“Then, we can say,” persisted Irving, “that you say, that Walsh’s story is a fake?”
“You can say it is not true,” corrected Gaylor. “That’s all, gentlemen.” The audience was at an end. The young men moved toward the hall and Judge Gaylor turned to the bedroom. As he did so, he found that the new man on the Republic still held his ground.
“Could I have a word with you, sir?” the stranger asked. The reporters halted jealously. Again Gaylor showed his impatience.
“About Mr. Hallowell’s health?” he demanded. “There’s nothing more to say.”
“No, it’s not about his health,” ventured the reporter.
“Well, not now. I am very late this morning.” The Judge again moved to the bedroom and the reporter, as though accepting the verdict, started to follow the others. As he did so, as though in explanation or as a warning he added: “You said to always come to you for the facts.” The lawyer halted, hesitated. “What facts do you want?” he asked. The reporter bowed, and waved his broad felt hat toward the listening men. In polite embarrassment he explained what he had to say could not be spoken in their presence.
Something in the manner of the stranger led Judge Gaylor to pause. He directed Garrett to accompany the reporters from the room. Then, with mock politeness, he turned to the one who remained. “I take it, you are a new comer in New York journalism. What is your name?” he asked.
“My name is Homer Lee,” said the Southerner. “I am a New Orleans boy. I’ve been only a month in your city. Judge,” he began earnestly, but in a voice which still held the drawl of the South, “I met a man from home last week on Broadway. He belonged to that spiritualistic school on Carondelet Street. He knows all that’s going on in the spook world, and he tells me the ghost raisers have got their hooks into the old man pretty deep. Is that so?”
The bewilderment of Judge Gaylor was complete and, without question, genuine.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.