They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down.
“Here is the letter,” said Joyce, handing it to him. “I wish you would read it.”
Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn?
It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship.
It ran:
Mrs. Stannard:
Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.
Very truly yours, Orienta.
The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant’s circular letter.
“It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” said Bobsy, handing it back.
“But how do you know? I’ve read up on this sort of thing and while there is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it’s always done by a cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance. This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I’ve a notion to see what she’ll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good.”
“Of course, Mrs. Stannard, if you choose to look into this matter I have nothing to say, but you asked me for advice.”