"Not I. I shouldn’t know what to do with it, if I had one. I don’t see much difference between right and wrong. We give them what they want, as clergymen do. It may be true and it may be false. So may religion. There are a hundred different kinds—some of them teach that you ought to kill your grandmother when she gets to be fifty years old. Some teach clothing and some teach nakedness. Some preach chastity—and some the other thing. Who’s going to tell what’s right? My readings are scientific; my predictions may be true, for all I know. Some I help and some I harm, no doubt. But from all I can see, God Himself does that. Take that Bennett affair! He lost his money, but didn’t he have a good taste of life? We’ll never know the truth, anyway. Why not fool fools who think there’s an answer to everything, and make ’em happy? Do you remember that first time we played for Harry Wing? I was new at it then. When I crawled through the panel and put on the robe, the tears were streaming down my face to think I was going to fool an old man into believing I was his dead son. What was the result? He was so happy that he gave me his gold watch to be dematerialized for identification. He got more solid satisfaction and comfort out of that trick than he had out of a year of sermons. I only wish I could fool myself as easily as I can fool others—then I could be happy myself." "Why, aren’t you happy, Frank?" Fancy asked, her eyes full of him. "I wish I could do something to make you happy—I’d do anything!" "Oh, I’m not unhappy," he said lightly, neglecting her appeal. "I can’t seem to suffer any more than I can really enjoy. I suppose I haven’t any soul. I need ambition—inspiration. But we must get to work. Are you ready?" Fancy nodded. "August 5th," he dictated. "Mrs. Riley. Age sixty-five. Spatulate, extreme type. Wrist, B. Fingers, B, X, 5. Life 27. Head 18. Heart 4. Fate 12. 3 girdles. Venus B. Mars A. Thumb phalange over-developed. Right, ditto. Now:—married three times, arm broken in ’94, one daughter, takes cocaine, interested in mines. Last husband knew General Custer and Lew Wallace. Accidentally drowned, 1877. Accused of murder and acquitted in 1878. Very poor. "Don’t forget to look up Lew Wallace, Fancy! Go down to the library to-night, will you?" he said, laying down his note-book. "Where did you ever get that old dame?" "Madam Spoll sent her here. She’s easy, but no money in her. Still, I like to be thorough, even with charity cases; you never know what may come of them." The telephone bell prevented Fancy’s reply. She took up the receiver and said "Yes" in a languishing drawl. "Yes. Number 15? .... Payson? Spell it .... Hold the line a minute." She turned to Granthope, her ear still to the receiver, her hand muffling the mouth-piece. "Funny. Speak of angels—here’s Madam Spoll now! She wants to know if you’ve got anything about Oliver Payson?"