The land of mist

by Arthur Conan Doyle

“Why, dash it, man, that was what my mother always wore! D’you tell me you can see her?”

“No, she is gone.”

“What was she like? What was she doing?”

“She was your mother. She said so. She was weeping.”

“Weeping! My mother! Why, she is in heaven if ever a woman was. They don’t weep in heaven!”

“Not in the imaginary heaven. They do in the real heaven. It is only we who ever make them weep. She left a message.”

“Give it me!”

“The message was: ‘Oh, Jack! Jack! you are drifting ever further from my reach.’”

The man made a contemptuous gesture.

“I was a damned fool to let you have my name when I made the appointment. You have been making enquiries. You don’t take me in with your tricks. I’ve had enough of it—more than enough!”