ent, Bulger. When you come to my age,
you won't be. Martha says it's the most important thing. And she's
right--she's right. What's the ten or twenty years I've got to live in
this world, compared with all that's waiting us out there? Of course,"
he added, "I don't know much about your private life; I don't know if
you have another part of you waiting."

"Who's Martha?" enquired Bulger.

"No one in _this_ world," responded Norcross. "She's a control
now--Mrs. Markham's best control." Norcross jumped up, and began to
pace the floor in his hurried little walk. Bulger did not fail to
notice that, within a minute or two, a heavy, beady perspiration came
out on his face and forehead. The room was cool; the railroad king was
old and spare. Nothing save some struggle of the inner consciousness
could produce that effect of mighty labor.

"Bulger," said Norcross, speaking in quick, staccato jerks, "if I told
you what I'd seen and heard in the last fortnight, I couldn't make you
believe it. Proofs! Proofs! I've wasted thirty years. I might have had
her--the best part of her--all this time. You think I'm crazy--" he
stopped and peered into Bulger's face. "If anyone had talked this way
to me six months ago, I'd have thought so myself. Do you or don't you?"
he exploded.

"About as crazy as you ever were," responded Bulger. "Not to sugar coat
the pill, people have always said you were crazy--just before you let
off your fireworks. You've got there because you dared do things that
only a candidate for Bloomingdale would attempt. But you always landed,
and we've another name for it now."

"That's it!" exclaimed Norcross. "That's exactly it. I dare to say now
that the dead do return! People have believed in ghosts as long as
they've believed in a Divine Providence--just as many centuries and
ages--every race, every nation. We hear in this generation that certain
people have proved it--found! the way--set up the wires--and we laugh,
and call it all fraud. I don't laugh! Why, we're on the verge of things
which make the railroad and the steamboat and the telegraph seem like
toys--if we only dared. I dare--I dare!" He went on pacing the floor;
and now the beads had assembled into rivers, so that a tiny stream
trickled down and fogged his reading-glasses. He jerked them off, wiped
them, wiped his face and forehead. The action calmed him, brought him
back to his reasonable grip on himself. At the end of his route across
the room, he sat