Marian Whiting interrupted him to say, “You’d better take another look at that handwriting, Mr. Mason. You’re going to lose ten dollars.”
Mason frowned. “Why, I’d swear I was right.” He peered over Drake’s shoulder at the letter for a moment, then raised his eyes to Marian Whiting and said positively, “That letter was written by a tall, thin woman with a nervous temperament. Your sister may have the external appearance of a jolly good fellow, who lives a happy-go-lucky existence, but secretly she worries a lot. She’s quite a bit underweight. I hope the trip to the Islands does her good.”
“You’re wrong on that,” Marian Whiting said. “You haven’t described her at all. Now, what’s she been doing?”
“Well,” Mason said, “she’s been nursing someone.”
Marian Whiting perched herself on a corner of the table and said, “No cheating. You knew she was a nurse. That’s simple. Go on now, and tell me something else from the handwriting, something intimate. What’s she been doing over in Honolulu?”
“She’s been on a special case, a case involving a man who was injured, perhaps in an automobile accident, a man who has some sort of a harness around his shoulders and on his neck... Of course. Miss Whiting,” Mason added, laughing, “you understand I’m more or less of an amateur at this psychic business. I don’t see things too clearly”
“Well, you’re not seeing this clearly,” she said. “In fact, you’re not seeing it at all, Mr. Mason.”
“Hasn’t there been someone like that whom she’s been nursing?” Mason asked.
“No. She didn’t do any work on the Islands at all. This wasn’t a working trip.”
Mason’s expression indicated puzzled bewilderment. “Look here,” he charged, “you’re not trying to kid me out of ten bucks, are you?”