I knew that he had a brother who was manager of a well-known London music-hall, so when I asked him suddenly if he knew well anybody in Town whom he could send a wire with the probability of being able to get an immediate reply, I was not at all surprised when he answered:
“Yes. There’s my brother, who manages the Holborn Empire.”
“Right!” I exclaimed. “He’ll do.” And taking a pack of cards from my pocket, I spread them out face downward on the table.
“Now,” I said, “I want you to select one card at haphazard from this pack, and when you have examined it you are to send a reply-paid telegram to your brother asking him what card you are thinking of. You must concentrate your thoughts on your brother, and try and tell him mentally which is the card you hold in your hand. Meanwhile, in order to avoid any chance of collusion, no one is to leave the dressing-room until the answer comes back.”
“I’ll try,” said Fatty haltingly, as if doubtful of the result. “I’ll try my best.”
He took up a card. It was the ace of spades. Then he wrote out a telegram as follows: “Dear brother. What card am I thinking of? Please wire immediately.”
The telegram was given to a messenger to send off. Then we lit cigars, poured out whiskies-and-sodas, and sat down to wait—and chat. Fatty sat by himself in a corner, his head between his hands, intent on conveying a telepathic message to his brother two hundred miles away in London.
Presently the messenger entered with the reply wire. Fatty seized it, tore it open.
“My God!” he cried, reading it aloud. “It says ‘the ace of spades.’ Now, gentlemen, will you believe in me?”
“We will,” we said solemnly. “That settles it.”