Something induced me, quite against my will, to say: "Do you ever get messages by writing, Miss Vincent?"
"No; I have never done so, but I can try," she answered rather eagerly.
How I bewailed my stupidity in making such a suggestion! I had diverted her mind from her own special gift, which was that of seeing a person's psychic surroundings, and had switched her on to an entirely novel and untried experiment. I had not even the excuse of being specially interested in automatic writing, which was so easily obtained at home; whereas I was greatly interested in seeing whether any of my "other side" friends could make themselves perceptible through this sensitive.
However, the mischief was done past remedy. The suggestion had taken firm root in Miss Rowan Vincent's mind, and she was not to be diverted from it. So I resigned myself patiently to the results of my own foolish remark, whilst she took pencil and paper and sat down expectantly.
Soon she looked up, the writing having already begun.
"Do you know any William? There seems to be some message from a William, as far as I can make out."
Having had a favourite cousin of that name, I told her it might be quite correct, and I should be glad to receive any message that came.
A few moments passed, and then Miss Vincent said, in a puzzled tone:
"It is not from William—the message is to some William—I cannot understand it at all." She pushed the paper rather impatiently towards me. Written upon it clearly but faintly were these words:
Dear William,—I want to explain to you how I came to fall out of that window—it was not my fault really—someone came up behind and pushed me out. Ethel.