The first questions were disappointing in results. Asked about the stick, there was only silence. When, however, Sperry went back to the sitting of the week before, and referred to questions and answers at that time, the medium seemed uneasy. Her hand, held under mine, made an effort to free itself and, released, touched the cane. She lifted it, and struck the table a hard blow with it.
“Do you know to whom that stick belongs?”
A silence. Then: “Yes.”
“Will you tell us what you know about it?”
“It is writing.”
“Writing?”
“It was writing, but the water washed it away.”
Then, instantly and with great rapidity, followed a wild torrent of words and incomplete sentences. It is inarticulate, and the secretary made no record of it. As I recall, however, it was about water, children, and the words “ten o’clock” repeated several times.
“Do you mean that something happened at ten o’clock?”
“No. Certainly not. No, indeed. The water washed it away. All of it. Not a trace.”