“No, and I really don’t know about his breed. The most curious thing about his appearance was his eyes: they were large, black, and had a peculiar dull dead lustre.”
“Did they shine in the dark? I knew a fellow at Oxford whose eyes did. Chairs ran after him.”
“I never noticed; I don’t remember. ‘Psychically,’ as you superstitious muffs call it, Bolter was still more queer. At that time we were all gone on spirit-rapping. Bolter turned out a great acquisition, ‘medium,’ or what not. Mind you, I’m not saying Bolter was straight. In the dark he’d tell you what you had in your hand, exact time of your watch, and so on. I didn’t take stock in this, and one night brought some photographs with me, and asked for a description of them. This he gave correctly, winding up by saying, ‘The one nearest your body is that of ---’”
Here my friend named a person well known to both of us, whose name I prefer not to introduce here. This person, I may add, had never been in or near the island, and was totally unknown to Bolter.
“Of course,” my friend went on, “the photographs were all the time inside my pocket. Now, really, Bolter had some mystic power of seeing in the dark.”
“Hyperæsthesia!” said I.
“Hypercriticism!” said the Beach-comber.
“What happened next might be hyperæsthesia—I suppose you mean abnormal intensity of the senses—but how could hyperæsthesia see through a tweed coat and lining?”
“Well, what happened next?”
“Bolter’s firm used to get sheep by every mail from ---, and send them regularly to their station, six miles off. One time they landed late in the afternoon, and yet were foolishly sent off, Bolter in charge. I said at the time he would lose half the lot, as it would be dark long before he could reach the station. He didn’t lose them!