“Where did all this happen?”
She named, without hesitation, a seaside resort about fifty miles from our city. There was not one of us, I dare say, who did not know that the Wellses had spent the preceding summer there and that Charlie Ellingham had been there, also.
“Do you know that Arthur Wells is dead?”
“Yes. He is dead.”
“Did he kill himself?”
“You can’t catch me on that. I don’t know.”
Here the medium laughed. It was horrible. And the laughter made the whole thing absurd. But it died away quickly.
“If only the pocketbook was not lost,” she said. “There were so many things in it. Especially car-tickets. Walking is a nuisance.”
Mrs. Dane’s secretary suddenly spoke. “Do you want me to take things like that?” she asked.
“Take everything, please,” was the answer.