The second experiment terminated with the appearance of the message that Flora Flint had read in the front room, the message signed "Felicia."
Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown. "That's bad," he said, "I'm very sorry to find that this answer isn't favorable."
"What's the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically.
"Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I'm writing a book, Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping his spectacles, "and, of course, I am anxious that it should be a success. It seems from this that there is likely to be some trouble about it—I don't quite understand how."
Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. "I thought you looked like an intellectual-minded man. O' course, it wan't my place to ask no questions, but when you come in I sized you up as a party who wan't entirely devoted to a pure business life. So you've written a book, eh? Well, I'm sure my control could help you. I'll ask him, and see what's to be done. But for that, I think we'll be more liable to be successful at automatic writin' than by independent slate-writin'. It's more quicker and satisfactory all round."
"How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson.
"Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o' ways. It's like this: I don't know nothing about your book, but I do know what's happened before. Take Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, for instance. He predicted that there wouldn't never be no more wars—he claimed we'd outlived the possibility of it, and everything would be settled peaceably. What happened? Why, Napoleon arose inside o' fifty years and they was wars like never had been seen on earth. Now, if Gibbon had only been able to put himself in communication with the spirit intelligence, he wouldn't have made that mistake—the spirits would have told him what was goin' to happen. Look at Voltaire! He went on record by sayin' that in fifty years they wouldn't be no more churches. Now he's a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people. If he'd only consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn't have made a fool of hisself. But, o' course, spiritualism wan't heard of then no more than Voltaire's heard of now. Now let's say, for example, you was writin' a book on evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin' in Darwin's theory o' the origin of species. Up to that time nobody believed that a new specie had been evolved since man. But look at this here Burbank up to Santa Rosa—he has gone to work and produced some absolutely new species, and what's more, I predicted his success in this very room ten years ago. If you'd written on evolution then, you might have taken advantage o' what I could have gave you. Now, for all I know, some man may come along and breed two different animals together, p'raps through vivisection or what not, and develop a bran' new kind of specie in the animal world. Heart disease and cancer and consumption are supposed by modern science to be incurable, but I wouldn't venture to write that down in a book till I had taken the means at my disposal o' findin' out whether they was or wasn't."
He arose and let up the window-shades; the level rays of the sunshine illuminated his figure and burnished his purpling coat. He shook his finger at Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed with the glib argument.
"Now, my control is Theodore Parker. You've heard of him—p'raps you knew him. You wouldn't hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on the flesh plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more, now he's passed out and gone beyond, into a fuller development and comprehension of the universe! I don't know what your subject is, but whatever it is, he can help and he will help. I'm sure o' that. It's for you to say whether you'll avail yourself of his guidance or not. I can give you all the tests you want, but I tell you, you're only wastin' your time, while you might be in daily communication with one of the grandest minds this country and this century has produced. I can get into communication with him and give you his messages by means of automatic writin', or I can develop you so's you can do it yourself."
Professor Vixley's victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood.