A second instance was where the needs of a comparative stranger were written out by Mr. Stead’s hand. Mr. Stead goes on to say: “Last February I met a correspondent in a railway carriage with whom I had a very casual acquaintance. Knowing that he was in considerable distress, our conversation fell into a more or less confidential train in which I divined that his difficulty was chiefly financial. I said I did not know whether I could be of any help to him, but asked him to let me know exactly how things stood—what were his debts, his expectations, and so forth. He said he really could not tell me, and I refrained from pressing him.
“That night I received a letter from him apologizing for not having given the information, but saying he really could not. I received that letter about ten o’clock, and about two o’clock next morning, before going to sleep, I sat down in my bedroom and said: ‘You did not like to tell me your exact financial condition face to face, but now you can do so through my hand. Just write and tell me exactly how things stand. How much money do you owe?’ My hand wrote, ‘My debts are £90.’ In answer to a further inquiry whether the figures were accurately stated, ‘ninety pounds’ was then written in full. ‘Is that all?’ I asked. My hand wrote ‘Yes, and how I am to pay I do not know.’ ‘Well,’ I said; ‘how much do you want for that piece of property you wish to sell?’ My hand wrote, ‘What I hope is, say, £100 for that. It seems a great deal, but I must get money somehow. Oh, if I could get anything to do—I would gladly do anything!’ ‘What does it cost you to live?’ I asked. My hand wrote, ‘I do not think I could possibly live under £200 a year. If I were alone I could live on £50 per annum.’
“The next day I made a point of seeking my friend. He said: ‘I hope you were not offended at my refusing to tell you my circumstances, but really I do not think it would be right to trouble you with them.’ I said: ‘I am not offended in the least, and I hope you will not be offended when I tell you what I have done.’ I then explained this automatic, telepathic method of communication. I said: ‘I do not know whether there is a word of truth in what my hand has written. I hesitate at telling you, for I confess I think the sum which was written as the amount of your debts cannot be correctly stated; it seems to me much too small, considering the distress in which you seemed to be; therefore I will read you that first, and if that is right I will read you the rest; but if it is wrong I will consider it is rubbish and that your mind in no way influenced my hand.’ He was interested but incredulous. But, I said, ‘Before I read you anything will you form a definite idea in your mind as to how much your debts amount to; secondly, as to the amount of money you hope to get for that property; thirdly, what it costs you to keep up your establishment with your relatives; and fourthly, what you could live upon if you were by yourself?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have thought of all those things.’ I then read out. ‘The amount of your debts is about £90.’ He started. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is right.’ Then I said: ‘As that is right I will read the rest. You hope to get £100 for your property.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that was the figure that was in my mind, though I hesitated to mention it for it seems too much.’ ‘You say you cannot live upon less than £200 a year with your present establishment.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is exactly right.’ ‘But if you were by yourself you could live on £50 a year.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘a pound a week was what I had fixed in my mind.’ Therefore there had been a perfectly accurate transcription of the thoughts in the mind of a comparative stranger written out with my own hand at a time when we were at a distance of some miles apart, within a few hours of the time when he had written apologizing for not having given me the information for which I had asked.”
In the following case the correspondent is a foreign lady, doing some work for the Review, but whom Mr. Stead had only met once in his life. On the occasion now referred to be was to meet her at Redcar Station at about three o’clock in the afternoon. He was stopping at a house ten minutes’ walk from the station, and it occurred to him that “about three o’clock,” as mentioned in her letter, might mean before three; and it was now only twenty minutes of three. No timetable was at hand: he simply asked her to use his hand to tell him what time the train was due. This was done without ever having had any communication with her upon the subject of automatic writing. She (by Mr. Stead’s hand) immediately wrote her name, and said the train was due at Redcar Station at ten minutes of three. Accordingly he had to leave at once—but before starting he said, “Where are you at this moment?” The answer came, “I am in the train at Middlesborough railway station, on my way from Hartpool to Redcar.”
On arriving at the station he consulted the timetable and found the train was due at 2:52. The train, however, was late. At three o’clock it had not arrived; at five minutes past three, getting uneasy at the delay, he took paper and pencil in his hand and asked where she was.
Her name was at once written and there was added: “I am in the train rounding the curve before you come to Redcar Station—I will be with you in a minute.”
“Why the mischief have you been so late?” he mentally asked. His hand wrote, “We were detained at Middlesborough so long—I don’t know why.”
He put the paper in his pocket and walked to the end of the platform just as the train came in.
He immediately went to his friend and exclaimed:—“How late you are! What on earth has been the matter?” To which she replied: “I do not know; the train stopped so long at Middlesborough—it seemed as if it never would start.”
This narrative was fully corroborated by the lady who was the passenger referred to.