Susan now lay, no less limply than before, with her trunk, shoulders, and head somewhat raised. Her right hand had ceased its slow, patient movement.
"What's the idea?" Conlon was muttering. "What's the idea, doc?"
Whatever it was, it was evident that Conlon didn't like it.
"Got the pad?" demanded Doctor Askew. "Oh, good! Here!"
He almost snatched the pad from Conlon and tore the blotter cover from it; then he slipped it beneath Susan's right palm and finally thrust his pencil between her curved fingers, its point resting on the linen block, which he steadied by holding one corner between finger and thumb. For a moment the hand remained quiet; then it began to write. I say "it" advisedly; no least trace of consciousness or purposed control could be detected in Susan's impassive face or heavily relaxed body. Susan was not writing; her waking will had no part in this strange automatism; so much, at least, was plain to me and even to Conlon.
"Mother of God," came his throaty whisper again, "it's not her that's doin' it. Who's pushin' that hand?"
"It's not sperits, Conlon," said Doctor Askew ironically; "you can take my say-so for that." With the words he withdrew the scribbled top sheet from the pad, glanced at it, and handed it to me. The hand journeyed on, covering a second sheet as I read. "That doesn't help us much, does it?" was Doctor Askew's comment, when I had devoured the first sheet.
"No," I replied; "not directly. But I'll keep this if you don't mind."
I folded the sheet and slipped it into my pocket. Doctor Askew removed the second sheet.
"Same sort of stuff," he grunted, passing it over to me. "It needs direction." And he began addressing—not Susan, to Conlon's amazement—the hand! "What happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night?" he demanded firmly of the hand. "Tell us exactly what happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night! It's important. What happened in Mrs. Hunt's room to-night?"