That evening, Mary K.’s signature came first. “You must see how foolish it was to mistrust us,” the pencil wrote. “Mr. Farrow is here, and Cass will learn of it soon.” “Unless you take refuge again in that difference of plane,” I commented, rather bitterly. “Why don’t you remember it before, instead of after, the error it creates?” “Because you should not distrust us.” “But why not encourage me to trust you by remembering that difference of plane in the first place?” I insisted. “Why be so explicit about things you know may be inaccurately stated?” “I do not deceive you intentionally. We feel that a thing certain of accomplishment is done, and are frequently misled into premature statements by the strength of intention, or purpose, or movement in a given direction. We are accurate from our point of view, and not always able to gauge yours.” Admitting this to be conceivable, I said: “Now tell me about Mr. Farrow.” “Mr. Farrow is here with us. When Cass gets to the office in the morning he will find the truth.” Again the signature was hesitating and indefinite, first Maynard, then Mary K. I felt that neither of them wrote it, but could not reconcile the frequent constructive statements, urging faith and continuance of this work, to destructive purpose, nor could I understand why, if Mary K. and Maynard were present, they did not warn me of false statements by malign forces, provided such were the case. Monday morning, the situation was unchanged, save that the statements were slightly elaborated. Repeatedly I asked whether they were not confusing Mr. Farrow with some other member of his family, or whether they had accepted serious illness as death. A curious statement followed this suggestion, under Maynard’s signature. “Farrow is both here and there. He is here in essence, there in body.... He is both here and there for some time after death.” Immediately afterward, however, when I said that this sounded preposterous, Mary K.’s name was written, with: “Mr. Farrow is here. He is dead to you. Actually now dead. Go to L—— at once.” “I can’t go to L——, with affairs in this state,” I told her. “You will know soon. Wait.” Maynard followed, with an appeal to “have faith,” adding: “It will be clear soon.” This went on, at intervals, until after two o’clock, when I had promised an interview to a woman who had not visited me before. Fully resolved to tell her that I could take no messages for her, I made one last attempt to obtain the truth before her arrival—this time with partial success. “Maynard. It is a mistake ...”