later, and we may talk business with you."
"Well, when you're ready, I'll do anything you say. You know me."
At that moment the front door-bell rang.
"Here he is now!" Vixley exclaimed. "Say, Flora, you go out the back door through the kitchen, will you? It won't do for him to see you here."
"Sure! I'll spare him. The Doc says he's scared to death of a pretty woman," and she disappeared down the hall.
Professor Vixley went to the front door, welcomed Mr. Payson with an oily smile, took his hat and coat and then let him into a small chamber next to the front room. There were two straight chairs here on either side of a table which was draped with an embroidered cloth. Behind was a high bookcase.
"Well, I'm all ready for you, Mr. Payson," said the medium. "We'll see what we can do. If we don't get anything I won't charge you a cent. Have you ever seen any slate-writin' done before?"
"No, I haven't," said Mr. Payson, "but I've heard a good deal about it."
"It's a very interestin' phenomena. Now, before we begin, p'raps you'd like to examine this table; it's been examined so often, that it's pretty well used to it by this time, but I want to have you satisfied that there's no possibility of trickery or deceit."
As he spoke, he took off the cover, and turned the table upside down. Mr. Payson looked it over gravely and knocked on the top to see if it were hollow. The investigation finished, Professor Vixley said:
"May I ask who recommended you to me?"
"Madam Spoll—I suppose you know her."
"Oh, yes, and I admire her, too. Madam Spoll is a wonderful woman. I don't know how this community could get on without her. She's brought more satisfaction to them desirin' communication with their dear departed than all the rest of us mediums put together. She's doin' a great work, Mr. Payson. But she has more success with what you might call affairs of the heart, while I find my control prefers generally to help out in the way of business. We're all specialists, nowadays, you know."
"I should think that the spirits could help in one way as well as another."
"Now would you?" said Vixley, fixing the old man with his glittering eyes. "Spirits ain't so much different from people on this side. Some o' them is interested in one thing, and some in another, same as we are. Some is nearer what I might call the material plane and some has progressed so they don't take much interest in earthly affairs."
"It seems to me that I'd always have an interest in my friends," said Mr. Payson.
"Does it?" Vixley replied. "Where was you raised?"
"In Vermont. I lived there till I was ten years old."
"Well, are you much interested in the kids you knew when you went to school there?"
"Perhaps not."
"Well, then, that's the way it is with spirits who have got progression. Their life on earth seems like childhood's days to them. Lord, they have their own business to attend to. I expect it keeps 'em pretty busy."
"Well, I don't know." Mr. Payson shook his head and seated himself. "It's all very strange and mysterious. But I'm only an investigator, and what I want is the truth, no matter what it may be."
"That's the right frame o' mind to come in," said Vixley; "you treat me right and I'll treat you right. Have a cigar?" He took one from his pocket and put it unlighted into his mouth, offering another to Mr. Payson.
"No, thanks, I don't smoke."
"Well, if you don't mind, I will. It's a bad habit, I'm told, but it sorts o' helps me when I'm nervous."
Mr. Payson placed the tips of his fingers together, palm to palm, and gestured with them. "Now, Professor Vixley, seeing that I know nothing about you, would you mind letting me see what you can do first in the way of a test, before we go to the main object of my visit?"
"Why, certainly, though I can't promise to do anything conclusive the first time. I want you to feel at liberty to try me in any way you wish."
"Well, I've got three questions I'd like to have you answer. I happen to know that you couldn't possibly know what they are. If you can answer them, I'll be satisfied that you can help me."
"I'll try," said Vixley modestly. "It all depends upon my guides, and we can't tell till we begin." He arose, walked to the mantel and brought back a small pad of paper.
"Here's what I generally use. This paper is magnetized in order to make it easier. Examine it all you please—you won't find no carbon transfer paper nor nothin' like that."
"Why can't I use my own paper?"
"I ain't got no more idea than you have," the medium confessed candidly. "Why can't a photographer take a picture on common glass? I don't know. I ain't a photographer. All I do know is, that we can get results from this paper that my control has magnetized, when we can't from yours. The spirits may be able to explain it—I can't. Now you write down the name of your control and your three questions, one on each piece and fold it over twice. Then I'll pull down the shades and see what I can do."
Mr. Payson brought his hand down on the table querulously. "That's another thing I don't like," he said. "Why can't spirits work in the light as well as in the dark, I'd like to know? It looks suspicious to me."
Vixley took the cigar from his teeth and sat down patiently before his dupe. He rapped with his forefinger upon the table. "See here, it's this way, Mr. Payson; every science has its own condition that has got to be fulfilled before any experiment can be a success, hasn't it? You can't go against nature. If you want an electric light or telephone, you have to run wires, don't you? Why? I don't know—I'm not an electrician. If you want to develop a photograph, you have to do it in the dark. Why? I don't know—go ask a photographer. If you want to make a seed grow, you put it down into the dirt and water it. Why? I don't know. Nobody knows. It's one o' the mysteries o' life. In the same way, if you want to get results in spiritualism, you have to submit to the conditions that are imposed by my guide. Why? I don't know. And what's more, I don't care. If I can get the results, it makes no difference to me how they come. All I do know is that fifty years' experience has shown us mediums the proper conditions necessary for the physical manifestation of phenomena. Full daylight is all right for psychic influences, but it don't do for slate-writin'. The question is whether you want to accept the conditions I give you, or do you expect the spirits to work in a way that's impossible?"
Mr. Payson, overcome with this profound logic, submitted without further protest to having the shades drawn down. The Professor reseated himself and waited till the three slips were written and folded according to direction. In his own lap were three blank slips folded in exactly the same manner.
Vixley now pressed his brow and smoothed it with both hands. "Some fakirs will palm a blank slip and exchange it for your written one, but you see I ain't got nothin' in my hands," he said, showing them empty. Even as he spoke he dropped his hands into his lap, and secreted one of his folded slips in his palm. Then he reached for one of Payson's written questions and seemed to place it on the old man's forehead, but quick as was the motion, he had made the substitution.
"You hold this paper there while I go and get the slates. And keep your mind on the question as hard as you can."
He returned in a moment, having glanced meanwhile at Mr. Payson's first question, while he was outside, bringing back a dozen or more slates which he put on the book-shelf. He took off the top one and handed it to Mr. Payson.
"Just look at it, examine it all you want to, and then take this wet towel, wash it off clean and dry it with the other end, please."
As the old man did so, the Professor went to the pile and took down the next slate. This was the first one which Flora had read, the writing being now concealed by the thin slab which fitted neatly into the frame. As Mr. Payson handed back the first slate, Professor Vixley, looking him intently in the eye, said:
"Now, can you tell me about how many years ago it was that your control passed out? Was it five years, twenty, or how long?"
The question was accurately timed so as to be put just as Mr. Payson extended his hand. Vixley's eyes held the old man's in a direct gaze. During this psychological moment while his victim was intently trying to answer the question, the Professor, with a facile movement, put the two slates together and handed back the same one that had been washed.
"I should say it would be nearly thirty years—twenty-seven."
"All right," said Vixley. "Now, take this slate and wash it off like you did the other." The old man did so without noticing that it was the same one he had had before.
Vixley took back the slate when he had finished, and, with a piece of chalk, drew diagonal lines from corner to corner upon each of the faces of both slates.
"That will show you that the writin' hasn't been prepared beforehand, for you'll see that the pencil will write through the chalk, showin' it's been done after I made these lines."
As he held the two slates together in his hand, the false sheet from the upper one fell into the frame of the lower. He laid the two upon the table and took off the top one. The lower surface upon which the writing was now exposed he took care to hold so that it could not be seen. Next, he took the slip of paper which Mr. Payson had been holding, substituted for it with a deft motion the written question which he had previously palmed, and, throwing the blank into his lap, dropped the real one, with a small fragment of slate-pencil, upon the slate. He put the written slate on top of the other, writing down, then asked the old man to hold it in position, laying his own fingers upon it as well. A faint scratching was heard. It was too dark for the old man to notice the slight motions of Vixley's finger-nail upon the surface. After a moment he removed the top slate and showed the writing, then, unfolded the slip.
Mr. Payson looked at the inscription with curiosity and surprise. "Marvelous!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's incredible. I didn't know it could be done as simply as that. Why, all three of my questions are answered and they haven't left my possession."
"You seem to have a very strong control. Are the answers correct?"
"I'll soon find out," said Mr. Payson, "if you'll raise the shades while I look at this book." He cut the strings of a package he had brought into the room, showed his copy of theAstrology of the New Testamentand turned to page one hundred.
"Here it is, 'Chapter IX.' It's most extraordinary, indeed! Now for the number of my watch. Do you know, I didn't even know these answers myself. That would tend to prove it's not mere telepathy, wouldn't it?"
He took out his watch and opened the back covers. Upon the frame were engraved the figures "801,101."
"That's correct, too. Now for the last one—have you a telephone?"
"Right down at the end of the hall."
"If you'll excuse me a moment I'll ring up a friend of mine who will know whether this is the right name or not."
In five minutes he returned with an expression of wonder upon his face. "I wanted to make sure that this couldn't be got from my mind, so I asked a friend of mine to select a name for me. It seems that Marigold was the name. This is a most wonderful and convincing test, Mr. Vixley; I must say that I'm amazed."
The Professor took his praise modestly. "Oh, I hope to do much better for you than this after a while, Mr. Payson. The main point is, that now we can get to work in such a way as to help you practically, without wastin' your time on mere experiments. These test conditions is very apt to deteriorate mediumship and I don't like to do no more of it than is absolutely necessary to convince you of the genuineness of my manifestations.
"Now," he added, "before we draw down the shades again, you write down some important question you want answered and we'll get down to business."
When Mr. Payson had finished writing, the medium, taking a slip of paper from his vest pocket unobserved, held it under the table, saying:
"Now you fold it twice, each time in half." As Payson did so, Vixley folded his own slip in a similar manner and held it palmed in his left hand. After drawing the shades, he said: "Now, then, will you please hold that paper to your forehead? Not like that—here, let me show you."
He took the slip from Mr. Payson and dexterously substituting for it his own duplicate, held it to his own forehead. "This way, so that it will be in plain sight all the time." He gave the blank slip to his sitter, who obeyed the directions.
"I think we'll do better if there's less light," Vixley said, as he arose to draw the shades. "You keep hold of that paper. I don't want it to go out of your possession for a moment. You see I couldn't read it even if I had it, it's so dark. But if you'll excuse me, I'll light this cigar; I haven't had a smoke all day."
As he spoke, he went to the bookcase, and standing, facing Mr. Payson, he took a match from a box on the top and lighted the cigar which was between his teeth. His left hand, which had already secretly unfolded the ballot, covered the paper. He put it up with a natural gesture to keep the match from being blown out as he lighted his cigar. The operation took only a few seconds, but in that time, illuminated by the match, he was able to read the words: "Will my book be a success?" He dropped his hand, refolded the ballot with his fingers and held it hidden. Then he took two slates from the pile.
There are many well-known ways of slate-writing, and the sleight-of-hand necessary in obtaining the ballots and writing the answers is simple compared with the sort of psychological juggling in which the medium must be an adept. Professor Vixley, however, had no need of any special craft with the old man. Mr. Payson was by no means a skilled observer, and, credulous and desirous of a marvel, was easily hoodwinked by Vixley's talk. The simplest methods sufficed, and he worked with increasing confidence, preparing his sitter's mind, till it would be possible for the medium merely to sit at the table and write openly under the supposititious influence of his control.
The second experiment terminated with the appearance of the message that Flora Flint had read in the front room, the message signed "Felicia."
Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown. "That's bad," he said, "I'm very sorry to find that this answer isn't favorable."
"What's the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically.
"Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I'm writing a book, Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping his spectacles, "and, of course, I am anxious that it should be a success. It seems from this that there is likely to be some trouble about it—I don't quite understand how."
Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. "I thought you looked like an intellectual-minded man. O' course, it wan't my place to ask no questions, but when you come in I sized you up as a party who wan't entirely devoted to a pure business life. So you've written a book, eh? Well, I'm sure my control could help you. I'll ask him, and see what's to be done. But for that, I think we'll be more liable to be successful at automatic writin' than by independent slate-writin'. It's more quicker and satisfactory all round."
"How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson.
"Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o' ways. It's like this: I don't know nothing about your book, but I do know what's happened before. Take Gibbon'sDecline and Fall of the Roman Empire, for instance. He predicted that there wouldn't never be no more wars—he claimed we'd outlived the possibility of it, and everything would be settled peaceably. What happened? Why, Napoleon arose inside o' fifty years and they was wars like never had been seen on earth. Now, if Gibbon had only been able to put himself in communication with the spirit intelligence, he wouldn't have made that mistake—the spirits would have told him what was goin' to happen. Look at Voltaire! He went on record by sayin' that in fifty years they wouldn't be no more churches. Now he's a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people. If he'd only consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn't have made a fool of hisself. But, o' course, spiritualism wan't heard of then no more than Voltaire's heard of now. Now let's say, for example, you was writin' a book on evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin' in Darwin's theory o' the origin of species. Up to that time nobody believed that a new specie had been evolved since man. But look at this here Burbank up to Santa Rosa—he has gone to work and produced some absolutely new species, and what's more, I predicted his success in this very room ten years ago. If you'd written on evolution then, you might have taken advantage o' what I could have gave you. Now, for all I know, some man may come along and breed two different animals together, p'raps through vivisection or what not, and develop a bran' new kind of specie in the animal world. Heart disease and cancer and consumption are supposed by modern science to be incurable, but I wouldn't venture to write that down in a book till I had taken the means at my disposal o' findin' out whether they was or wasn't."
He arose and let up the window-shades; the level rays of the sunshine illuminated his figure and burnished his purpling coat. He shook his finger at Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed with the glib argument.
"Now, my control is Theodore Parker. You've heard of him—p'raps you knew him. You wouldn't hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on the flesh plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more, now he's passed out and gone beyond, into a fuller development and comprehension of the universe! I don't know what your subject is, but whatever it is, he can help and he will help. I'm sure o' that. It's for you to say whether you'll avail yourself of his guidance or not. I can give you all the tests you want, but I tell you, you're only wastin' your time, while you might be in daily communication with one of the grandest minds this country and this century has produced. I can get into communication with him and give you his messages by means of automatic writin', or I can develop you so's you can do it yourself."
Professor Vixley's victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood.