“Don’t be scared,” said Miss Barham, reassuringly. “I mean no harm to you or yours. Quite the contrary. I come to bring you assistance.”
“Of what sort?” and Avice grew a little impatient. “Please state your errand.”
“Yes, I will. I have had a revelation.”
“A dream?”
“No, not a dream—not a vision,—” the speaker now assumed a slow, droning voice, “but a revelation. It concerned you, Miss Avice Trowbridge. I did not know you, but I had no difficulty in learning of your position and your home. The revelation was this. If you will go to Madame Isis, you will be told how to learn the truth of the mystery of your uncle’s death.”
Avice curled her lip slightly, in a mild scorn of this statement. The caller was, then, only an advertising dodge for some clairvoyant or medium. A charlatan of some sort.
“I thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she said, rising, “but I must beg you to excuse me. I am not interested in such things.”
“Wait!” and the woman held out a restraining hand, and something in her voice compelled Avice to listen further.
“You are perhaps interested in the freedom or conviction of Mr. Landon.”
“But I do not wish to consult a clairvoyant regarding that.”