“Yes, a—a—damnably important message,” went on the medium abstractedly, as though trying to listen to something in the distance. “But I can’t seem to get his name.... Oh—says he doesn’t care to give it.... But we can hardly send a message unless we know who it’s from!” (Trying to hear.) “How do you spell it? C—r—i—p—p—Crippen? ... Oh, Cripps. His name is Cripps—quite an old gentleman—rather portly—medium height—gray-blue eyes—smooth face—grizzled gray hair—bushy dark eyebrows. Anyone here know such a person? Wait a minute!... Yes yes, Mr. Cripps, I know you told me no one knew you, but I’m so used to asking the question——What?... He’s using the most frightful language!... All right—all right—there’s no need of getting huffy about it! Give us the message.... He says it’s to the police somewhere—I can’t get the place. Yes, go on, Mr. Cripps.... R-o-x-b-u-r—Oh, Roxbury!... Man shot there, he says—murdered. ... _Boston_ police? Why not the police where the man was shot?... Oh I see—a part of Boston. I didn’t know that.... Yes, I guess you’re right, Mr. Cripps!... He says my geography isn’t worth a God-forsaken damn!... Very well, the Boston police. Now what’s the message?... Let me get that straight! We’re to send word that both times—is that right?—both times their detectives examined the inside of the rain-water conductor on the south side of the front portico they didn’t reach high enough up. Is that all, Mr. Cripps?... But you haven’t mentioned what it is they’re reaching for.... What?... Oh, I see!... He says they’ll know damned well—and don’t you forget it!... All right, Mr. Cripps. That’s pretty strong language, but we’ll try not to forget it.... What’s that? Yes, we’ll tell them.... He says they’d better be careful how they handle it if the finger marks on the butt are any use to them.... But can’t you tell us, Mr. Cripps, whether the—What?... Who’s this speaking?... Oh, some one else! Just a minute.” Then, glancing toward the audience and in a lower voice: “Will somebody remember that message? I don’t know what it’s all about, but if it’s going to help the Boston police any, God knows they ought to have it!” A roar of laughter, together with some vigorous hissing, followed this last remark, which could hardly excite surprise when one reflected on the derision and contempt which had been aroused by the peculiar behavior of the organization referred to not a great while before. Though the medium, Mr. Dillingworth, didn’t know what it was all about, the bunch of reporters sitting at a table down in front of him, did. In forty-five minutes the Associated Press had the whole thing, and before midnight newspaper men were dashing madly out to Jamaica Plain, having obtained permission to look over the ground.