arn the truth from her. Willem may be right or wrong in what he
thinks he remembers. But _I_ am going to find out, past all doubt, what
Anne Marie was to you. And, if what I think is true----"

"It is true," interposed McPherson. "It is true, Kathrien. I believe we
got that message direct."

"Andrew is right, Katje," prompted the Dead Man. "Believe him."

"Yes!" cried Kathrien, as if in reply. "It is true. I believe Oom Peter
was in this room to-night!"

"What?" blurted Frederik. "_You_ saw him, too?"

His unguarded query was lost in Mrs. Batholommey's gasp of:

"Oh, Kathrien, that's quite impossible. It was only a coincidence
that----"

"I don't care what any one else may think," rushed on Kathrien, swept
along upon the wave of a strange exultation that bore her far out of her
wonted timid self. "People have the right to think for themselves. I
believe Oom Peter has been here, to-night!"

"I _am_ here, Katje," breathed the Dead Man.

"I believe he is here, _now_!" declared Kathrien, her eyes aglow, and
her face flushed. "He is here. Oh, Oom Peter!" she cried, her arms
stretched wide in appeal, her face alight, her voice rising like that of
a prophetess of old. "Oom Peter, if you can hear me now, give me back my
promise! Give it back to me--_or I'll take it back_!"

"I did give it back to you, dear," answered Peter Grimm happily. "But,
oh, what a time I've had putting it across!"

CHAPTER XVII

MR. BATHOLOMMEY TESTIFIES

_To Whom It May Concern:_

I am Henry Batholommey, rector of the Protestant Episcopal church at
Grimm Manor, New York State. My neighbour, Andrew McPherson, M.D., has
asked me to substantiate, so far as lies in my power, certain statements
in a paper he is preparing for the Society of Psychical Research,
concerning certain recent happenings in the house of my former
parishioner, the late Peter Grimm of this place.

I refuse.

I understand, also, that in telling the story broadcast, as he has done,
he has made free use of my name and that of my wife, as witnesses to
these happenings. Wherefore, I am daily in receipt of fully a dozen
letters of enquiry. Reporters, so-called scientists, mystics with long
hair and unclean nails, and cranks and practical jokers of every sort
and description have taken to calling at the rectory, at inconvenient
hours, to cross-question me.

For example: one disreputable man, reeking of cheap liquor, came to me
yesterday with the information tha