“You are correct.” As, indeed, I was. Her message reached my consciousness.
At three o’clock the insistence that Mr. Farrow was dead continued, and attempts were made to explain former inaccuracies, on the plea of a difference in plane, creating “errors in terms of finite space.”
Shortly before five, it was said that Cass had received news of Mr. Farrow’s death, and was on his way home. A few minutes later Mary K. warned me again.
“You must not doubt.... You can’t be a messenger without faith.”
“How am I to know when you are telling the truth and when it is error?”
“The truth is the truth, and you must learn to differentiate between the planes.” I suspect that she intended the last word to be “forces,” and that control was wrested from her before it was written.
Resenting the whole confused situation, and entirely unable to account for my conviction that this message was false, I said: “If Cass tells me, when he comes home, that Mr. Farrow is dead, I will believe anything you tell me in future. If he is not dead, I’ll have nothing further to do with you or your book.”
“Mary K. You will go on with our work. He is dead.”
At this point, Cass arrived. He said that he had received neither letter nor cablegram from Mr. Farrow for ten days, although an expected and important letter from him was some time overdue. This seemed to lend color to the report of his death, but my conviction was unshaken.
From the beginning of these communications with the next plane, although at times excessively fatigued, I had enjoyed an increasing mental serenity, but with the first announcement of Mr. Farrow’s death, this had given way to the peculiar nervous instability and apprehension invariably accompanying these mischievous invasions.