of the
messenger he had sent to his father.

"I learned a lot, Mr. Harrison," the visitor began. "I think I can give
you quite a bit of the local color you need for your novel."

"Not so much local color as mental attitude," Peter returned. "You see,
in writing a psychological novel the author has to be careful of shades
of feeling in his delineation of the characters. And as this Mr. Crane
seemed to be just the type I want to study, I'm glad to have you tell me
all the things he said, as nearly as you can recollect his own
language."

"Yes, I know. And I was mighty interested on my own account, too."

"He was willing you should write an article about him?"

"Oh, yes, and asked me to come again."

"Go on, tell me all he said--how he looked and acted and everything that
happened."

And so the young reporter and free-lance writer told Peter Boots all
about his father, under the impression that he was talking to one who
had never seen Benjamin Crane.

"He's a wonderful man, Mr. Harrison," the other said, enthusiastically.
"He must be fifty-five at least, maybe more, but he's so alert and
quick-witted, and so full of his subject, that he seems a much younger
man."

"And he seems happy?"

"Happy! I should say so! Perfectly reconciled to his son's death,
because of these communications he gets from him! I say, Mr. Harrison, I
can't stand for it! It gets me to see how that man is gulled, and he
such a clear-headed, sane sort! Had proofs, too--all sorts of things. Do
you believe it, Mr. Harrison? Do you believe that the spirit of Mr.
Crane's dead son talks to him through a medium?"

"I do not," said Peter Crane, endeavoring not to speak too emphatically.
"I didn't want you to get that interview in the interests of Spiritism
at all, but to tell me of the condition, mentally and physically, of Mr.
Crane."

"Yes, I know. Well, the old guy is O.K. physically, fit as a fiddle. And
sound mentally, you bet, except that he's nutty on the supernatural.
Why, he showed me the tobacco pouch--you know he tells about that in his
book----"

Peter nodded.

"Showed me, too, a handkerchief of his dead son's----"

"That's not so remarkable."

"Yes, it is; 'cause it's one of a set that the chap took away with him,
embroidered by his best girl, I believe."

Peter started. One of those handkerchiefs Carly gave him! Where in the
world could that fool medium have got hold of that?

"Also a note from son, in his own handwritin