"Been there?" Douglas looked up quickly.

"Read of it in the book," said Peter, quietly, annoyed at himself for the slip.

"Yes. Well, there's a table in the middle of the room, and in the drawer of that table Mr. Crane keeps all the things' materialized by the medium. I think he expects to get a big collection."

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Peter, "_what_ a mess!"

"Yes, isn't it?" Douglas a.s.sumed that the whole subject of Spiritism was thus referred to.

"Suppose anything happened to shake Mr. Crane's faith?"

"I don't think anything _could_ do that. He's absolutely gullible. He'd swallow anything. I say, how _do_ you explain it? Why is it that big-brained, well-balanced men fall for this rot?"

"They can't be really well-balanced,--and then, too, it's largely the eagerness to believe, the desire for the comfort it brings them that makes them think they do believe. And a clever medium can do much."

"Sure. But those materializations! Where'd she get the goods?"

"Give it up. Tell me more about Mr. Crane."

So Douglas patiently recounted and repeated all the words of Peter's father and told of his appearance and manner, under the impression that he was helping an author with data for a psychological story.

Peter had found Douglas by merely making inquiry for a bright young reporter, and had made an agreement, satisfactory to both, for him to try to get the interview with Benjamin Crane, and they would both profit by it.

He was delighted that Crane had asked the young man to call again, and when they parted it was with the understanding that there should be another interview arranged.

Peter Boots had much food for thought.

He sat thinking for hours after the food had been given to him.

What was the explanation? What _could_ be the explanation?

How could communications from a dead man be received when the man was not dead?

How he longed to go home, disclose himself, and run to earth that fearful fraud! How gladly he would do so, except that it would ruin his father's reputation. What would the public think of a man who had been so taken in by fraud, and had blazoned it to the world.

To be sure it was no reflection on Benjamin Crane's sincerity, yet he would be the b.u.t.t of derision for the whole country, and his discredited head would be bowed for the rest of his life.

Peter couldn't bring himself to do that, especially now that he had discovered that his loss was not a source of hopeless grief to his parents.

"I'm not wanted in this world," he told himself, sadly, "I'm a superfluous man. I've got to dispose of myself somehow," and he gave a very realizing sigh.

And the thought of Carly,--that tried to obtrude itself, he put resolutely from him.

"She's probably forgotten me," he a.s.sured himself, "and anyway I must do the right thing by Mother and Dad first. If I decide that I can't demolish their air castle, so carefully built up, I must light out,--that's all."

Trying hard to be cheerful, but feeling very blue and desolate he ate a solitary dinner and went again to the theater to see "Labrador Luck."

Douglas' graphic description of his home and his father had given him a great longing to go there, to see the dear old place, the dear old man,--and his mother, and Julie.

He felt he _must_ go. Then, he knew he couldn't go, without breaking his father's heart and life.

"I broke his heart when I _didn't_ go home," he thought whimsically, "now, I mustn't break it again by going home!"

He sat through the moving picture performance again, and marveled anew at the beauty of the production. It was far above the rank and file of moving pictures, it was adjudged by all critics the very greatest production ever put upon the screen.

Shelby's name had become famous, his work was applauded everywhere, and Peter yearned to see him and renew their friendship.

But he knew he mustn't think of those things. First of all he had to decide whether or not he was to come back to life, and if not,--and he had a conviction that that would be his decision,--he must not dally with tempting thoughts and hopes of any sort.

But it was hard! Blair dead, Shelby famous, and he, Peter, unable to talk things over with any relative, chum or friend.

He must talk to somebody, and on his way out of the theater he spoke to the box office man.

"Wonderful show," he said, smiling at him. "Who's this Shelby?"

"He's the big push of to-day," was the enthusiastic reply. "He's a marvel of efficiency and generalship. And a big author, too."

"He wrote the play as well as produced it, I see."

"Yes. Oh, he can do anything."

"Married man?"

"No; but I've heard he's engaged to a girl,--a Miss Harper, I believe."

Peter choked. The last straw! But he might have known,--he, himself, supposed dead, Blair dead, what more natural than that Carly should turn to old Kit?

With a mere nod to the man who had unwittingly dealt him this final blow, Peter walked out into the night.

And he walked and walked. Up Broadway to the Circle, on up and into Riverside Drive, and along the Hudson as far as he could go.

Thinking deeply, planning desperately, only to be confronted with the awful picture of his father's consternation at the shattering of his beliefs and the collapse of his celebrity.

At times he would tell himself he was absurdly apprehensive, that any parents would rather have their lost son restored than to have the applause and notoriety of public fame. And, then, he would realize that while that might be generally true, yet this was a peculiar case. His father was a proud, sensitive nature. Perhaps--Peter shuddered,--perhaps he wouldn't love a son who by his return made him the most laughed at man in the whole world!

Peter longed to go to some one for advice. Shelby, now,--his big efficient mind would know at once what was best to do.

But he couldn't disclose himself to Kit and not to any one else. Kit couldn't keep that a secret, even if he wanted to do so.

And-- Kit was engaged to Carly! He never wanted to see either of them again!

Poor, lonely, troubled Peter. Only one plain, sure truth abided. He _must_ do his duty, and he felt pretty sure he knew what that duty was.

It was to stay out of the life he had lost.

There was no other possible course.

He turned and retraced his steps southward, and finally went across town, drawn as by a magnet to his own home.