Part 18

"Oh!" She sprang to her feet and stood as proud as a lioness. "Is that it? You want me to go for good?" Even now there was no anger in her look or tone. The little silver watch heaved up and down on her breast.

He sought for a kind phrase. "I'm afraid it would be better--it makes me feel like a beast--of course, you understand--" his eyes went to her, pleading.

"Then it _is_ Miss Payson? Oh, Frank, why didn't you tell me! You might have trusted me! You ought to have known better! Haven't I always said that when the woman who could make you happy did come, how glad I'd be for you?"

"You're really not hurt, then? I was afraid--"

"Poor old Frank! You goose! Of course not--it makes me sorry to think of leaving you, that's all. Never mind--there's nothing in the race but the finish! I'm all right." She had become a little hysterical in her actions, but he was too distracted to notice it.

"I'll let you have all the money you want--I'll get you a good place----" he began.

She shook her head decidedly. "Cut that out, please, Frank; but thanks, all the same. If I ever want any money, I'll come to you. Why shouldn't I? But not now. Don't pay me to go away--that sounds rotten. I'll get a position all right. Didn't I turn down that secretary's place only last week? But I guess I'll travel on my looks for a while. I'm flush."

"I hope I can tell her all about this, sometime," he said wearily.

"Bosh! What's the use? Thank God some women know that some women are square without being told. Men seem to think we're all cats. Even women talk of each other as if they were a different sort of human animal. But not Miss Payson--she's a thoroughbred. I can see _that_ all right. You can't fool Fancy Gray about petticoats. I take off my hat to her. She's got every woman _you_ ever had running after you beaten a mile. Don't you worry--she'll never be surprised to find that a woman can be square. Well, I'll fade away then."

As she talked she buttoned up her jacket and stuck the hat pin in her hair. Now her eyes grew dreamier and she went over and sat on the arm of his chair and put her hand on his hair affectionately, saying:

"Say, Frank, I don't know--after all, perhaps sometime you might just tell her this--sometime when the thing's all going straight, when she's got over--well, what I saw in her eyes to-night--when she finds out what you're worth--when she really knows how good you are--you just tell her this--say: 'There's one thing about Fancy Gray, she always played fair!' She'll know then; but just now, you can be careful of her--watch out what you do with her, she's going to suffer a whole lot if you don't. You know something about women, but you'll find out that when you're sure enough in love you'll need it all, and what you know isn't a drop in the bucket to what you've got to learn. I hope you'll get it good and hard. It'll do you good. You only know one side now. You'll learn the rest from her. She's not the sort to do things half-way. When she begins to go she'll go the limit."

She leaned over him. "You might give me one kiss just to brace me up, will you? It may take the taste of Vixley off my lips. Well, so long. Don't take any Mexican money! If there's anything I can do, let me know." She rose and tossed a smile at him with her old jaunty grace. Then she patted him on the cheek and went swiftly out.

*CHAPTER IX*

*COMING ON*

By artful questions, and apparently innocent remarks to lure his confidence, by a little guess-work, more observation, and a profound knowledge of the frailties of human nature, Madam Spoll had plied Oliver Payson to good advantage.

She got a fact here, a suggestion there, and, one at a time, she arranged these items in order, and with them wove a psychological web strong enough to work upon. It was partly hypothetical, partly proved, but, slender and shadowy as it was, upon it was portrayed a faint image of her victim--a pattern sufficient for her use. Every new piece of information was deftly used to strengthen the fabric, until at last it was serviceable as a working theory of his life and could be used to astonish and interest him. Of this whole process he was, of course, unaware, so cleverly disguised was her method, so skilful was her tact. She never frightened her quarry, never permitted him to suspect her. Her errors she frankly acknowledged and set down to the ignorance of her guides. She had, indeed, many holes by which she could escape--set formulae for covering her petty failures.

After two or three interviews, she had filled up almost all the weak spots in her web, and was prepared to encompass her victim by wiles with which to bleed him.

Mr. Payson had gone away from his first interview limping slightly more than usual, and had talked considerably about his ailment to his daughter. Clytie, not knowing what had increased his hypochondria, was inclined to laugh at his fears and complaints. He found a more sympathetic listener in Blanchard Cayley, who took him quite seriously and discoursed for an hour in Payson's office upon the possibilities of internal disorders, such as the medium had mentioned.

The result was a visit to Doctor Masterson.

The healer's quarters were two flights up in one of the many gloomy buildings on Market Street, half lodging-rooms, half offices, inhabited by chiropodists, cheap tailors, "painless" dentists and such riffraff. The stair was steep and the halls were narrow. The doctor's place was filled with a sad half-light that made the rows of bottles on the shelves, the skull in the corner and the stuffed owl seem even more mysterious. The room was dusty and ill-kept; the floor was covered with cold linoleum.

The magnetic healer's shrewd eyes glistened and shifted behind his spectacles; the horizontal wrinkles in his forehead, under his bald pate, drew gloomily together as Mr. Payson poured out the story of his trouble. For a time the doctor said nothing. Then he took a vial full of yellow liquid from his table, carried it to the window, held it to the light, examined it solemnly and put it back. He sat down again and looked Mr. Payson over. Then he tilted back in his chair, stuck a pair of dirty thumbs in the armholes of his plaid waistcoat, and said, "H'm!" Finally, his thin lips parted in a grisly smile showing his blackened teeth.

His victim watched, anxiously waiting, with his two hands on the head of his cane. The gloom appeared to affect his spirits; he seemed ready to expect the worst.

Doctor Masterson took off his spectacles and wiped them on a yellow silk handkerchief. "It looks pretty serious to me," he said, "but I calculate I can fix you up. It'll cost some money, though. Ye see, it's this way: I'm controlled by an Indian medicine-man named Hasandoka and his band o' sperits. Now, in order to bring this here psychic force to bear on your case, it's bound to take considerable o' my time and their time, and I'll have to go to work and neglect my reg'lar patients. It takes it out o' me, and I can't do but just so much or I peter out. I'll go into a trance and see what Hasandoka has to say, and then you'll be in a condition to know what to decide. O' course, you understand, I ain't no doctor and don't claim to be, but I got control of a powerful psychic force that guides me in my treatment, and I never knew it to fail yet. If my band o' sperits can't help you, nobody can, and you better go to work and make your will right away. See?"

Mr. Payson saw the argument and manifested a desire to proceed with the investigation.

The doctor loosened his celluloid collar and closed his eyes. In a minute or two he appeared to fall asleep, breathing heavily.

Then, through him, the great Hasandoka spoke, in the guttural dialect such as is supposed to be affected by the American Indian, using flowery metaphors punctuated by grunts.

The tenor of his communication was that Mr. Payson was undoubtedly afflicted with something which was termed a "complication." He went into fearsome prophecies as to its probable progress downward to the feet, upward to the brain and forward to the kidney, with minor excursions to the liver and lights. The patient's spine was preparing itself for paralysis; it seemed that death was imminent at any moment. Hasandoka expressed his willingness to accept the case, however, and promised to effect a radical cure in a month at most, if treatment were begun immediately, before it was too late. The cure would be accomplished by massage, used in connection with a potent herb, known only to the primitive Indian tribes. After this message Hasandoka squirmed out of the medium's body and the soul of Doctor Masterson squirmed in again. There were the customary spasmodic gestures of awakening before he opened his eyes.

"Well, what did he tell you?" he asked.

Mr. Payson repeated the communication in a dispirited tone.

"Bad as that, is it?" said Masterson. "One foot in the grave, so to speak. Well, I tell you what I'll do. I'm interested in your case, for if I can go to work and cure you it'll be more or less of a feather in my cap. See here; I won't charge you but fifty dollars a week till you're cured, and if you ain't a well man in thirty days, I'll hand your money back. That's a fair business proposition, ain't it? I guarantee to put all my time on your case."

Mr. Payson gratefully accepted the terms. A meeting for a treatment was appointed for the next day.

This time Doctor Masterson was prepared for his victim.

"I've been in direct communication with Hasandoka," he said, "and I'm posted on your case now, and have full directions what to do. The first thing is a good course of massage. Now, which would you prefer to have, a man or a woman? I got a girl I sometimes employ who's pretty slick at massage. She's good and strong and willing and as pretty as a peach, if I do say it--she's got a figger like a waxwork--I think p'raps Flora would help you more'n any one--"

Mr. Payson shook his head coldly, saying that he preferred a man.

"Oh, o' course," Doctor Masterson said apologetically, shrugging his shoulders, "if you don't want her I guess I better go to work and do the rubbing myself, if you'd be better satisfied."

The Indian herb prescribed by Hasandoka was, it appeared, a rare, secret and expensive drug. The doctor's price was ten dollars a bottle, in addition to his weekly charge for treatment. He presented Mr. Payson with a bottle of dark brown fluid of abominable odor.

The treatment went on thrice a week, the massage being alternated with trances in which the doctor, under the cogent spell of the medicine man, uttered many strange things. The whole effect of this was to reassure Mr. Payson upon the fact that powerful influences were at work for his especial benefit.

Whether induced by Hasandoka's aid or by Doctor Masterson's suggestion, an improvement in the patient's mind, at least, did come. He was met, the following week, by the magnetic healer in his rooms with a congratulatory smile. Doctor Masterson inaugurated the second stage of his campaign.

"Say, you certainly are looking better, ain't you? How's the pain, disappearing, eh? I thought we could bring you around. Yesterday I was in a trance four hours on your case and it took the life out o' me something terrible. I knew then that I was drawing the disease out o' you. You just go to work and walk acrost the room, and see if you ain't improved. We got you started now, and all we got to do is to keep it up till you're absolutely well."

Blanchard Cayley also seemed interested when Mr. Payson told him of the improvement.

"You certainly are growing younger every day," said Cayley. "I don't know how you manage it at your age, in this vile weather, too, but I notice you've got more color and more spring in you. You're a wonder!"

One afternoon, during the third week of his treatment, as Mr. Payson was seated in his own office, the door opened and a chubby, roly-poly figure of a woman, with soft brown eyes and hair, came in timidly and looked about, seemingly perplexed and embarrassed. She walked up to his desk.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "but could you tell me where Mr. Bigelow's office is, in this building? I thought it was on this floor, but I can't find his name on any door."

He replied, scarcely glancing at her: "Down at the end of the corridor, on the left."

She stood watching him for a moment as he continued his writing, and then ventured to say:

"I beg your pardon, sir, but ain't you the gentleman that come to me some time ago to have your life read?"

He looked up now and recognized her as the one who had initiated him into the occult world, through the medium of the "Egyptian egg."

"Why, yes." He smiled benevolently. "You're Miss Ellis, aren't you?"

She seemed pleased. "Yes," she answered; "I hope you don't mind my reminding you of it, but I took an interest in your case more than usual, on account of your reading being so different, and I was surprised to see you here. You're looking much better than you did then. When you come into my place, I said to myself, 'There's a man that'll pass out pretty soon if he don't take care of himself.' You seemed so miserable. Why, I wouldn't know you now, you're so much improved. You must have gained flesh, too. Well, I congratulate you. If you ever want another reading, come around--here's my card, but perhaps you've tried Madam Spoll since. She's the best in the business. I go to her myself sometimes."

He walked to the door with her and bowed her out politely.

A week after he made another visit to Madam Spoll. The medium was gracious and congratulatory.

"Why, you look like a new man, that's a fact!" she said. "Between you and me, I never really expected that you could recover, but I knew if anybody could help you it would be Masterson. I suppose he come pretty high, didn't he? Two hundred! For the land sake! I'm sorry you had to fall into the hands of that shark, but, after all, it's cheaper than being dead, ain't it? A desperate disease requires a desperate remedy, they say. I wouldn't take you for more than forty years old now, in spite of your gray hairs.

"Now," she continued, "you've had experience and you're in a position to know whether there's any truth in spiritualism or not. No matter what anybody tells you about fakes or tricks and all that nonsense--I don't say some so-called mediums ain't collusions--you've demonstrated the truth of it for yourself, and you've found out that we can do what we say. You can afford to laugh at the skeptics and these smart-Alecs who pretend to know it all. What we claim can be proved and you've proved it. Lord, I'd like to know where you'd be now if you hadn't. I've always said: 'Investigate it for yourself, and if you don't get satisfaction, leave it alone for them that do. Go at it in a frank and honest spirit and try to find out the truth, and you'll generally come out convinced.' I don't believe in no underhanded ways of going to work at it neither. If you was going to study up Christian Science, or Mo-homedism, we'll say, you wouldn't be trying to deceive them and giving false names and all, and why should you when you want to find out about the spirit world? What you want to do is to depend upon the character of the information you get, to test the truth of what we claim. You treat us square and we'll treat you square. We ain't infalliable, but we can help. Whatever is to be had from the spirit plane we can generally get it for you."

"I'm very much interested," Mr. Payson said. "There does seem to be something in it, and I want to get to the bottom of it. There are several things I'd like to get help on, too."

"Do you know, I knew they was something worrying you," she replied, smiling placidly. She laid her fingers to her silken thorax. "I felt your magnetism right here when you came in, and I got a feeling of unpleasantness or worry. It ain't about a little thing either; it's an important matter, now, ain't it?"

Mr. Payson, affected by her sympathy, admitted that it was. Under his shaggy eyebrows, his cold eyes watched her anxiously, as if gazing at one who might wrest secrets from him. His belief in her had increased with every sitting, so that now the old man, gray and bald, in his judicial frock-coat, lost something of his influential manner and became more like a child before his teacher, swayed by every word that fell from her lips.

Her manner was half patronizing, half domineering. "What did I tell you? You feel as if, well, you don't quite know _what_ to do, and you're saying to yourself all the time, 'Now, what _shall_ I do?' That's just the condition I get."

"Do you think you could help me?"

"I don't know; I'll try. I ain't feeling very receptive to spirit influence to-day; I guess I overeat myself some; but then, again, I might be very successful; there's no telling. You just let me hold your hands a few minutes and I can see right off whether conditions are favorable or not."

He did so. Suddenly she turned her head to one side and spoke as if to an invisible person beside her.

"Oh, she's here, is she? What is it? She says she can't find him? Well, what about him? What? Shall I tell him that?"

She opened her eyes and drew a long breath.

"Luella is here and she says to tell you that Felicia wants to give you a message. Do you understand who I mean?"

"Yes, I know. She's the lady you spoke to me about before, with the white hair."

"Would her name be Felicia Grant?"

He assented timidly, as if fearing to acknowledge it.

"Well, Felicia says she has found the child--child, the one that was lost. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes. Go on!"

"Really, I don't like to tell you this, Mr. Payson--"

"Tell anything."

Madam Spoll dropped her voice, as if fearful of being overheard. "You was in love with her.

"Yes." He eyed her glassily.

"And you was the father of the child?"

He nodded, still staring.

Madam Spoll smiled complacently. "Well, Felicia says she has found the boy, and she's going to bring him to you as soon as conditions are favorable. She can't do it yet; the time ain't come for it. That's all I can get from her. But Luella says you're worried about a book, and she wants to help you."

"How can she help?"

"Wait a minute." Madam Spoll smoothed her forehead with both hands for a while, then went on: "It seems that she can't work through me so well, it being what you might call a business affair, and she recommends that you try some one else, while I'll try to get the boy. I think a physical medium could help you more. There's Professor Vixley; he's something wonderful in a business way. I confess I can't comprehend it. Are you selling books?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, whatever it is, Vixley's the one to go to. He'll do well by you and you can trust him. I'll just write down his address; you go to see him and tell him I sent you, and I guarantee he'll give satisfaction. About the child, now, we'll have to wait. I shouldn't wonder if you could be developed so you could handle the thing alone. You've got strong mediumistic powers, only they're what you might call asleep and dormant. If you could come to me oftener we might be able to produce phenomena, for you're sensitive, only you don't know how to put your powers to the right use. You could join a circle, I suppose, but the quickest way is to have sittings with me, private."

The old man took off his spectacles and wiped off a mist. His hand was trembling. "I might want to try it later," he said at last, "but I'm not quite ready to, yet--I want to think it over. If you really think that this Vixley can help about the book, I'll look him up first. I want it to be a success, and I am a bit worried about it."

When he reached home he went into the living-room, to find Blanchard Cayley sitting there at ease, bland, suave and nonchalant. Clytie had not yet returned for dinner. Mr. Payson shook his hand cordially.

"I'm glad to see you, Blanchard. Been looking over that last chapter of mine? What do you think of it?"

"I haven't had time to read it yet. I've been expecting Cly home any minute."

"How are you getting on with her? Is she still skittish?"

"Oh, it'll come out all right, I expect," the young man said carelessly.

"I hope so! She's a good girl. I know she'll see it my way in the end--you just hold on and be nice to her. You know I'm on your side. I'd give a good deal to see Cly married to a good man like you. Strange, she doesn't seem to take any interest in my work at all. If I didn't have you to talk to, I don't know what I'd do. Suppose I read you that last chapter while we're waiting for her. I'd like to get your criticism of it. That trade dollar material has helped me immensely."

For half an hour, while Mr. Payson read the driest of dry manuscripts, Blanchard Cayley yawned behind his hand or nodded wisely, with an approving word or two. The old man had pushed up his spectacles over his forehead and held the sheets close to his eyes. He read in a mellow, deep voice, but it was the voice of a pedant.

"There," he said at last, stacking up the scattered papers. "I guess that will open their eyes, won't it?"

"It's great; that book will make a sensation."

"Well, it isn't finished yet, and what's to come will be better than what I've done. I'm on the track of something that may help it a good deal."

"What's that?" said Cayley perfunctorily.

"See here," Mr. Payson drew his chair nearer and shook his pencil at the young man. "I've had some wonderful experiences lately. You may not believe it, but I tell you there's something in this spiritualistic business. I've been investigating it for a month now all alone, and I'm thoroughly convinced that these mediums do have some sort of power that we don't understand."

"Really?" Cayley was beginning to be interested. "I knew you had always been an agnostic, but I had no idea that you had gone into this sort of thing. Have you struck anything interesting?"

"I certainly have. I went into it in a scientific spirit, as a skeptic, pure and simple, but I've received some wonderful tests. Why, they told me my name the very first thing and a lot about my life that they had no possible way of finding out. The trouble is, they know too much."

Cayley laughed. "Found out about your wild oats, I suppose?"

Mr. Payson frowned at this frivolity. "There are things they've told me that no one living could possibly know. Whether it's done through spirits or not, it's mysterious business. You ought to go to a seance and see what they can do."

"I'd hate to have them tell my past," Cayley said jocosely, "but I don't take much stock in them. They're a gang of fakirs."

"They're pretty sharp, if they are. I haven't lived fifty years in the West to be taken in as easily as that. I ought to know something about men by this time. Why, see here! You know what trouble I had with my leg? It was something pretty serious. Well, look at me now. You've noticed the change yourself. I went to a medium and now I'm completely cured. That's enough to give any one confidence, isn't it? It's genuine evidence."

Cayley agreed with a solemn nod. "But what about the book?"