man’s body would reveal his character—since every specialized partial manifestation of himself must be correlated with every other part and the whole. How else could it be? An infinite experience would draw a man’s mental and physical portrait, for instance, from a single toe, as it is possible for a scientist to portray a whole extinct animal from a single bone. I think that there can be, in short, no possible divergence from type without a reason for it; and that reason is the same one that molded his character." "But that doesn’t explain prognostication of the future." By this time the animus of Cayley’s attack had died out. He was now impersonally interested. "No scientific palmist attempts to give more than possibilities. He must combine with the signs in the hands a certain amount of psychology—a knowledge of the tendencies of human nature—in order to predict. But, after all, his diagnosis, when it is logical, is as accurate as that of the ordinary physician, and the risk is less serious. How many doctors look wise and take serious chances—or prescribe bread-pills? There’s guess-work enough in all professions." By this time the two had been joined by several others who hung over them in a group, listening. Fernigan interjected: "That’s right! Even Blanchard has to guess what he’s talking about most of the time!" "And you have to guess whether you’re sober or not!" said slim Keith with the white nose. "When you talk about the probable tendencies of human nature, you don’t know what you’re up against," said Cayley, retreating. "San Francisco is a town where people are likely to do anything. There’s no limit, no predicting for them. They were buying air-ship stock on the street down at Lotta’s fountain, the last thing I heard." The old gentleman in evening dress, still wearing his Chinese paper crown, took him up enthusiastically. "You can be more foolish here without getting into the insane asylum than any place on earth, but you have to be a thoroughbred spiritualist before you can really call yourself bug-house. Look at old man Bennett! You couldn’t make anything up he wouldn’t believe!" "What about him?" said Cayley. "I would like to have him for my collection of freaks. "Oh, he was a furniture manufacturer here. I knew him well, but I forget the details. It was something fierce though, the way they worked him." Granthope smiled. "I can tell you something about Bennett," he offered. "I happened to hear the whole story nearly at first hand." "Let’s have it," Cayley proposed. Granthope leaned back in his chair and began, rather pleased at having an audience.