Part 29

"I can't show them, because this medium wouldn't let them out of his possession. But I can get him to let you see them, if you like."

"You say they are about things we--that I talked about?"

"Yes."

"Things--about--_me_?"

"Yes. I forget all of them. I had only a moment's glance."

For some moments she stood silent. Then she spoke swiftly. "I don't believe it. He couldn't do such a thing!"

"My dear Cly, you must remember that one's whole mental evolution is merely the history of the conflict between reason and instinct, and reason is bound to win in the end. That's the way we develop. The fact is, he _could_ do it and _did_ do it. He's a charlatan and he has used a charlatan's methods. I said he was clever. This giving up his studio was merely a kind of gambit. But he made a mistake when he tried to use a lot of cheap fakirs to help him out with you."

"Oh!" She clenched her fists. "Don't! I won't stand it!" Her head dropped as if she were weary. Her eyes burned.

"Oh, there's good in everybody, the copy-books say," he returned. "But the fact is, Cly, he isn't in your class, and never was. You should have seen that!"

She looked at him without seeing him, her eyes caught meaninglessly by the garnet in his tie, clinging to it, as if it were the only real thing in the world. Her lips parted, the color was leaving her cheeks, she looked as frail as a ghost. Suddenly she threw off her reverie, and placing her hand on his arm, said, "Let me see them--the notes--Blanchard. There must be some horrid mistake. I want to clear it up immediately."

"Very well, I'll take you now, if you like. It isn't far."

She followed him out of the library as if hypnotized. They spoke little on the way. Cayley tried his best to arouse her, but finally gave it up as impossible. He watched her, preserving his usual phlegmatic calm. She walked with head erect, her chin forward, with her long, graceful gait, beside him, but never seemed two human beings further apart in spirit.

Flora Flint opened the door to Vixley's flat. She acted quite as if she belonged there and invited them in cordially, with an up-and-down scrutiny of Clytie as they passed in. Then she disappeared down the long, tunnel-like hall. Cayley took Clytie into the office where, refusing a chair, she stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the door.

Vixley entered, currying his beard with his long fingers. "Well, Mr. Cayley," he said, "what can we do for you? Like a sitting?"

"Professor, you recall telling me something about some memoranda Granthope gave you, don't you?"

"I been thinkin' about that, Mr. Cayley, and I don't know as I ought to have said anything. I'm rather inclined to regret it."

"You _have_ said something, and I've brought this lady down to show the memoranda to her," said Cayley.

"H'm!" Vixley looked her over. "It ain't exactly customary to show things like that, you know."

"We've had all that out before. I'm here to see those cards."

Vixley drew up a rocking-chair for Clytie, and seated himself on the edge of the revolving chair in front of his desk, putting the tips of his long fingers together. "Francis Granthope is a bright young man," he said, "a very bright young man. Very painstaking, and very thorough. I won't say he ain't a _leetle_ bit unscrupulous, however. A man who ain't got no psychic influence behind him has got to do some pretty good guessin'. Now you go to work and take me, with my control, Theodore Parker, and his band o' spirits, I don't need to bother much. I can get all I want out of the other plane. I ain't sayin' nothin' against Granthope, except maybe that he uses methods, sometimes, that ain't _exactly_ legitimate, such as what I was tellin' you about."

"How did he happen to give you these notes?" Clytie asked.

"Why, I s'pose he expected me to give him an equivalent in return. I will say I have helped him out, at times, feelin' rather predisposed toward him, and him bein' a likely chap. But Lord, _I_ don't need his help! And so I told him. In this case I didn't feel called upon to give away none of my client's affairs. Naturally he got a little huffy about it, and he's acted so that I'm inclined to resent it. I can't bear anything like ingratitude."

He opened his desk and took from a pigeonhole two cards. He handed them to Clytie.

"I was tellin' Mr. Cayley, here, I knew about Granthope and his methods. It'll show you what a poor business this palm-readin' reely is. Lord, they ain't nothin' in it at all! If anybody wants to know anything about the future the only way to do is to establish communications with the spirit-plane through the well-known and well-tried methods of spiritualism."

Clytie was not listening. Her eyes were upon the cards. She looked and looked, reading and re-reading, her face set in tense lines, the notes in Granthope's fine, closely written hand. There it was, as he had set it down:

Oliver Payson, b. Oct. 2nd, 1842. b. d. present from dau., bound copy of 'Montaigne' 1900. Tattoo mark anchor on right arm, near shoulder. Writing a book. Economics (?) Knew Mad. Grant (?) Wife visited Mad. G. x. v. p.

Clytie Payson. Engaged to Blanchard Cayley (?) Mole, left cheek. Ring with "Clytie" inside. Turquoises. Claims psychic power. Clairv. Goes to Merc. Lib. afternoons at 3. Buried doll under sun-dial in garden.

As she came to the last line she dropped the card from her fingers. She had become a woman of ice.

Vixley picked up the card and smiled, showing his yellow teeth. "Kind of a give-away, ain't it? _I_ call his work lumpy."

"I hope you're convinced now," Cayley added.

She turned her head slowly, deliberately, to the Professor. "When did Mr. Granthope give you this card?"

"Oh, I dunno, exactly, he's gave me so much, one time or another. About two weeks ago, I should judge. Why?"

"I'm very much obliged to you." Her voice came as if from an immense distance. Then she nodded to Cayley, who rose.

"Nothin' more I could do, is they? Wouldn't you like to try a sittin', Miss?" Vixley asked with urbanity.

"Thank you, no." Clytie walked out slowly, without another look at him, like a somnambulist. Vixley hastened to escort her to the front door, and opened it.

Cayley gave him a look. It was returned. Vixley bowed. Clytie went out.

"Are you going over to North Beach?" Cayley inquired. "I'll walk up to the car with you."

"I'll go alone, I think."

"Oh, very well--but--"

"Good afternoon. You'll have to excuse me, Blanchard."

"All right. Good day."

She strode off, leaving him there.

She walked all the way home, and walked fast, her head held high, looking straight ahead of her. She took the steep hills with hardly a slackening of her speed, breasting the upward inclines energetically, leaning forward with grace. Up Nob Hill and down she went, along the saddle, up Russian Hill and over, without her customary pause to enjoy the glorious outlooks. Under her arm she still carried the book from the library which she had forgotten to put down when first Blanchard Cayley spoke to her. She held it automatically, apparently not knowing that it was there. With it she gripped her glove; her right hand was still bare, clenching her skirt.

She turned into her street at last, and climbed the wooden steps, into the garden. As she went up the path, her eyes lighted upon the sun-dial. She stopped and looked at it for a moment fixedly. Then into the house, up-stairs to her room, to throw herself upon the bed...

The wind had risen and blew gustily about the house. Her shutter banged at intervals. The noise kept up till she rose, opened the window and fastened back the blind, and went back to her bed. There she lay, staring, with her eyes wide open...

Her father did not come home that evening. At half-past seven she got up again, washed her face, arranged her hair, and went down-stairs to eat dinner alone. Afterward she stepped out into the garden. The wind billowed her skirts, fretted her hair into a swirl of tawny brown, cooled her cheeks. For an hour she walked up and down in the dark. The harbor was thick with mist. The siren on Lime Point sobbed across the Gate intermittently ...

Later, she went into the library and sat down with a book beside the fire. For a half-hour she did not turn a page, but remained quiescent, gazing at the flames...

At ten she went up to her workroom, lighted the gas, and took out her tools. For two hours she sewed leaves on her frame, working as if automatically. Her gaze was intent; one would have said that she was completely absorbed in her task. Slowly the sheets piled, one on another, each stitched to the back with deft strokes. Finally the whole volume was completed. She bound up the loose threads and put the book away. Then she heated her irons, got out her gold-leaf and spent an hour tooling a calf cover, pressing in roses and circles and stipples while her lips were sternly set. She arose, then, and looked out into the night...

She undressed at last and went to bed. Long after midnight there was a sound below of her father coming in. His footsteps went to and fro for a time, then they came up-stairs. His door was closed softly. There was no sound, now, but the ticking of her little clock, and, occasionally, the far-away echo of a steamer's whistle, and the dreary note of the siren. She tossed uneasily. The clock struck one, two, three, four. Then the wind began to sing round the corner of the house as the gale rose. The noise was soothingly monotonous, hypnotic, anesthetic...

At breakfast she was cool, serene, quiet, showing no traces of her emotion. She talked with her father, laughed with him, as usual, flying from one topic to another, never serious. As he got up to go, she remarked:

"Father, I think I'll go up to Sacramento to visit Mrs. Maxwell at Lonely a few days. I've put it off so long, and she's been after me again to come. She's up there all alone."

"All right, Cly. I saw her down-town, day before yesterday, and she told me she was going to ask you."

Clytie frowned. "You did? Why didn't you tell me?" She looked at him for a moment curiously. He seemed to wish to evade her question. Then she asked, with emphasis, "Did you ask her to invite me?"

Mr. Payson hesitated. "Why, I told her that you would probably accept--"

She bit her lip, still frowning. "I understand. On account of Mr. Granthope, I presume?"

"Well, I thought it would be just as well for you to take a little vacation."

Clytie said nothing. Mr. Payson lingered, ill at ease in the face of her implications. At last he looked at her over his spectacles and said petulantly: "I've been surprised at you, Cly, really. I have been considerably worried, as well. I'm afraid you've compromised yourself seriously by having been seen so much with Granthope. I haven't spoken of it, before, because I had already said all I could to you. You knew very well what my wishes were in the matter and it seems you've seen fit to disregard them."

Clytie still kept silent, listening to him calmly. He had worked himself up by his own words to an irascible pitch, but her non-resistance balked his temper, and it oozed away, as he continued.

"I hope this trip will give you a chance to think it well over, Cly, and I have no doubt that you'll come to see it as I do."

"Oh, I'll think it over," she replied listlessly.

Mr. Payson, having won his point in getting her out of town, shook his head without replying, and prepared to leave the room.

But Clytie continued. "At least, I am sure he was sincere in warning you against those mediums you are going to, father."

He turned to her, his irritability rekindled by her remark. "That's exactly what I most dislike about the man," he exclaimed. "If he hadn't attempted to prejudice me against them I might believe in his own change of heart, or whatever it was. But he went back on the very people with whom he's been associated for years. Isn't that suspicious?"

"Didn't he do that to save you from their tricks?" Her voice was low and evidently troubled; she seemed to be attempting to convince herself, rather than her father.

"I notice he didn't explain how they managed to give me my tests," Mr. Payson retorted, shaking his head emphatically. "He seemed to consider me the most simple and credulous person in the world. His statements, at least those he dared to make, were all general ones, and they implied that I was not old enough, or else, perhaps, too old to sift the evidence for myself. They were positively insulting. These mediums have given me proof enough to convince any one. They've told me things that couldn't possibly have been found out by any tricks. Take that about your giving me a copy of _Montaigne_ for my birthday, for instance. How could they have found that out? You hadn't told any one about it, had you?"

"No," said Clytie faintly.

"There you are, then!" Mr. Payson wagged his head solemnly. "What did I tell you?"

"What else did they say?" Clytie asked anxiously.

"Plenty of things. Things I myself didn't know the truth about till I investigated. Things about my personal affairs, about my past life--oh, so much that I can't help feeling that there's something in this business that we don't understand. Oh!"--he paused for a moment, looking at her--"there was one thing I wanted to ask you about--I forgot to speak of it. It sounded like nonsense, at the time--you know that even spirits are sometimes frivolous and inconsequent--and there were so many other more important communications at the time that it slipped my mind. Vixley's control said something once about a doll that was buried underneath--"

"Oh, I forgot to ring up Mrs. Maxwell," Clytie interrupted, springing up. "I _must_ tell her I'm coming. If I don't do it right away now I may not catch her--it takes so long to get a long distance connection."

She went up to him and putting her arms round his neck, kissed him. "Don't wait, father, if you're in a hurry. Good-by!"

She walked to the door.

"Well, then, I'll go along down-town," he said. "Be sure and write when you get up there."

She left him hurriedly and ran up-stairs.

At ten she was at the ferry, waiting for the boat which connected with the Sacramento train. There was a crowd going, coming and waiting in the long arcade outside. As she approached the ticket office a man was at the window. He was tall, dark-haired, distinguished. At sight of him, Clytie withdrew out of sight, and let him finish his business and leave. Then she approached, bought her ticket, and, watching sharply, dodging behind groups here and there, she succeeded in passing the ticket collector and losing herself in the assembly in the waiting-room without being observed. She wormed her way forward near the gate, and with the first rush of passengers, after the gate was raised, hurried on to the boat and went, immediately into the ladies' room.

On the other side she acted as cautiously. She remained till almost the last passenger had left the boat, then walked swiftly through the train-shed to her car. For an hour, as the train sped on, she scarcely looked to the right or the left.

The train slowed up at Stockton, and stopped. Clytie looked carelessly out of the window. Just as the train started again, Granthope appeared on the platform. He went up to a cab-driver and began talking. Clytie, flushing deeply, watched him so intensely that at last, as if attracted by some mental telepathy, he looked round and caught sight of her. His hat came off to her immediately. He gave a quick glance at the now rapidly moving train, as if intending to board it, then he gave it up as impossible. Clytie's eyes lost him, and she was carried on. It was a long time before the color faded from her cheeks.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*TIT FOR TAT*

Professor Vixley had prepared his campaign with Mr. Payson with the scientific delight of an engineer. His cunning was not too low to prevent his love of the sport for the sport's sake, and his elaborations and by-plays were undertaken with relish and enthusiasm. The pleasure was vastly heightened for him by the character of his dupe. Mr. Payson was a figure in the community, a man of weight and influence. He had an established position and an assured wealth. Heavy and slow, mentally, he had the dignified respectability that is usually associated with business success.

In the mental manipulation of such a personage Vixley felt a sense of power as enjoyable as the pecuniary reward. The dwarf, socially, led the giant.

He had his charge, by this time, well in hand. The old gentleman's ponderous mentality had been managed like an ocean steamship lying at the dock. One by one the lines of doubt and distrust and prejudice had been released. It was now time to fire his intellectual boilers. By means of their tricks, eavesdropping methods and clever guess-work, and with Cayley's help, they had fed him fuel for the imagination until now he was roused to a dynamic, enthusiastic belief in spiritualism, or that version of it which best suited their ends. Captain and pilot were aboard and in command. It remained but to ring up the engines, turn over the wheel and get under way for the voyage. Many another such argosy had been fitted out and had sailed forth from their brains, to return laden with treasure. There was hazard of collision or shipwreck, but the only obstacle now in view was Granthope, and Vixley felt sure that he could be blown out of the way with the explosion of a few scandals.

Mr. Payson's mind had an inertia which, once successfully overcome, was transformed to momentum. He was as credulous, as responsive, as influenced by the specious logic of the medium as if he had never been a skeptic. Vixley's next move was to realize financially on Payson's vanity and literary aspirations.

The ensuing series of communications from "Felicia," automatically transcribed by Vixley, developed the fact Mr. Payson's book would meet with disastrous competition from an unknown author who was working upon the same subject in Chicago. Such a publication would, in the eyes of any publisher, materially affect the value of a San Francisco book. Something must be done to prevent the rival work from being printed. The first step necessary, Vixley asserted, was to send a man to Chicago and investigate the case and report upon it. This preliminary reconnaissance cost a considerable sum. Payson did not see the emissary, for Vixley had warned him of the possibility of blackmail. "Felicia" now informed the sitter that the aid of the spirit world could be invoked to forestall the competing writer's efforts.

There was a band of spirits on the "third sphere," it seemed, who, though usually maleficent, could be placated. These "Diakkas" could, and possibly would, exert certain magnetic or psychic powers so as to prevent competition. It was difficult, however, to win over spirits so fantastic as these, even when one had established communication with them--itself an intricate and dangerous process. The only safe way, Mr. Payson was assured, was to create an atmosphere pleasing to them, one which absorbed antagonistic vibrations, and facilitated communication by intensifying the sitter's aura and rendering their acceptance of earthly conditions easy. And so forth, through an elaborate exposition.

The thing was accomplished by means of charging the room with the perfume of ambergris. Ambergris, however, was expensive. Mr. Payson had to pay fifty dollars an ounce for his; moreover, a fresh supply was necessary for each seance as the material quickly absorbed the deleterious psycho-physical elements of the atmosphere, and became inert to vibration. Professor Vixley divided this revenue with Madam Spoll, but he could not divide his pleasure in his artful fiction. Madam Spoll was only a woman; the artistic niceties of the harlequinade were lost on her.

This could not, however, go on for ever, nor were the two conspirators content to do business in so small a way. Both were convinced that the only chance for a large and permanent income lay in the production of Payson's and Felicia's child, and they set about the plan by which this should become remunerative.

Ringa was settled upon for the impersonation. He was simple, easily taught and led; he was willing. He would be as easily managed when the time came for a division of the profits of the enterprise. And so, one day, Madam Spoll waddled out to Turk Street to complete the negotiations.

Professor Vixley was bending over a small machine with horizontal arms in the form of a cross, decorated with mirrors, when she rang; before opening the door he covered the instrument with a black cloth and put it on his roll-top desk by the type-writer.

Madam Spoll came in smiling, unruffled as if her face had been freshly ironed out.

"I been walking lately, to reduce my flesh, but, Lord, I get such an appetite I eat more'n enough to balance," she panted, as she lowered herself carefully upon the quilted couch and crushed back into a sofa pillow, whereon was painted a fencing girl with a heart on her plastron. She loosened her beaded cape, and breathed heavily in relief.

"Well, I managed to get here, after all! What d'you think? Mrs. Riley has been to me for a private setting. Do you recall her, Vixley? She's that woman who was tried for murdering her husband some years back and was acquitted; or rather the jury was hung. Anyways, _she_ wasn't. But I believe she done it. She's as nervous as a cat, and can't look you in the face to save her soul. It seems that she knew Madam Grant in the old days, and used to get readings off her. I don't know but we could use her, someway."

"Has she got any money?" said the slate-writer.

"She keeps a boarding-house, I believe. It wouldn't be much, but 'every little helps,' as the old lady said when she spit into the harbor. I might work her for five a week, I s'pose, but now I think of it, Masterson's doctoring her."

"Then they won't be much meat left on her bones!" Vixley grinned. "But I ain't botherin' with landladies till we finish with Payson. Did you see him yesterday?"

"I did, and he said he'd give a thousand dollars if we'd find the boy. I shouldn't wonder if he'd pay more if we work it right, not to speak of what we get from Ringa when he's fixed."

"Lord! A thousand dollars for Ringa! Wouldn't that make you seasick?" Vixley cackled, slapping his claw-like hand on his knee. "I say, Gertie, we ought to get a couple of good crockery teeth put in his jaw first, or the old man will want to return him for shop-worn. Ringa as Mr. Max Payson, Esquire! Gee whizz! I want to be there when the old gent falls on his neck and kills the fatted calf!"

"I've known a heap of worse boys than Max Ringa to have for a son," Madam Spoll said, a little irritated. "You go to work and wash him and dress him up in a Prince Albert and I don't know why he won't do as well as anybody."

"Oh, he'll do--he'll do elegant! He'll do Payson, anyways, and that's all we want."

"Oh, I'm going to teach him to jump through the hoop all right. He'll be doing the papa's darling act so natural you'll think he'd always slep' in a bed!" She chuckled now till she shook like a jelly-fish. "He's just crazy about it. Says he'll come down and take me to ride in his automobile car. Why, Payson will be good for all sorts of money if Ringa works him right. He ought to get an allowance of two or three hundred a month if the old man's got any proper feelings as a father."