In the back hall by the refrigerator Alf looked up at Buck like a hunted animal at bay. “My God, Buck,” he said. “How’ll we ever break it to the girls?” “Break what?” Buck queried, his voice dry and thin. “There was a cablegram for you at Hagerstown,” Alf replied. “Beesore had sense enough not to telephone it out here. He saw me and gave it to me. Pake’s dead.” “Let’s look at the cablegram,” Buck said thickly. He looked, holding it closely to the kerosene lamp on the refrigerator. Then he handed it to me. I read: “E. P. Hibbard instantly killed by a fall from a window. “G. SWANWICK.” 1913 THE MESSAGE ON THE SLATE THE MESSAGE ON THE SLATE MRS. LLEWELLYN had always held--in so far as she ever thought about the subject at all--that to consult a clairvoyant was not merely an imbecile folly, but a degrading action, nearly akin to crime. Now that she felt herself over-masteringly driven to such an unconscionable unworthiness she could not bring herself to do it openly. Anything underhand or secretive was utterly alien to her nature. She was a tall woman, notably well shaped, with unusual dignity of demeanor. The poise of her head would have appeared haughty but for the winning kindliness of her frequent smile. Her dark hair, dark eyes and very white skin accorded well with that abiding calm of her bearing which never seemed mere placidity in a face habitually lighted with interested comprehension. Like a cloudless springtime sunrise over limitless expanses of dewy prairies, she was enveloped in an atmosphere of spacious serenity of soul, and her appearance was entirely in consonance with her character. She was still a very beautiful woman, high-souled as she was beautiful and exceedingly straight-forward. Yet to drive in open day to a house bearing the displayed sign of a spirit-medium was more than she could do. Bidding her footman call for her later, much later, at her hairdresser’s, she dismissed her carriage at the main entrance of a department store. Leaving it by another entrance, she took a street car for the neighborhood she sought. The neighborhood was altogether different from what she had anticipated; the houses, by no means small, were even handsome; not least handsome that of the clairvoyant. And it was very well kept, the pavement and the steps clean, the plate glass window panes bright, the shades and curtains new and tasteful, the silver doorknobs and door-bell fresh polished. There was a sign, indeed, but not the flaming horror her imagination had constructed from memories of signs seen in passing. This was a bit of glass set inside the big, bright pane of one of the parlor windows. It bore in small gold letters only the name, SALATHIEL VARGAS, and the word, CLAIRVOYANT.