“It writes things,” she muttered—“things that don’t come from me. Day and night it’s the same. The words on the paper aren’t the words that come from my fingers.”
“But that is impossible, you know.”
“So I should have thought once. Perhaps—what is it to be possessed? There was another type-writer—another girl—lived in these rooms before me.”
“Indeed! And what became of her?”
“She disappeared mysteriously—no one knows why or where. Maria, my little maid, told me about her. Her name was Lucy Rivers, and—she just disappeared. The landlord advertised her effects, to be claimed, or sold to pay the rent; and that was done, and she made no sign. It was about two months ago.”
“Well, will you now practically demonstrate to me this reprehensible eccentricity on the part of your instrument?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t dare.”
“I would do it myself; but of course you will understand that a more satisfactory conclusion would be come to by my watching your fingers. Make an effort—you needn’t even look at the result—and I will take you away immediately after.”
“You are very good,” she answered pathetically; “but I don’t know that I ought to accept. Where to, please? And—and I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, I have my own reasons for withholding it.”