The two men bent over the slip, studying it. The word was, as Average Jones had said, in a strained, effortful handwriting, and each letter stood distinct. These were the characters:
MERCY
“Is it mathematical, do you think, possibly?” asked Average Jones.
“All alone by itself like that? Rather not! More like a label, if you ask me.”
“The little sister of the label on the cabinet, then.”
“Cherchez la femme,” observed Bertram. “It sounds like perfect foolishness to me; a swollen faced outlander who rules familiar spirits with a wand, and, between investigations in the realms of science, writes a girl’s name all over the place like a lovesick school-boy! Is Mercy his spirit-control, do you suppose?”
“Oh, let’s get out of here,” said Average Jones. “I’m getting dizzy with it all. The next step,” he observed, as they walked slowly up the street, “is by train. Want to take a short trip to-morrow, Bert? Or, perhaps, several short trips?”
“Whither away, fair youth?”
“To the place where the fake ‘Smith’ and the lost Craig have been doing their little stunts.”
“I thought you said Professor Gehren couldn’t tell you where Craig had gone.”