“Has it?” said Kent. “Lean up against the wall and make yourself at home. Man, you’re shaking!”
“You’d shake, too,” retorted the artist, his voice trembling.
“No; anger doesn’t affect me that way. Wait! Now, don’t tell me yet. If I’m to have a report, it must be from a sane man, not from one in a blind fury. Take time and cool down. What do you think of my room?”
“It looks like the abode of white silence. Have you turned Trappist monk?”
“Not such a bad guess. This is the retreat of my mind. I think against the blank walls.”
“What’s the game?” asked Sedgwick, interested in spite of himself.
“It dates back to our college days. Do you remember that queer freshman, Berwind?”
“The mind-reader? Yes. The poor chap went insane afterward.”
“Yes. It was a weak mind, but a singularly receptive one. You know we used to force numbers or playing-cards upon his consciousness by merely thinking of them.”
“I recollect. His method was to stand gazing at a blank wall. He said the object we were thinking of would rise before him visually against the blankness. Did you ever figure out how he managed to do it?”