“We are here to make a serious investigation,” he said. “If the members of the club will keep their attention on what we are doing, we may get somewhere. Now,” to the medium, “the man is dead, and the revolver is beside him. Did he kill himself?”
“No. He attacked her when he found the letters.”
“And she shot him?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Try very hard. It is important.”
“I don’t know,” was the fretful reply. “She may have. She hated him. I don’t know. She says she did.”
“She says she killed him?”
But there was no reply to this, although Herbert repeated it several times.
Instead, the voice of the “control” began to recite a verse of poetry—a cheap, sentimental bit of trash. It was maddening, under the circumstances.
“Do you know where the letters are?”