r of his fall. I told her no more, for I wanted her to
approach the subject without prejudice.

Without more ado, we went into the room which Amy called her Temple of
Vision, and Amy got to work.

6

I was travelling by the 6.28 back to Potter's Bar. I lay back in my
corner with closed eyes, recalling the events of that wonderful afternoon
in the darkened, scented room. It had been a strange, almost overwhelming
experience. I had been keyed up to a point of tension which was almost
unendurable, while my friend gazed and murmured into the glass ball.
These glimpses into the occult are really too much for my system; they
wring my nerves. I could have screamed when Amy said, 'Wait--wait--the
darkness stirs. I see--I see--a fair man, with the face of a Greek god.'

'Is he alone?' I whispered.

'He is not alone. He is talking to a tall dark man.'

'Yes--yes?' I bent forward eagerly, as she paused and seemed to brood
over the clear depths where, as I knew, she saw shadows forming and
reforming.

'They talk,' she murmured. 'They talk.'

(Knowing that she could not, unfortunately, hear what they said, I
did not ask.)

'They are excited.... They are quarrelling.... Oh, God!' She hid her eyes
for a moment, then looked again.

'The dark man strikes the fair man.... He is taken by surprise; he steps
backward and falls ... falls backwards ... down ... out of my vision....
The dark man is left standing alone.... He is fading ... he is gone.... I
can see him no more.... Leila, I have come to an end; I am overdone; I
must rest.'

She had fallen back with closed eyes.

A little later, when she had revived, we had had tea together, and I had
put a few questions to her. She had told me little more than what she had
revealed as she gazed into the crystal. But it was enough. She knew the
fair man for Oliver, for she had seen him at the wedding. She had not
seen the dark man's face, nor had she ever met Arthur Gideon, but her
description of him was enough for me.

I had left the house morally certain that Arthur Gideon had murdered (or
anyhow manslaughtered) Oliver Hobart.

7

I told Percy that evening, after Clare had gone to bed. I had confidence
in Percy: he would believe me. His journalistic instinct for the truth
could be counted on. He never waived things aside as improbable, for he
knew, as I knew, how much stranger truth may be than fiction. He heard
me out, nodding his head sharply from time to time to show t