at the moment exactly
like a message from my friend Alexander. The first bar went through me
like the sound of his voice."

"Now you are getting into the upper air of spiritualism," exulted
Fowler. "You are now receiving a message that has dignity and meaning."

"So it seemed at the moment, both to Blake and to myself. The music was
manifestly not the kind of thing that Mrs. Hartley could conceive. It
was absolutely _not_ commonplace. It was elliptical, touched with
technical subtlety, although simple in appearance. At last a complete
phrase was written out and partly harmonized. This, 'E. A.' said, was
the beginning of a little piece that he had intended to call 'Unghere'
or 'Hungarie.' Nothing in all my long experience with psychics ever
moved me like the first phrase of that sweet, sad melody. It seemed like
the touch of identification I had been seeking."

"But your friend Blake was a musician," interrupted Miller. "And how
about your own subconscious self? You are musical, and your mind is
filled with your friend Alexander's music."

"That is true, and I had that reservation all along. 'E. A.' may have
been made up of our combined subconscious selves; I admit all that. But
no matter; it was still very marvellous, even on its material side, for
some of this music was written in while the slates were in Blake's
entire control. At times he not merely inserted them himself but
withdrew them--the psychic merely clutched one corner of them.
Furthermore, throughout all this composition 'Ernest' was master of the
situation. 'Dr. Cooke' was superseded. There was neither feebleness nor
hesitation in the voice. I could now distinguish most of the words, and
the dialogue went forward exactly as if a master musician were dictating
to an intelligent amanuensis a new and subtle sketch."

"Did the medium look at the music?" asked Miller.

"Yes, now and then. However, most of the corrections were put in upside
down, as regards her position, and during the last sitting she appeared
to be no more than a mere on-looker. Once as we sat holding the slate
'Ernest' whispered to me: '_Blake is a fine fellow. I met him twice._'"

"'Can you tell me where?' asked Blake.

"'_It was in New York City_,' was the reply; then, after a moment's
hesitation: '_It was at dinner--both times!_' 'You are right,' said
Blake, much impressed. 'Can you tell me the places?' '_Once was on Fifth
Avenue. The other was--I can't tell the location exactly;