freed from the known brain, and the conscious self is consequently far
away from the material body, on the confines of an entirely spiritual
plane. Of course, the experiences of this conscious self may or may not
be remembered, but there is, in its case, always the possibility, owing
to the capacity for concentration which is invariably the property of
all who have developed their spiritual or unknown brain, of subsequent
recollection.

At death, and at death only, the magnetic link is actually broken. The
unknown brain is then entirely freed from the known brain, and the
latter, together with the rest of the material body, perishes from
natural decay; whilst the former, no longer restricted within the limits
of its earthly pale, is at liberty to soar _ad infinitum_.

CHAPTER II

THE OCCULT IN SHADOWS

Many of the shadows, I have seen, have not had material counterparts.
They have invariably proved themselves to be superphysical danger
signals, the sure indicators of the presence of those grey, inscrutable,
inhuman cerebrums to which I have alluded; of phantasms of the dead and
of elementals of all kinds. There is an indescribable something about
them, that at once distinguishes them from ordinary shadows, and puts me
on my guard. I have seen them in houses that to all appearances are the
least likely to be haunted--houses full of sunshine and the gladness of
human voices. In the midst of merriment, they have darkened the wall
opposite me like the mystic writing in Nebuchadnezzar's palace. They
have suddenly appeared by my side, as I have been standing on rich, new
carpeting or sun-kissed swards. They have floated into my presence with
both sunbeams and moonbeams, through windows, doors, and curtains, and
their advent has invariably been followed by some form or other of
occult demonstration. I spent some weeks this summer at Worthing, and,
walking one afternoon to the Downs, selected a bright and secluded spot
for a comfortable snooze. I revel in snatching naps in the open
sunshine, and this was a place that struck me as being perfectly ideal
for that purpose. It was on the brow of a diminutive hillock covered
with fresh, lovely grass of a particularly vivid green. In the rear and
on either side of it, the ground rose and fell in pleasing alternation
for an almost interminable distance, whilst in front of it there was a
gentle declivity (up which I had clambered) terminating in the broad,
level road leadin