As soon as I explained that the spirit who answered had been a witness of the theft, the old man became strangely agitated. “Who was it?” said he. At once the spirit indicated a desire to use the alphabet. As we went over the letters,--always a slow method, but useful when you want to observe excitable people,--my visitor kept saying, “Quicker--go quicker.” At length the spirit spelled out the words, “I know not his name.” “Was it,” said the gentleman--“was it a--was it one of my household?” I knocked “yes” without hesitation; who else, indeed, could it have been? “Excuse me,” he went on, “if I ask you for a little whisky.” This I gave him. He continued: “Was it Susan or Ellen?” “No, no!” “Was it--” He paused. “If I ask a question mentally, will the spirits reply?” I knew what he meant. He wanted to ask if it was his son, but did not wish to speak openly. “Ask,” said I. “I have,” he returned. I hesitated. It was rarely my policy to commit myself definitely, yet here I fancied, from the facts of the case and his own terrible anxiety, that he suspected, or more than suspected, his son as the guilty person. I became sure of this as I studied his face. At all events, it would be easy to deny or explain in case of trouble; and, after all, what slander was there in two knocks? I struck twice as usual. Instantly the old gentleman rose up, very white, but quite firm. “There,” he said, and cast a bank-note on the table, “I thank you,” and bending his head on his breast, walked, as I thought, with great effort out of the room. On the following morning, as I made my first appearance in my outer room, which contained at least a dozen persons awaiting advice, who should I see standing by the window but the old gentleman with sandy-gray hair? Along with him was a stout young man with a head as red as mine, and mustache and whiskers to match. Probably the son, I thought--ardent temperament, remorse, come to confess, etc. I was never more mistaken in my life. I was about to go regularly through my patients when the old gentleman began to speak. “I called, doctor,” said he, “to explain the little matter about which I--about which I--” “Troubled your spirits yesterday,” added the youth, jocosely, pulling his mustache. “Beg pardon,” I returned; “had we not better talk this over in private? Come into my office,” I added, touching the younger man on the arm. Would you believe it? he took out his handkerchief and dusted the place I had touched. “Better not,” said he. “Go on, father; let us get done with this den.”