The first questions were disappointing in results. Asked about the stick, there was only silence. When, however, Sperry went back to the sitting of the week before, and referred to questions and answers at that time, the medium seemed uneasy. Her hand, held under mine, made an effort to free itself and, released, touched the cane. She lifted it, and struck the table a hard blow with it. “Do you know to whom that stick belongs?” A silence. Then: “Yes.” “Will you tell us what you know about it?” “It is writing.” “Writing?” “It was writing, but the water washed it away.” Then, instantly and with great rapidity, followed a wild torrent of words and incomplete sentences. It is inarticulate, and the secretary made no record of it. As I recall, however, it was about water, children, and the words “ten o’clock” repeated several times. “Do you mean that something happened at ten o’clock?” “No. Certainly not. No, indeed. The water washed it away. All of it. Not a trace.” “Where did all this happen?” She named, without hesitation, a seaside resort about fifty miles from our city. There was not one of us, I dare say, who did not know that the Wellses had spent the preceding summer there and that Charlie Ellingham had been there, also. “Do you know that Arthur Wells is dead?” “Yes. He is dead.” “Did he kill himself?” “You can’t catch me on that. I don’t know.” Here the medium laughed. It was horrible. And the laughter made the whole thing absurd. But it died away quickly. “If only the pocketbook was not lost,” she said. “There were so many things in it. Especially car-tickets. Walking is a nuisance.” Mrs. Dane’s secretary suddenly spoke. “Do you want me to take things like that?” she asked. “Take everything, please,” was the answer. “Car-tickets and letters. It will be terrible if the letters are found.” “Where was the pocketbook lost?” Sperry asked. “If that were known, it could be found,” was the reply, rather sharply given. “Hawkins may have it. He was always hanging around. The curtain was much safer.” “What curtain?” “Nobody would have thought of the curtain. First ideas are best.” She repeated this, following it, as once before, with rhymes for the final word, best, rest, chest, pest. “Pest!” she said. “That’s Hawkins!” And again the laughter. “Did one of the bullets strike the ceiling?” “Yes. But you’ll never find it. It is holding well. That part’s safe enough--unless it made a hole in the floor above.” “But there was only one empty chamber in the revolver. How could two shots have been fired?” There was no answer at all to this. And Sperry, after waiting, went on to his next question: “Who occupied the room overhead?” But here we received the reply to the previous question: “There was a box of cartridges in the table-drawer. That’s easy.”