"Well, it’s so far back, it seems as though she must have been old. You know I fished a little with what you give me about her and Payson; putting that together with what Lulu Ellis got, I believe I can work him. Funny you happened on that bit. Did the Payson girl tell you?" "Oh, I got it—she let it out in a way. You know." Madam Spoll chuckled. "Lord, they tell us more’n we ever tell _them_, don’t they! But I was saying: I wish I could find out more about that little boy Madam Grant used to keep. I wonder was he her son, now?" "I suppose you might find out something if you looked up the files of the _Chronicle_." "That’s a good idea. I’ll do it. D’you know what year it was?" "1877." "How d’you know?" He walked away from her carelessly, replying: "That’s the idea I got of it. About that time." "Frank," she said, "ain’t you ever got any clue to who you are, yet? Never got any hint at all?" "Never." "Why don’t you go to some real sure-enough psychic? They might help. I’ve known ’em to do wonderful things." Granthope gazed at her and laughed loud. "_You?_" was all he could say. She drew herself up. "Yes, _me_! Sure. Why, you don’t think I consider they ain’t no genuine ones, even if I do fake a little, do you?" "You actually believe there’s a medium alive that can tell such things?" "I’m positive of it. Why, when I begun, I give some remarkable tests myself. I used to get names, sometimes. But there _are_ straight ones. Not here, maybe, but in New York. You could send a lock of your hair." He went up to her and clapped his hand on her shoulder, still laughing. "You’re beautiful, my dear; you’re positively beautiful!" She turned a surprised face to him. "What in the world d’you mean?" He shook his head and walked away. "Preserve your illusions! It’s too wonderful. I’ll be believing in palmistry, next I’ll believe myself in love, after that. And then—I’ll believe I’m honest, dignified, honorable, modest!" His tone grew, word by word, more hard and cynical. Then he turned to her with a whimsical expression: "So you believe your doll’s alive!" "I’ve no time to talk nonsense any longer!" she exclaimed, rising ponderously. "I can’t make you out at all, Frank. Sometimes you’re practical as insurance and sometimes you’re half bug-house. Maybe it’s them clothes!" She regarded him carefully. He bowed to her with mock courtesy, spreading his fan. "Lord, you _do_ look like a fool in that Chink’s rig. Have a good time with ’em—but keep your eyes and your ears open!" She went out. He was about to turn out the electric lights and leave, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it, and saw the little freckled-face girl who had come to his office the day he had first met Clytie Payson. He recognized her instantly, but she, seeing him so extraordinarily disguised, drew back in surprise. "Did you want Mr. Granthope?" he asked.