I telephoned to Cass, saying nothing of this experience, and found him in good spirits, proving that he had not heard of Mr. Farrow’s death. Returning to the pencil, I told Mary K. I did not believe the information was correct. “Yes, he is dead. A telegram on the way to Cass. He will receive it soon. Before one o’clock.” Some time later, having heard nothing from Cass, I told Mary K. again that there had been a mistake. “No, it is true. Mr. Farrow of P—— is here with us. Cass will know in a few minutes. He will telephone.” I warned her then that my faith in her veracity was at stake, and that while I could not doubt that Frederick, Mary Kendal, Maynard Holt, and others, had communicated through me, I could not take the responsibility of publishing anything she had told me unless I could trust her in all things, adding: “If this is not true how can I be sure that any of it is?” “Mary K. It is true. Don’t doubt.” I said I had no wish to doubt, but that unless this message came from some other than Mary K., I could not believe her again, if it proved, as I was sure it would, to be untrue. I began to suspect that disintegrating forces were at work. “It comes from the constructive force. Be confident. It perplexes you.” Later experience has taught me that while either force may be in complete command at moments, during these struggles for control, not infrequently a message begun by one is finished by the other. During the three days of this first persistent attack, however, I held no key to the mystery, and the occasional clearly constructive and characteristic messages from Mary K. and Maynard Holt merely added to my bewilderment and dismay. Yet never for one instant during those three days did I accept the repeated statements of Mr. Farrow’s death as true. Weeks afterward, Mary K. told me why I was not deceived. Since that time, too, I have learned more clearly to distinguish personality by the degree and quality of force applied to the pencil, which varies greatly with individuals, though it sometimes varies in the same individual at different times. But in the first experience it did not occur to me to apply that test of identification. All that Saturday afternoon the argument went on at intervals, I insisting that Mr. Farrow was not dead, the pencil reiterating that he was. At two o’clock Maynard said: “Believe in us, Margaret. We can help you better.” It is evident now that this referred to the conflict with the disintegrating force, but at the moment I misunderstood it and reminded him of the many specific and inaccurate statements made, during the past few days, regarding the man who was coming that evening by appointment, asking if this were more misinformation of the same sort, to which the reply was: “No, Farrow is here. He is dazed, but will be taken care of.” An hour later, I returned to the pencil, begging them to tell me, before definite information reached me from other sources, that there had been a mistake.