“Bosh and nonsense! You know, Miss Ames, what I think of that sort of thing! You know how I played on people’s gullibility when I used to do that fake ‘thought-transference’—”
“I know, Mr. Hanlon,” and Miss Ames was very earnest, “but, and this is why I’m here—you told me that in all the foolery and hocus-pocus there was, you believed, two per cent of genuine telepathy—two per cent of genuine communication with spirits of the dead.”
“But I said that merely in a general way, Miss Ames. I didn’t mean to say it was a proven proposition—”
“That isn’t the point—you told me there were a few—a very few real, sincere mediums—now I’m here to get the address of the best one you know of. I want to go to him—or her—and have a séance, and I want to get into communication with Sanford—with Mr. Embury’s spirit, and learn from him who killed him. It’s the only way we can ever find out.”
Miss Ames’ gray eyes took on a strange look; she seemed half hypnotized at the moment, as she looked at Hanlon. He moved uncomfortably under her gaze.
“Well,” he said, at length, “I can give you the address of the best—the only real medium I know. That I will do with pleasure, but I cannot guarantee his bringing about a materialization of—of Mr. Embury.”
“Never mind about materialization, if he can get in touch and get a message for me. You see—I haven’t said much about this—but Mr. Embury’s spirit appeared to me as—as he died.”
“What?”
“Yes; just at the moment his soul passed from earth, his astral body passed by me and paused at my bedside for a farewell.”
“You amaze me! You are indeed psychic. Tell me about it.”