Fenwick’s head was buried in his hands. “I wrote the damned stuff. That’s what gets me.” I saw why Allis had fetched whiskey for him. “We aren’t going to quote it for your benefit--even if we could,” went on Allis. “But you can take it from us that it was unmitigated filth. We judge by sample.” “Then why did you give the rest of it to those women?” I shouted. “Why didn’t you burn up what you had your hands on, at least?” “Easy, now, easy.” But Allis was troubled. He made an eloquent gesture over Fenwick’s bowed head. “We practically had to do what Mrs. Conway said. I believe she _is_ the person to deal with Fanny Medford. Evil spirits are the best way out--if she can take it. And Mrs. Conway is a clever woman. But we three have got to sift the matter. It seemed to be autobiographical, by the way--statement of things done in the past. Buck up, Fenwick. It’s more my fault than yours.” “Your fault? You didn’t even write ‘Ask Fenwick,’” our friend retorted. The whiskey was strengthening him a little. Allis paid no attention. “I take it for granted that none of us now present subscribes to Mrs. Conway’s theory. Very well. That’s that. Fenwick wrote automatically a lot of stuff of which he and I have seen a little. It all purported to be Jack Hilles speaking, and on that basis it was Jack Hilles very much giving himself away. Of course, it wasn’t Jack Hilles any more than it was the Secretary of State. Mrs. Conway is right, at least, when she says the dead don’t communicate.” “Then this kind of thing just flowers naturally out of the rich soil of my mind, I suppose?” Fenwick asked sarcastically. Allis smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t say that. But you’ve knocked about the world more than most of us, and you’ve seen more than your share of exotic rottenness. Gregory and I would have had to go out and hunt for it. You’ve had it thrust upon your notice. If your subconscious stores it up, it isn’t your fault.” “But what on earth should make me drag out horrors and attribute them to a man I never laid eyes on, who died fighting for his country in the Argonne?” “That,” said Allis deliberately, “is where I come in.” “You?” We both exclaimed. Allis leaned against the chimney-piece, his hands still in his pockets. “Well, yes. Of course Jack Hilles’ name was bound to appear if any name appeared--after the way Fanny had gone on. But if that sort of thing was dragged out of you, about Hilles, instead of nice, sweet, comforting things, it was probably because my mind was stronger than Fanny Medford’s.” “Do you mean that you were thinking that kind of thing about Hilles all the time?” Fenwick queried. “No, I wasn’t _thinking_ those things about him,” Allis answered slowly. “I merely _knew_ those things about him. That is--I never knew he did anything so bad as what was written there, but I knew he was a bad lot.” “Then why didn’t you write the stuff?”