by Marion Bryce
“Clever, though,” and Embury looked at young Hanlon with admiration. “Simple, but most perfectly convincing.”
“Yes, sir, it was the very simplicity of it that gulled ’em. And, of course, I’m some actor. I groped around, and felt my way by chairs and railings and door-frames, though I needn’t have touched one of ’em. My way was plainly marked, and I could see the chalk line and all I had to do was to follow it. But it was that preliminary test that fixed it in their minds about the ‘willing’ business. I kept asking the ‘guide’ to keep his mind firmly on his efforts to ‘will’ me. I begged him to use all his mental powers to keep me in the right direction—oh, I have that poppycock all down fine—just as the mediums at the séances have.”
Aunt Abby sniffed disdainfully, and Embury chuckled at her expression. Though not a ‘spiritualist,’ Miss Ames was greatly interested in telepathy and kindred subjects and like all the apostles of such cults she disliked to hear of frauds committed in their names.
“Go on,” said Eunice, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “I love a hoax of this sort, but I can’t imagine yet how you did it! I understand about the blindfolding, though, and of course that was half the battle.”
“It was, ma’am, and the other half was—boots!”
“Boots!”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know that you seldom see two pairs of boots or shoes alike on men?”
“I thought they were all alike,” exclaimed Eunice. “I mean all street shoes alike, and all pumps alike, and so forth.”
“No, not that,” and Embury laughed; “but, I say, Hanlon, there are thousands of duplicates!”
“Not so you’d notice it I But let me explain. First, however, here are four men present. Let’s compare our shoes.”
Eight feet were extended, and it was surprising to note the difference in the footgear. Naturally, Hanlon’s were of a cheaper grade than the others, but whereas it might have been expected that the three society men would wear almost identical boots, they were decidedly varied. Each pair was correct in style, and the work of the best bootmakers, but the difference in the design of tip, side cut, sole and fastening was quite sufficient to prevent mistaking one for another.
“You see,” said Hanlon. “Well, take a whole lot of your men friends, even if they all go to the same bootmaker, and you’ll find as much difference. I don’t mean that there are not thousands of shoes turned out in the same factory, as alike as peas, but there is small chance of striking two pairs alike in any group of men. Then, too, there is the wear to be counted on. Suppose two of you men had bought shoes exactly alike, you wear them differently; one may run over his heel slightly, another may stub out the toe. But, these things are observable only to a trained eye. So—I trained my eye. I made a study of it, and now, if I see a shoe once, I never forget it, and never connect it with the wrong man. On the street, in the cars, everywhere I go, I look at shoes—or, rather, I did when I was training for this stunt. It was fascinating, really. Why, sometimes the only identifying mark would be the places worn or rubbed by the bones of the man’s foot—but it was there, allee samee! I nailed ’m, every one! Oh, I didn’t remember them all—that was only practice. But here’s the application; when I started on that trip in Newark, I was introduced to Mr. Mortimer. Mind you, it was the first time I had ever laid eyes on the man. Well, unnoticed by anybody, of course, I caught onto his shoes. They were, probably, to other people, merely ordinary shoes, but to me they were as a flaming beacon light! I stamped them on my memory, every detail of them. They were not brand new, for, of course, anybody would choose an easy old pair for that walk. So there were scratches, bumps, and worn, rubbed places, that, with their general make-up, rendered them unmistakable to yours truly! Then I was ready. The earnest but easily-gulled committee carefully adjusted their useless pads of cotton and their thick bandage over my eyes, and I was led forth to the fray.
“Remember, I asked Mr. Mortimer not only to think of the hidden penknife, and will me toward it, but also to look toward it himself. Now, to look toward any object, a man usually turns his whole body in that direction. So, groping about, clumsily, I managed to get sight of the toes of those well-remembered boots. Seeing which way they were pointed was all the information I needed just then. So, with all sorts of hesitating movements and false starts, I finally trotted off in the direction he had faced. The rest is easy. Of course, coming to a corner, I was absolutely in the dark as to whether I was to turn or to keep straight ahead. This necessitated my turning back to Mr. Mortimer to catch a glimpse of which way his feet were pointing. I covered this by speaking to him, begging him to will me aright—to will me more earnestly—or some such bunk. I could invent many reasons for turning round; pretend I had lost my feeling of ‘guidance,’ or pretend I heard a sudden noise, as of danger, or even pretend I felt I was going wrong. Well, I got a peek at those feet as often as was necessary, and the rest was just play-acting to mislead the people’s minds. Of course, when I stumbled over a stone or nearly fell into a coal hole or grating, it was all pretense. I saw the pavements as well as anybody, and my effort was to seem unaware of what was coming. Had I carefully avoided obstacles, they would know I could see.”
“And when you reached that vacant lot?” prompted Eunice.
“I saw friend Mortimer’s feet were pointing toward the center of the lot, and not in the direction of either street. So I turned in, and when I got where I could see the burned-down house, I guessed that was the hiding-place. So I circled around it, urging my ‘guide’ to look toward the place, and then noting his feet. I had to do a bit of scratching about; but remember, I could see perfectly, and I felt sure the knife was in the charred and blackened rubbish, so I just hunted till I found it. That’s all.”
“Well, it does sound simple and easy as you tell it, but, believe me, Hanlon, I appreciate the cleverness of the thing and the real work you went through in preparation for it all,” Hendricks said, heartily, and the other men added words of admiration and approval.
But Miss Ames was distinctly displeased.
“I wouldn’t mind, if you’d advertised it as a trick,” she said, in an injured tone, “as, say, the conjurors do such tricks, but everybody knows they’re fooling their audience. It is expected.”
“Yes, lady,” Hanlon smiled, “but the fake mediums and spirit-raisers, they don’t say they’re frauds—but they are.”
“Sir, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Just because there are some tricksters in that, as in all professions, you must not denounce them all.”
“They’re all fakes, lady,” and Hanlon’s air of sincerity carried conviction to all but Aunt Abby.
“How do you know?” she demanded angrily.
“I’ve looked into it—I’ve looked into all sorts of stunts like these. It’s in my nature, I guess. And all professional mediums are frauds. You bank on that, ma’am! If you want to tip tables or run a Ouija Board with some honest friends of yours, go ahead; but any man or woman who takes your money for showing you spiritual revelations of any sort, is a fraud and a charlatan.”
“There’s no exception?” asked Embury, quite surprised.
“Not among the professionals. They wouldn’t keep on in their profession if they didn’t put up the goods. And to do that, they’ve got to use the means.”
“Why—why, young man—” cried Aunt Abby, explosively, “you just read ‘The Voice of Isis’! You read—”
“That’s all right, they are plenty of fake books, more, prob’ly, than fake mediums, but you read some books that I’ll recommend. You read ‘Behind the Scenes With the Mediums,’ or ‘The Spirit World Unveiled,’ and see where you’re at then! No, ma’am, the only good spook is a dead spook, and they don’t come joy-riding back to earth.”
“But,” and Eunice gazed earnestly at her guest, “is there nothing—nothing at all in telepathy?”
“Now you’ve asked a question, ma’am. I don’t say there isn’t, but I do say there isn’t two per cent of w
hat the fakers claim there is. I’ll grant just about two per cent of real stuff in this talk of telepathy and thought-transference, and even that is mostly getting a letter the very day you were thinking about the writer!”
Embury laughed. “That’s as close as I’ve ever come to it,” he said.
“Yep, that’s the commonest stunt. That and the ghostly good-by appearance of a friend that’s dyin’ at the time in a distant land.”
“Aren’t those cases ever true?” Eunice asked.
“’Bout two per cent of ’em. Most of those that have been traced down to actual evidence have fizzled out. Well, I must be going. You see, now, I’ve sold this whole spiel that I’ve just given you folks to a big newspaper syndicate, and I got well paid. That puts me on Easy Street, for the time bein’, and I’m going to practice up for a new stunt. When you hear again of Willy Hanlon, it’ll be in a very different line of goods!”
“What?” asked Eunice, interestedly.
“’Scuse me, ma’am. I’d tell you, if I’d tell anybody. But, you see, it ain’t good business. I just thought up a new line of work and I’m going to take time to perfect myself in it, and then spring it on a long-sufferin’ public.”
“No, I won’t ask you to tell, of course,” Eunice agreed, “but when you give an exhibition, if it’s near New York, let me know, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will. And now I’ll move on.”
“Oh, no, you must wait for a cup of tea; we’ll have it brought at once.”
Eunice left the room for a moment. Aunt Abby in dudgeon, refused to talk to the disappointing visitor. But the three men quickly engaged him in conversation and Hanlon told some anecdotes of his past experiences that kept them interested.
Ferdinand brought in the tea things, and Eunice, with her graceful hospitality, saw to it that her guest was in no way embarrassed or bothered by unaccustomed service.
“I’ve had a right good time,” he said in his boyish way, as he rose to go. “Thank you, ma’am, for the tea and things. I liked it all.”
His comprehensive glance that swept the room and its occupants was a sincere compliment and after he had gone there was only kindly comment on his personality.
Except from Aunt Abby.
“He’s an ignorant boor,” she announced.
“Now, now,” objected Eunice, “you only say that because he upset your favorite delusions. He punctured your bubbles and pulled down your air-castles. Give it up, Aunt Abby, there’s nothing in your’ Voice of Isis’ racket!”
“Permit me to be the judge of my own five senses, Eunice, if you please.”
“That’s just it, Miss Ames,” spoke up Hendricks. “Is your psychic information, or whatever it is, discernible to your five senses, or any of them?”
“Of course, or how could I realize the presence of the psychic forces?”
“I don’t know just what those things are, but I supposed they were available only to a sort of sixth sense—or seventh! Why, I have five senses, but I don’t lay claim to any more than that.”
“You’re a trifler, and I decline to discuss the subject seriously with you. You’ve always been a trifler, Alvord—remember, I’ve known you from boyhood, and though you’ve a brilliant brain, you have not utilized it to the best advantage.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” and the handsome face put on a mock penitence, “but I’m too far advanced in years to pull up now.”
“Nonsense! you’re barely thirty! That’s a young man.”
“Not nowadays. They say, after thirty, a man begins to fall to pieces, mentally.”
“Oh, Al, what nonsense!” cried Eunice. “Why, thirty isn’t even far enough along to be called the prime of life!”
“Oh, yes, it is, Eunice, in this day and generation. Nobody thinks a man can do any great creative work after thirty. Inventing, you know, or art or literature—honestly, that’s the attitude now. Isn’t it, Mason?”
Elliott looked serious. “It is an opinion recently expressed by some big man,” he admitted. “But I don’t subscribe to it. Why, I’d be sorry to think I’m a down-and-outer! And I’m in the class with you and Embury.”
“You’re none of you in the sere and yellow,” declared Eunice, laughing at the idea. “Why, even Aunt Abby, in spite of the family record, is about as young as any of us.”
“I know I am,” said the old lady, serenely. “And I know more about my hobby of psychic lore in a minute than you young things ever heard of in all your life! So, don’t attempt to tell me what’s what!”
“That’s right, Miss Ames, you do!” and Mason Elliott looked earnestly at her. “I’m half inclined to go over to your side myself. Will you take me some time to one of your séances—but wait, I only, want to go to one where, as you said, the psychic manifestations are perceptible to one or more of the five well-known senses. I don’t want any of this talk of a mysterious sixth sense.”
“Oh, Mason, I wish you would go with me! Madame Medora gives wonderful readings!”
“Mason! I’m ashamed of you!” cried Eunice, laughing. “Don’t let him tease you, Aunt Abby; he doesn’t mean a word he says!”
“Oh, but I do! I want to learn to read other people’s thoughts—not like our friend Hanlon, but really, by means of my senses and brain.”
“You prove you haven’t any brain, when you talk like that!” put in Hendricks, contemptuously.
“And you prove you haven’t any sense,” retorted Elliott “I say, who’s for a walk? I’ve got to sweep the cobwebs out of the place where my brain ought to be—even if it is empty, as my learned colleague avers.”
“I’ll go,” and Eunice jumped up. “I want a breath of fresh air. Come along, San?”
“Nixy I’ve got to look over some papers in connection with my coming election as president of a big club.”
“Your coming election may come when you’re really in the prime of life,” Hendricks laughed, “or, perhaps, not till you strike the sere and yellow, but if you refer to this year’s campaign of the Athletic Club, please speak of my coming election.”
“Oh, you two deadly rivals!” exclaimed Eunice. “I’m glad to be out of it, if you’re going to talk about those eternal prize-fights and club theatres! Come on, Mason, let’s go for a brisk walk in the park.”
Eunice went to her room, and came back, looking unusually beautiful in a new spring habit. The soft fawn color suited her dark type and a sable scarf round her throat left exposed an adorable triangle of creamy white flesh.
“Get through with your squabbling, little boys,” she said, gaily, with a saucy smile at Hendricks and a swift, perfunctory kiss on Embury’s cheek, and then she went away with Mason Elliott.
They walked a few blocks in silence, and then Elliott said, abruptly: “What were you and Sanford quarreling about?”
“Aren’t you a little intrusive?” but a smile accompanied the words.
“No, Eunice; it isn’t intrusion. I have the right of an old friend—more than a friend, from my point of view—and I ask only from the best and kindest motives.”
“Could you explain some those motives?” She tried to make her voice cold and distant, but only succeeded in making it pathetic.
“I could—but I think it better, wiser and more honorable not to. You know, dear, why I want to know. Because I want you to be the happiest woman in the whole world—and if Sanford Embury can’t make you so—”
“Nobody can!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Don’t, Mason,” she turned a pleading look toward him; “don’t say anything we may both regret. You know how good Sanford is to me; you know how happy we are together”
“Were,” he corrected, very gravely.
“Were—and are,” she insisted. “And you know, too—no one better—what a fiendish temper I have! Though I try my best to control it, it breaks out now and then, and I am helpless. Sanford thinks he can tame it by giving me as good as I send—by playing, as he calls it, Petruchio to my Katherine—but, somehow, I don’t believe that
’s the treatment I need.”
Her dark eyes were wistful, but she did not look at him.
“Of course it isn’t!” Elliott returned, in a low voice. “I know your nature, Eunice; I’ve known it all our lives. You need kindness when you are in a tantrum. The outbursts of temper you cannot help—that I know positively—they’re an integral part of your nature. But they’re soon over—often the fiercer they are, the quicker they pass,—and if you were gently managed, not brutally, at the time they occur, it would go far to help you to overcome them entirely. But—and I ask you again—what were you discussing to-day when I came?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I think I do know—and forgive me, if I offend you—I think I can help you.”
“What do you mean? “Eunice looked up with a frightened stare.
“Don’t look like that—oh, Eunice, don’t! I only meant—I know you want money—ready money—let me give it to you—or lend it to you—do, Eunice—darling!”
“Thank you, Mason,” Eunice forced herself to say, “but I must refuse your offer. I think—I think we—we’ll go home now.”
CHAPTER VI. A SLAMMED DOOR
“Don’t you call her ‘that Desternay woman’!”
“I’ll call her what I please! And without asking your permission, either. And I won’t have my wife playing bridge at what is practically a gambling house!”
“Nothing of the sort! A party of invited guests, in a private house is a social affair, and you shall not call it ridiculous names! You play for far higher stakes at your club than we ever do at Fifi Desternay’s.”
“That name is enough! Fancy your associating with a woman who calls herself Fifi!”
“She can’t help her name! It was probably wished on her by her parents in baptism—”