Helen Vardon's confession
with the crystal before her (all the best scryers, I think, are women)
and gazes steadily at the bright lights in it, keeping the conscious
mind in a passive state--thinking of nothing, in fact. After a time
the lights in the crystal grow dim; a kind of cloud or mist seems to
float before it, and in this cloud, and gradually taking its place,
the picture or vision appears; sometimes dim and vague, but often
quite clear and bright, like the little pictures that you see in a
convex mirror or a silver ball.”
“And what is this picture? I mean what is its subject?”
“That varies. It may be a scene from the past that had been forgotten
by the conscious memory, or something that never happened at all--just
a jumble of bits of memory like a dream. Or it may be the picture of
some event that is going to take place in the near future.”
“But,” I objected, “how can an event which has not yet occurred be in
your subconscious mind?”
“I know,” said Lilith. “The whole subject of precognition is a very
difficult one. But there seems to be no doubt that prophetic visions
do really occur. And then there is clairvoyance--seeing across space
and through obstacles. A really gifted scryer, by concentrating her
thought on a particular person or place as she looks into the crystal,
can see that person or place, no matter how great the distance may be;
can see exactly what the person is doing or what is happening at the
place.”
“Really!” I exclaimed. “That sounds like rather an undesirable
faculty. Doesn’t it strike you, Lilith, as a very great intrusion on
the privacy and liberty of the subject to scry a person without his or
her consent? Supposing the scryer should happen to discover the scryed
one in the act of taking her--or his--morning tub. Wouldn’t it be
rather a liberty?”
Lilith laughed (but I could see that the idea was new to her): “You
are dreadfully matter-of-fact, Sibyl. But, of course, you are quite
right. We shouldn’t misuse our powers. As for me, I have very little
power of the kind to misuse, for I have never seen anything more than
a sort of vague picture of unrecognisable figures in undistinguishable
surroundings. But I think you might do better, for I am still
convinced that you have special gifts. Would you like to try the
crystal, Sibyl?”
“Not now, thank you, Lilith. We ought to get to work after all this
gossip. And that reminds me that, before you came up, I was looking at
your exquisite paintings and wondering if you are not, to some extent,
wasting your great talents.”
“In what way?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, “these designs would make magnificent tapestries
or wall decorations. But if you can’t get a wall, you might condescend
to a smaller surface. Have you ever tried designing and painting a
fan?”
“No,” she replied.
“I wish you would,” said I. “You would do it splendidly with your
power of design and your delicate technique. And Phillibar could make
the sticks and carve the guards, or I could do you a pair in silver
repoussé, and a jewelled pin and loop. Will you think over the
proposal?”
Lilith picked up the crystal on its cushion and, smiling at me, said:
“I will make a bargain with you. If you will take the crystal to your
room and give it a thorough trial whenever you have time, I will get
out a design for a fan. Do you agree?”
I held out my hand for the crystal. Primarily, my desire was to
introduce Lilith to Fame and Fortune through the medium of the Magpies
Club; but the startling success of the magic pendulum had aroused my
curiosity in regard to the other “autoscope,” though I have to confess
that, when I had borne it to my room, I concealed it guiltily in a
locked drawer, where it should be secure from the prying eyes of the
servant-maid, and above all from the observation of the sarcastic and
sceptical Titmouse.
But there were other matters than crystals and magic pendulums to be
thought of. There was, for instance, the set of twelve spoons which
Mr. Campbell had asked me to make and to which he had again referred
in his letter. I knew now that I should be paid for them at a
reasonably remunerative rate, and this, and the congenial nature of
the task, encouraged me to get to work. But before I could begin there
was the motive of the design to be considered; and since the apostles
were ruled out as obsolete, I had to find some other group of twelve
related objects. After a whole day’s anxious thought, I fixed upon the
Signs of the Zodiac as furnishing a picturesque and manageable motive,
and with this scheme in my mind, I fell to work in earnest, first with
the pencil and then with the wax and metal.
But busy as I was, and happy in the interest of my work, I was yet
aware of a change, of a something new that had come into my life. From
the little workshop which had been my world, I found my thoughts
straying out into the larger world, and particularly that part of it
which is adjacent to Temple Bar; and if at times I viewed this change
with some misgivings, I was more often conscious of a sense of
exhilaration such as one feels when embarking on some new adventure.
In due course I received notice of my election as a member of the
Magpies Club, and by the same post a letter from Mr. Davenant asking
me to celebrate the event by lunching with him there; and, as I had
occasion to go into town to replenish my silver and some other
materials, I accepted his invitation, intending to return to Wellclose
Square in the afternoon. But it appeared that a loan collection of
antique silver was being exhibited at the South Kensington Museum, and
that he had hoped to have the pleasure of inspecting it under my
expert guidance. Now, to a craftsman (or craftswoman) of small
experience, there is no technical education to compare with the study
of admitted masterpieces. I felt that strongly, and I felt that I
needed that technical education; furthermore, I felt that the attempt
to explain the merits of the old work to an attentive and sympathetic
listener would help me to concentrate my own attention. And perhaps it
did. At any rate, I spent a long and pleasant afternoon at the museum,
and we subsequently discussed the exhibits (and various other matters)
very companionably over the dinner table at the club.
“It has been a jolly day for me, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Davenant, as he
wished me “good-bye” at the Underground Station. “I’ve learned no end
about silver--you are a perfect encyclopædia of knowledge in regard
to goldsmith’s work. And the delightful thing to think of is that
we’ve only scratched the surface of the museum. The place is
inexhaustible. Do you think I may hope for the pleasure of another
visit there with you before long?”
I gave what I intended to be an ambiguous answer. But it was not
ambiguous to me; and I suspect that Mr. Davenant went on his way with
a feeling that a precedent had been created.
When I arrived home, I found a letter awaiting me from Mr. Otway. It
was not entirely unexpected, for I had felt pretty certain that he
would presently hear further from his mysterious correspondent. It now
appeared that he had received one or two short letters, ostensibly of
the nature of warnings, but actually threatening, though in vague,
indefinite terms, and one more recently of a more explicitly menacing
character. These he wished me to see and discuss with him, and he
asked me to make an appointment, at my convenience, to meet him for
that purpose. I replied, suggesting, as before, the Tower Wharf; and
there, a couple of evenings later, I met him.
In appearance he had by no means improved. His pale face had a
strained, wild expression, his eye-lids were puffy and covered with
curious, minute wrinkles. His hands were markedly tremulous, and his
fingers bore the deep stains that mark the inveterate cigarette
smoker. His dress was noticeably less neat than it had used to be;
indeed, he presented a distinctly shabby and neglected appearance.
Oddly enough, too, he seemed to have grown somewhat stouter.
I should have been less than human if these plain indications of
sustained misery had awakened in me no feeling of pity. That his
sufferings were the indirect result of his indifference to the
happiness or misery of others, could not entirely stifle compassion,
and I found myself speaking to him in a tone almost sympathetic.
“I am afraid, Mr. Otway,” said I, “you are letting these nonsensical
letters worry you quite unnecessarily. You are not looking at all
well.”
“I am not at all well, Helen,” he replied, dejectedly.
“And I think you are smoking too much.”
“I am. And I am drinking too much--I, who have been a temperate man
all my life. And I have to take drugs to get a decent night’s rest.
This worry is breaking me up.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Otway,” I protested, “you mustn’t give way in this
manner. What is it all about, after all? Just a wretched blackmailer
whom you know to be an imposter, whose threats you know to be mere
empty vapourings.”
“That is not quite true, Helen. The man is an impostor, no doubt. He
doesn’t really know anything. There is nothing for him to know. But he
could create a great deal of trouble. He could, in fact, cause
the--ah--the inquiry to be re-opened and--ah----”
“Exactly. And if it were re-opened? There would be unpleasant comment
on the fact that a detail of the evidence had been withheld at the
inquest. But that is the worst that could happen.”
Mr. Otway looked at me with a sort of dumb gratitude that was quite
pathetic, but his gloom was in nowise dispelled by my optimism.
“It is very good of you, Helen,” said he, “to speak in this cheerful,
confident tone. But I assure you, you minimize the danger. There is no
saying what construction might be put upon the suppression of that
detail; what considerations of motive might be read into
it--especially as there was what they would call collusion between us
to suppress it. But let me show you the last letter--the others are of
no consequence.”
He produced his wallet, and, after some awkward fumbling, drew out the
letter, which he held out to me with a hand that shook so that the
paper rattled. Like the last, it was typewritten unskilfully, and
characterized by the same semi-illiterate confusion in the wording,
which ran thus:
“Mr. Lewis Otway,
“The writer of this warns you once more to look out for trouble. The
person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the
inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t
live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone
knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning.
“From a Well Wisher.”
I returned the letter to Mr. Otway after reading it through twice, and
I must confess that my confidence was somewhat shaken. If the writer
was merely guessing, he seemed to have an uncanny aptitude for
guessing right. As to his claim to possess some further knowledge, I
did not see how that could be possible. When the fatal interview took
place between my father and Mr. Otway, there were--to the best of my
belief--only three persons in the house. Of those actually present at
the interview there was only a single survivor--Mr. Otway himself--and
he alone knew with certainty what occurred. The claim was therefore
almost certainly false. And yet, even as I dismissed it, there crept
into my mind once again a vague discomfort, a doubt whether there
might not be something that I was unaware of, and that Mr. Otway knew;
some dreadful secret that I, of all persons in the world, had been
instrumental in guarding from discovery. And as I glanced at Mr.
Otway--haggard, wild, trembling, and terrified out of all proportion
to the danger, so far as it was known to me--the horrid doubts seemed