s disgusted that
any editor could let it go untold. I also experienced more than usual
curiosity to know how those headless bodies came there, or rather, why
they should lie there on the deck headless. Then there was that journal
that had been found lying open on the cabin table, as though the writer
had been interrupted in the writing which had never been finished. What
light might that little book not throw on the mystery? And now it was
lying fathoms deep in the Southern Atlantic. Of what use to speculate
over the matter. Thanks to the careless mate and the stupid editor, that
mystery would remain forever unsolved. But in spite of reason I did
speculate considerably over the matter, and, try as I did, could not
banish the story from my mind.

A few weeks after that I went into Northern Vermont to report the Benton
murder trial, which was attracting much more than local attention. I was
pleased to find that the prosecuting attorney was an old classmate of
mine, George Judson. I had known him pretty well as a hard-working and
remarkably bright man, with a curious streak in his mental make-up that
led him to investigate every new "ism" that appeared. We used to call
him a Spiritualist, and, had the word been in use, I am sure would have
called him a crank. He was five years older than I, had married
immediately after graduating, had prospered as a lawyer, and now had a
good home for his wife and two children. He seemed much pleased to renew
the acquaintance of college days, and insisted that I should make his
house my home during my stay in the town.

One Saturday evening as we sat in his comfortable library smoking after
dinner, Judson said, with some apparent hesitation:

"There's going to be a show here this evening that may interest you."

"Yes?"

"Yes. There's a woman living here who does some remarkable things when
in a trance. There are a few of us who are curious about such things,
and I've asked her and them here to my house this evening."

"What is it?" I asked lightly; "the cabinet act?"

Judson looked a trifle hurt. "Yes," he answered, slowly, "she's a
medium, and you newspaper men have said that she's a fraud. But I've
seen manifestations that I can't explain on any theory other than that
they were the work of higher powers, and I'm going to look into it
further."

The same old Judson, I thought. He was evidently more in earnest than
his assumed indifference indicated. I marveled that the shrewd,