“Yes, child,” Aunt Abby took his question seriously; “it was every word true. I didn’t make up the least word of it!” “I believe you, ma’am, and I congratulate you on your clarviant powers. Now, about that raspberry jam, ma’am. That’s a mighty unmistakable taste--ain’t it, now.” “It is, McGuire. It certainly is. And I tasted it, just as surely as I’m here telling you about it.” “Have you had it for supper lately, ma’am?” “No; Eunice hasn’t had it on her table since I’ve been visiting her.” “Is that so, ma’am?” Chapter XV Marigny The Medium The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic recommended by Willy Hanlon. As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet and an odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, “Gee! a clairviant! Now for some fun!” Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion, seated herself, and waited patiently. At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and waited quietly, too. Soon the psychic entered. He was robed in a long, black garment, and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds. His face was olive-colored--what was visible of it for his beard was white and flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips. Locks of white hair showed from the turban’s edge, and a pair of big, rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his eyes. The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a psychic has a right to disguise himself, if he choose. Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed an expression of face quite different from his usual one. He managed to look positively vacant-minded. His eyes became lack-luster, his mouth, slightly open, looked almost imbecile, and his roving glance betokened no interest whatever in the proceedings. “Mr. Marigny?” said Miss Ames, eagerly anxious for the séance to begin. “Yes, madam. You are three minutes late!” “I couldn’t help it--the traffic is very heavy at this hour.” “And you should have come alone. I cannot concentrate with an alien influence in the room.” “Oh, the boy isn’t an alien influence. He’s a little friend of mine--he’ll do no harm.” “I’ll go out, if you say, mister,” Fibsy turned his indifferent gaze on the clairvoyant. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” spoke up Miss Ames. “I’m accustomed to séances, Mr. Marigny, and if you’re all right--as I was told you were--a child’s presence won’t interfere.” Evidently the psychic saw he had no novice to deal with, and he accepted the situation. “What do you want to know?” he asked his client. “Who killed Sanford Embury--or, did he kill himself. I want you to get into communication with his spirit and find out from him. But I don’t want any make-believe. If you can’t succeed, that’s all right--I’ll pay your fee just the same. But no poppycock.”