suggested that my watch must have gone
wrong; but we compared notes, and our watches were registering exactly
the same hour within a minute or two.

I found out later that, having learnt something of the Thought
Transference Theory at the Dunedin Circle or Metaphysical Club which he
had attended, Mr Kitchener had attempted to _make me see_ a vision at
four A.M., but as he confessed he had been fast asleep _when_ I _did_
see (_an hour and three quarters before his efforts started_), it would
take a very ingenious person to prove that the latter had anything to do
with the occurrence.

A deeply interesting corroboration reached me, however, a few weeks
later, by which time I had visited the "Sounds," and many other places
of interest, and had arrived safely at Auckland, in the North Island.

On the morning of my vision, I must not forget to mention, that I had
spoken of it to Mr Kitchener's faithful Irish housekeeper, whose
nationality I knew would prevent her thinking me a mere lunatic. By this
time scepticism had the upper hand, and I was beginning to try to
explain away everything in the true Podmorian spirit.

Could Mr Kitchener or any other person present have had to do with the
matter? In this case my blissful feelings would naturally be merely the
result of imagination, and easily disposed of on this ground. So I
questioned the little housekeeper when she brought my hot water as to
whether it could have been possible for Mr Kitchener or anyone else in
the house to have access to a clean sheet or tablecloth, and to have
masqueraded in the garden outside my room. She indignantly denied the
possibility. "The linen is all locked up by me; besides, no one would
have been so wicked. It might have frightened you out of your senses,
ma'am! Do you suppose the master would have done such a thing?"

No; I did not really accuse anyone of such a cruel and stupid joke.
Moreover, it was a little difficult, even for Podmorian ingenuity, to
explain how man or woman, masquerading in a white sheet in the garden
outside, could convey the fairly solid figure of a faked "George Eliot,"
who stood well out between the wall and my bed; and this through a thick
green blind and curtains, when garden and room alike were shrouded in
_absolute_ darkness!

Foiled in all my attempts to find a "sensible solution" to the mystery,
I determined to write and ask Lizzie Maynard of Melbourne if _she_ could
throw any light upon matters, my decisio