The whisper grew fainter. "I will try. It is hard. Good-by."
Bartol raised his hand to his head with a gesture of surprise. "I thought I felt a touch on my hair."
"The lady touched you as she passed away," Mrs. Ollnee explained. "She has gone. They are all gone now."
"I am sorry," he said, in polite disappointment. "I wanted to pursue the interrogation. Is this the usual method of your communications?"
"This is one way. They write sometimes, and sometimes they speak through a megaphone; sometimes they materialize a face or a hand."
He remained in profound thought for a few moments, then starting up, spoke with decision: "You are tired. Go to bed. We'll have plenty of time to take up these matters to-morrow. Please feel at home here and stay as long as you wish."
A little later he took Victor to his room, and as they stood there he remarked, "Of course, all this may be and probably is mind-reading and ventriloquism—subconscious, of course."
"But the writing," said Victor. "You must see that. That is the weirdest thing she does. It is baffling."
"My boy, the whole universe is baffling to me," his host replied, and into his voice came that tone of tragic weariness which affected the youth like a strain of solemn music. "The older I grow the more senseless, hopelessly senseless, human life appears; but I must not say such things to you. Good-night."
"Good-night," responded Victor, with swelling throat. "We owe you a great deal."