only a few minutes ago she asked Frederik if any message had come. And
he said, no, there hadn't."

"I wonder," suggested Kathrien, "if there _was_ any message with the
photograph."

"I remember," volunteered Mrs. Batholommey, "one of the letters that
came for poor old Mr. Grimm was in a blue envelope and felt as if it had
a photograph in it. I put it with some others in the desk and I told
Frederik about it this evening."

Kathrien glanced over the desk and at the floor around it in search of
further clues. She saw, in the jardiniere, the charred remnants of a
letter and pointed it out to the others. She drew from the debris the
unburned corner of a blue envelope.

"That's the one!" cried Mrs. Batholommey. "That's it! The same colour."

"You say the envelope was addressed to my uncle?"

"Yes. It gave me such a turn to see those letters all addressed to a man
who wasn't alive to----"

"Oh, what does it all mean?" cried the girl.

"We are going to find out," said McPherson with sudden determination.
"Kathrien, draw those window shades close. I want the room darkened as
much as possible."

"Oh, Doctor," protested Mrs. Batholommey as Kathrien hastened to obey,
"you're surely not going to----?"

"Be quiet. You needn't stay unless you want to."

"Oh, I'll stay. It's my duty. But I don't approve. Please understand
that."

Kathrien had returned to her place by the fire and had lifted Willem
back on her lap. The doctor, gazing into space, said in a low,
reverential tone:

"Peter Grimm! If you have come back to us, if you are in this room--if
this boy has spoken truly,--give us some sign, some indication----"

"Why, Andrew, I can't," answered the Dead Man. "Not to _you_. I have, to
the boy. I can't make you hear me, Andrew. The obstacles are too strong
for me."

"Peter Grimm," went on the doctor after a moment of dead silence, "if
you cannot make your presence known to me--and I realise there must be
great difficulties--will you try to send your message by Willem? I
presume you _have_ a message?"

Another space of tense silence.

"Well, Peter," resumed McPherson patiently, "I am waiting. We are all
waiting."

"Then stop talking and listen to Willem," ordered Peter Grimm.

The doctor involuntarily glanced at the boy. Willem's wide-open eyes
were glazed like a sleep-walker's. The hands that had been folded in his
lap now hung limply at his sides. His lips parted, and droning,
mechanical, lifeless words ca