“Mary Kendal?” “No.”
“Which Mary? What Mary?” “Mary ...” followed by a character that might have been either K or H, but looked more like K.
“Mary Kendal?” “No.”
“Tell me again.” “Mary K.”
“Mary K.?” “Yes.” Planchette was down at the lower right-hand corner of the table when I asked the last question, and it swung to the center, writing that “yes” very quickly and firmly.
“My Mary K.?” “Yes ... yes ... yes.”
Her name was Mary Katherine M——, but I always called her Mary K. She has been dead sixteen years or more. Over and over she insisted that she was Mary K. Sometimes, in pauses, with the casters hardly moving at all, the thing would write “Mary,” in tiny script, but round and clear.
I asked if there were any message, and it wrote, “Mon ...,” trailing off into a series of waves, a good many times. I guessed Monday ... money ... Mons ..., but always the answer was, “No.” Finally it wrote “man” very clearly. I could not get more for quite a while. Finally came, “Many thanks.”
“Thanks for what?” “For knowing.”