“Give me your hand!” she commanded. Dubiously, with a watchful glance at Vance, Mr. Hallowell leaned forward and took her hand. “You have been ill,” cried the girl; “very ill--I see you--I see you in a kind of faint--very lately.” Her voice rose excitedly. “Yes, last night.” Mr. Hallowell protested with indignation. “You read that in the morning paper,” he said. Vera lowered her arm from her eyes and turned them reproachfully on him. “I don’t read the Despatch,” she answered. Mr. Hallowell drew back suspiciously. “I didn’t say it was the Despatch,” he returned. Vance quickly interposed. “You don’t have to say it,” he explained with glibness; “you thought it. And Vera read your thoughts. You were thinking of the Despatch, weren’t you? Well, there you are! It’s wonderful!” “Wonderful? Nonsense!” mocked Mr. Hallowell. “She did read it in the paper or Rainey told her.” The girl shrugged her shoulders patiently. “If you would rather find out you were ill from the newspapers than from the spirit world,” she inquired, “why do you ask me here?” “I ask you here, young woman,” exclaimed Hallowell, sinking back in his chair, “because I hoped you would tell me something I can’t learn from the newspapers. But you haven’t been able to do it yet. My dear young lady,” exclaimed the old man wistfully, “I want to believe, but I must be convinced. No tricks with me! I can explain how you might have found out everything you have told me. Give me a sign!” He beat the flat of his hand upon the table. “Show me something I can’t explain!” “Mr. Hallowell is quite right, Vera,” said Vance. “He is entering what is to him a new world, full of mysteries, and that caution which in this world has made him so successful--” With an exclamation, Hallowell cut short the patter of the showman. “Yes, yes,” he interrupted petulantly; “I tell you, I want to believe. Convince me.” Considering the situation with pursed lips and thoughtful eyes, Vera gazed at the old man, frowning. Finally she asked, “Have you witnessed out demonstrations of mind reading?” Mr. Hallowell snorted. “Certainly not,” he replied; “it’s a trick!” “A trick!” cried the girl indignantly, “to read a man’s mind--to see right through your forehead, through your skull, into your brain? Is that a trick?” She turned sharply to Vance. “Show him!” she commanded; “show him!” She crossed rapidly to the window and stood looking down into the street, with her back to the room. Vance, with his back turned to Vera, stood close to the table, on the other side of which Hallowell was reclining in his arm chair. Vance picked up a pen holder. “Think of what I have in my hand, please,” he said. “What is this, Vera?” he asked. The girl, gazing from the window at the traffic in the avenue below her, answered with indifference, “A pen holder.” “Yes, what about it?” snapped Vance. “Gold pen holder,” Vera answered more rapidly. “Much engraving--initials S. H.--Mr. Hallowell’s initials--”