"You have frequent communication with the spirit of your departed son?"

"Almost daily."

"With the same medium always?"

"Nowadays, yes. I tried various ones, but I rely on Madame Parlato. She has had the greatest success, and now can readily get into communication with my son at almost any time."

"Excuse me, Mr. Crane, if I am indiscreet, but have you never felt that she might be--not entirely--honest?"

Benjamin Crane smiled benignly. "Don't hesitate to put your doubt into words. I am quite ready to answer that question. I have no doubts of any sort concerning the medium's honesty, sincerity and genuineness. I have no doubt that the communications she obtains are really from my son Peter. That his spirit speaks to me through her. This has been proved to me in many ways, but a far greater proof is the conviction in my soul of the reality of it all. My wife believes as implicitly as I do, and no amount of scoffing from outsiders can in any way shake our faith."

"You have had material proofs?"

"Yes; here is a letter from my son himself. Here is a tobacco pouch that I know was his. Here is his handkerchief."

With a calm pride Benjamin Crane took these articles from a table drawer and showed them.

Douglas was deeply impressed, examined the articles and watched Crane as he returned them to the drawer.

"You see," said Crane, "it is not only difficult but impossible to account for those things except by supernatural explanation, so why refuse the logical truth?"

"That's so. And, I understand now, why you are so happy in your beliefs, for it all gives your life a continual and absorbing interest. You are writing another book, are you not?"

"Yes; it contains the detailed account of my _seances_, and will, I trust, prove an additional source of information and education on the great subject of survival."

"And your daughter? Does she, too, subscribe to all your theories?"

"Almost entirely. She is not so absorbed in the subject as Mrs. Crane and myself, but she has become persuaded of many truths."

"And now, my time is nearly up, may I ask you a word regarding the Blair case. Do you think McClellan Thorpe is the guilty man?"

"No! a thousand times no! I am trying by every means in my power to prove that he isn't. I hope to succeed, too. But we mustn't go into that subject, as I have an important appointment to keep. Come to see me again, Mr. Douglas, if you like. I'm not unaccustomed to such calls, and I'll be glad to see you again. By appointment, though, for I'm a busy man."

Tom Douglas went back, over to Brooklyn, and, going to a hotel, asked for one John Harrison.

In a short time Peter Boots was eagerly listening to the report of the messenger he had sent to his father.

"I learned a lot, Mr. Harrison," the visitor began. "I think I can give you quite a bit of the local color you need for your novel."

"Not so much local color as mental att.i.tude," Peter returned. "You see, in writing a psychological novel the author has to be careful of shades of feeling in his delineation of the characters. And as this Mr. Crane seemed to be just the type I want to study, I'm glad to have you tell me all the things he said, as nearly as you can recollect his own language."

"Yes, I know. And I was mighty interested on my own account, too."

"He was willing you should write an article about him?"

"Oh, yes, and asked me to come again."

"Go on, tell me all he said--how he looked and acted and everything that happened."

And so the young reporter and free-lance writer told Peter Boots all about his father, under the impression that he was talking to one who had never seen Benjamin Crane.

"He's a wonderful man, Mr. Harrison," the other said, enthusiastically.

"He must be fifty-five at least, maybe more, but he's so alert and quick-witted, and so full of his subject, that he seems a much younger man."

"And he seems happy?"

"Happy! I should say so! Perfectly reconciled to his son's death, because of these communications he gets from him! I say, Mr. Harrison, I can't stand for it! It gets me to see how that man is gulled, and he such a clear-headed, sane sort! Had proofs, too--all sorts of things. Do you believe it, Mr. Harrison? Do you believe that the spirit of Mr.

Crane's dead son talks to him through a medium?"

"I do not," said Peter Crane, endeavoring not to speak too emphatically.

"I didn't want you to get that interview in the interests of Spiritism at all, but to tell me of the condition, mentally and physically, of Mr.

Crane."

"Yes, I know. Well, the old guy is O.K. physically, fit as a fiddle. And sound mentally, you bet, except that he's nutty on the supernatural.

Why, he showed me the tobacco pouch--you know he tells about that in his book----"

Peter nodded.

"Showed me, too, a handkerchief of his dead son's----"

"That's not so remarkable."

"Yes, it is; 'cause it's one of a set that the chap took away with him, embroidered by his best girl, I believe."

Peter started. One of those handkerchiefs Carly gave him! Where in the world could that fool medium have got hold of that?

"Also a note from son, in his own handwriting," Douglas went on.

"Did you see it?"

"Yep. Commonplace looking note, advising his sister to drop acquaintance with Thorpe--he's the man they arrested in the Blair case."

"Where did the note come from?"

"Materialized--out of thin air."

"At a _seance_?"

"No; the brother kindly left it on sister's bureau, I believe."

Peter Crane was bewildered indeed. What sort of performances were going on, anyhow. And who was at the bottom of all this?

Clearly, he must look into things a little more before he did his final disappearance!

"Well, Mr. Douglas, you've helped me a whole lot. Now, as I say, I want mental impressions. Tell me everything you can think of about the atmosphere of the whole house, the--did you see Mrs. Crane?"

"No, only the old man. There seemed to be quite a lot of people about, coming and going. We had our interview in Mr. Crane's study, or library----"

"I know, the small room at the back of the house----"