“Well, I won’t, for one,” said Malone, heartily. “Keep me in touch with what is going on. But I called because I had something to ask you.”
“I am sorry, but I am really not fit.” Linden held out a quivering hand.
“No, no, nothing psychic. I simply wanted to ask you whether the presence of a strong sceptic would stop all your phenomena?”
“Not necessarily. But, of course, it makes everything more difficult. If they will be quiet and reasonable we can get results. But they know nothing, break every law, and ruin their own sittings. There was old Sherbank, the doctor, the other day. When the raps came on the table he jumped up, put his hand on the wall, and cried, ‘Now then, put a rap on the palm of my hand within five seconds.’ Because he did not get it he declared it was all humbug and stamped out of the room. They will not admit that there are fixed laws in this as in everything else.”
“Well, I must confess that the man I am thinking of might be quite as unreasonable. It is the great Professor Challenger.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard he is a hard case.”
“Would you give him a sitting?”
“Yes, if you desired it.”
“He won’t come to you or to any place you name. He imagines all sorts of wires and contrivances. You might have to come down to his country house.”
“I would not refuse if it might convert him.”
“And when?”
“I can do nothing until this horrible affair is over. It will take a month or two.”
“Well, I will keep in touch with you till then. When all is well again we shall make our plans and see if we can bring these facts before him, as they have been brought before me. Meanwhile, let me say how much I sympathize. We will form a committee of your friends and all that can will surely be done.”
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH THE NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL GETS WHAT THE BRITISH LAW CONSIDERS TO BE HIS DESERTS
Before we pursue further the psychic adventures of our hero and heroine, it would be well to see how the British law dealt with that wicked man, Mr. Tom Linden.
The
two policewomen returned in triumph to Bardsley Square Station where Inspector Murphy, who had sent them, was waiting for their report. Murphy was a jolly-looking, red-faced, black-moustached man who had a cheerful, fatherly way with women which was by no means justified by his age or virility. He sat behind his official table, his papers strewn in front of him.
“Well, girls,” he said as the two women entered, “what luck?”
“I think it’s a go, Mr. Murphy,” said the elder policewoman. “We have the evidence you want.”
The Inspector took up a written list of questions from his desk.
“You ran it on the general lines that I suggested?” he asked.
“Yes. I said my husband was killed at Ypres.”
“What did he do?”
“Well, he seemed sorry for me.”
“That, of course, is part of the game. He’ll be sorry for himself before he is through with it. He didn’t say, ‘You are a single woman and never had a husband?’”
“No.”
“Well, that’s one up against his spirits, is it not? That should impress the Court. What more?”
“He felt round for names. They were all wrong.”
“Good!”