The slender, white hand appeared before his eyes, and he found himself staring into the glowing depths of the crimson fire opal.
Then an envelope appeared beneath it. A pen was placed in Stanley Berger’s hand.
“Write this address.”
The sibilant voice carried a gentle persuasion, which came as balm to Stanley Berger’s troubled mind. He was conscious of the envelope. But the burning fire opal held him beneath its spell. He placed the pen upon the paper to inscribe:
“Harry Vincent. Metrolite Hotel. New York City.”
With automatic precision, Stanley Berger wrote the address. The envelope was drawn to one side. A sheet of paper took its place.
“Write your full story. Tell everything.”
The voice, despite its uncanny whisper, seemed friendly and helpful.
“Sign your name beneath, when you have finished. Mail the letter. Then you can forget.”
The man at the table placed the pen upon the paper. He seemed to be engaged in deep thought, his mind groping in the past.