“No; I won’t tell you the story—I’ll tell the medium. But I know I saw him—why, he was discernible to all my five senses—”
“To your senses! Then it was no spirit!”
“Oh, yes, it was. Sanford’s body still lay on his own bed, but his passing spirit materialized sufficiently for me to see it—to hear it—to feel it.”
“Miss Ames, you mustn’t go to a medium! You are too imaginative—too easily swayed—don’t go, dear lady, it can do no good.”
Young Hanlon looked, as he felt, very solicitous for the aged spinster, and he cast an anxious glance at her disturbed face.
“I must,” she insisted; “it is the only way. I had great trouble to find you, Mr. Hanlon. I had to communicate with Mr. Mortimer, in Newark—and at last we traced you here. Are you all through with your fake tricks?”
“Yes,” Hanlon laughed. “I wore them out. I’ve gone into a legitimate business.”
“Sign painting?”
“Yes, as you see.”
“But such big signs!” and the old lady’s eyes wandered to photographs and sketches of enormous scenic signs, such as are painted on high buildings or built on housetops.