 THE PERFECT GAME by G. K. Chesterton. We have all met the man who says that some odd things have happened to him, but that he does not really believe that they were supernatural. My own position is the opposite of this. I believe in the supernatural as a matter of intellect and reason, not as a matter of personal experience. I do not see ghosts. I only see their inherent probability. But it is entirely a matter of the mere intelligence, not even of the motions. My nerves and body are altogether of this earth, very earthy. But upon people of this temperament one weird incident will often leave a peculiar impression, and the weirdest circumstance that ever occurred to me occurred a little while ago. It consisted in nothing less than my playing a game, and playing it quite well for some seventeen consecutive minutes. The ghost of my grandfather would have astonished me less. On one of these blue and burning afternoons I found myself to my inexpressible astonishment playing a game called Croquet. I had imagined that it belonged to the epoch of Leech and Anthony Trollop, and I had neglected to provide myself with those very long and luxuriant side-whiskers which are really essential to such a scene. I played it with a man whom we will call Parkinson, and with whom I had a semi-philosophical argument which lasted through the entire contest. It is deeply implanted in my mind that I had the best of the argument, but it is certain and beyond dispute that I had the worst of the game. Oh, Parkinson, Parkinson! I cried, patting him affectionately on the head with a mallet. How far you really are from the pure love of the sport, you who can play. It is only we who play badly who love the game itself. You love glory, you love applause, you love the earthquake voice of victory, you do not love Croquet. You do not love Croquet until you love being beaten at Croquet. It is we, the bunglers, who adore the occupation in the abstract. It is we, to whom it is art for arts' sake. If we may see the face of Croquet herself, if I may so express myself, we are content to see her face turned upon us in anger. Our play is called Amateur-ish, and we wear proudly the name of Amateur, for Amateur is but the French for lovers. We accept all adventures from our Lady, the most disastrous or the most dreary. We wait outside her iron gates, I allude to the hoops, vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted balls, impetuous and full of chivalry, will not be confined within the pedantic boundaries of the mere Croquet-ground. Our balls seek honour in the ends of the earth. They turn up in the flower-beds and the conservatory. They are to be found in the front garden and the next street. No, Parkinson, the good painter has skill. It is the bad painter who loves his art. The good musician loves being a musician. The bad musician loves music. With such a pure and hopeless passion do I worship Croquet. I love the game itself. I love the parallelogram of grass, marked out with chalk or tape, as if its limits were the frontiers of my sacred fatherland. The Four Seas of Britain. I love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click of the balls is music. The four colours are to me sacramental and symbolic, like the red of martyrdom or the white of Easter-day. You lose all this, my poor Parkinson. You have to solace yourself, for the absence of this vision, by the paltry consolation of being able to go through hoops and to hit the stick, and I wave my mallet in the air with a graceful gaiety. Don't be too sorry for me, said Parkinson, with his simple sarcasm. I shall get over it in time. But it seems to me that the more a man likes a game, the better he would want to play it. Granted that the pleasure in the thing itself comes first does not the pleasure of success come naturally and inevitably afterwards? Or take your own simile of the night and his lady-love. I admit the gentleman does first and foremost want to be in the lady's presence, but I never yet heard of a gentleman who wanted to look an utter ass when he was there. Perhaps not, though he generally looks it, I replied, but the truth is that there is a fallacy in the simile, although it was my own. The happiness at which the lover is aiming is an infinite happiness which can be extended without limit. The more he is loved, normally speaking, the jollier he will be. It is definitely true that the stronger the lover both lovers, the stronger will be the happiness, but it is not true that the stronger the player both croquet players, the stronger will be the game. It is logically possible, follow me closely here, Parkinson, it is logically possible to play croquet too well to enjoy it at all. If you could put this blue ball through that distant hoop as easily as you could pick it up with your hand, then you would not put it through that hoop any more than you pick it up with your hand. It would not be worth doing. If you could play unairingly, you would not play at all. The moment the game is perfect, the game disappears. I do not think, however, said Parkinson, that you are in any immediate danger of effecting that sort of destruction. I do not think your croquet will vanish to its own faultless excellence. You are safe for the present. I again caressed him with the mallet, knocked a ball about, wired myself, and resumed the thread of my discourse. The long warm evening had been gradually closing in, and by this time it was almost twilight. By the time I had delivered four more fundamental principles, and my companion had gone through five more hoops, the dusk was verging upon dark. We shall have to give this up, said Parkinson, as he missed a ball almost for the first time. I can't see a thing. Nor can I, I answered, and it is a comfort to reflect that I could not hit anything if I saw it. With that I struck a ball smartly, and sent it away into the darkness towards where the shadowy figure of Parkinson moved in the hot haze. Parkinson immediately uttered a loud and dramatic cry. The situation indeed called for it. I had hit the right ball. Stunned with astonishment I crossed the gloomy ground and hit my ball again. It went through a hoop. I could not see the hoop, but it was the right hoop. I shuddered from head to foot. Words were wholly inadequate, so I slouched heavily after that impossible ball. Again I hit it away into the night in what I supposed was the vague direction of the quite invisible stick, and in the dead silence I heard the stick rattle as the ball struck it heavily. I threw down my mallet. I can't stand this," I said. My ball has gone right three times. These things are not of this world. Pick your mallet up, said Parkinson. Have another go. I tell you I dent. If I made another hoop like that I should see all the devils dancing there on the blessed grass. Why devils, asked Parkinson, they may be only fairies making fun of you. They are sending you the perfect game, which is no game. I looked about me. The garden was full of a burning darkness in which the faint glimmers had the look of fire. I stepped across the grass as if it burnt me, picked up the mallet, and hit the ball somewhere. Somewhere where another ball might be. I heard the dull click of the balls touching and ran into the house like one pursued. End of The Perfect Game by G.K. Chesterton. It was during the South African War that my father obtained one of his best authenticated spirit photographs, so I think that it is well to give here his own account of his experiments in that direction. He writes, while recording the results at which I have arrived, I wish to repudiate any desire to dogmatize as to their significance or their origin. I merely record the facts, and although I may indicate conclusions and inferences which I have drawn from them, I attach no importance to anything but the facts themselves. There is living in London at the present moment an old man of 71 years of age, a man of no education. He can write, but he cannot spell, and he has for many years earned his living as a photographer. He was always in a small way of business, a quiet and offensive man who brought up his family respectively and lived in peace with his neighbors, attracting no particular remark. When he started in business as a photographer, it was in the days when the wet process was almost universal, and he was much annoyed by finding that when he exposed plates, other forms than that of the sitter would appear in the background. While many plates were spoiled by these unwelcome intruders, that his partner became very angry and insist that the plates had not been washed before they were used. He protested this was not so, and asked his partner to bring a packet of completely new plates with which he would take a photograph and see what was the result. His partner accepted the challenge, and produced a plate with which had never previously been used. But when the portrait of the next sitter was taken, there appeared a shadow form in the background. Angry and frightened at this unwelcome appearance, he flung the plates to the ground with an oath, and from that time, for very many years, he was never again troubled by the occurrence of a similar phenomena. About ten years ago, he became interested in spiritualism, and to his surprise, and also to his regret, the shadow figures began to reappear on the background of the photographs. He repeatedly had to destroy negatives and ask his customer to give him another sitting. It did his business harm, and in order to avoid this annoyance, he left most of the photography to his son. I happened to hear of these curious experiences of his and sought him out. I found him very reluctant to speak about the matter. He said frankly he did not know how the figures came. It had been a great annoyance to him, and it gave his shop a bad name. He did not wish anything to be said about the matter. In deference, however, to repeated pressing on my part, he consented to make experiments with me, and I had at various times a considerable number of sittings. At first I brought my own plates, half plate size. He allowed me to place them in his slide in the dark room, to put them in the camera, which I was allowed to turn and side out, and after they were exposed, I was permitted to go into the dark room and develop them in his presence. Under these conditions, I repeatedly obtained pictures of persons who were certainly not visible to me in the studio. I was allowed to do almost anything that I pleased, to alter the background, to change the position of the camera, to sit at any angle that I chose. In short, to act as if the studio in all belonging to it was my own, and I repeatedly obtained what the old photographer called shadow pictures. But none of them bore any resemblance to any person whom I had known. In all these earlier experiments, the photographer, whom I will call Mr. B, made no charge. And the only request that he made was that I should not publish his name, or do anything to let his neighbors know of the curious shadow pictures which were obtainable in his studio. After a time, I was so thoroughly satisfied that the shadow photographs or spirit forms were not produced by any fraud on the part of the photographer, that I did not trouble to bring my own marked plates. I allowed him to use his own, and to do all the work of loading the slide and of developing the plate without my assistance or supervision. What I wanted was to see whether it would be possible for me to obtain a photograph of any person known to me in life who has passed over to the other side. The production of one such picture, if the person was unknown to the photographer, and he had no means of obtaining the photograph of the original while on earth, seemed to me so much better attest of the geniusness of the phenomena that could be secured by any amount of personal supervision of the process of photography that I left him to operate without interference. The results he obtained when left to himself were precisely the same as those when the slides passed only through my own hands. But, although I obtained a great variety of portraits of unknown persons, I got none whom I could recognize. In a conversation with Mr. B, as to how these shadowed pictures, as he called them, came on the plate, I found him almost as much at sea as myself. He said that he did not know how they came, but that he had noticed that they came more frequently and with greater distinctness at some times than at others. He could never say beforehand whether they would come or not. He frequently informed me when my sitting began that he could guarantee nothing, and often the set of plates would bear no trace of any portrait to save mine. He was very reluctant to continue the experiments and used to complain that after exposing four plates with a view to obtaining such pictures he felt quite exhausted, and sometimes he complained that his innards seemed to be turned upside down to use his own phrase. I usually sat with him between two and three in the afternoon, and on the days which I came he always abstinated from the usual glass of beer which he took with his midday meal. If I came unexpectedly and he had had a single glass of beer which formed his usual beverage, he would always assure me that I need not expect any good results. I, however, never found any particular difference in the results. We often discussed the matter together, and he was evidently working out a theory of his own, as anyone might under such circumstances. He knew that when he was excited or irritated he got bad results, hence he often used to keep a music box going, for the music, in his opinion, tended to set up good and tranquil conditions. He said he thought something must come out of him, what he did not know, but something was taken out of him, and with this something he thought the entities, whoever they were, built themselves up and acquired sufficient substance to reflect the rays of light, so as to impress the sensitive plates in his camera. He also thought that his old camera had become what he called magnetized, and although it was an old-fashioned piece of furniture, which I not only examined myself, but had examined by expert photographers, nothing could be discovered within or without it, which would account for the results obtained. He also was of the opinion that even although he did not touch the photographic plate, it was necessary for him to touch or to hold his hand over the photographic slide, and also to hold his hand over the plate when it was in the Philadelphia Bath. His theory was that in some way or other, this process magnetized the plate and brought out a shadow portrait. One peculiarity of almost all the shadow pictures obtained in the series of experiments is that they have around them the same kind of white drapery, which is so familiar to those who have taken part in a materializing seance. Sometimes this drapery is more voluminous than others, often when the conditions are good. The form at which it first appears with its head encompassed with drapery will appear on the second plate without any drapery. On asking Mr. B what explanation he could give for this, he said he did not know, but he believed that the bodily appearance assumed by the spirit was very sensitive and needed to be shielded from currents, which might harm it, but when harmony prevailed they could venture to remove the drapery and be photographed without it. Whatever may be the value of Mr. B's theory, there is little doubt that something is given off from the body which can be photographed. The white mist that appears to emanate from his forms into cloudy folds out of which their protrudes are more or less clearly defined face with human features. Sometimes this white and misty cloud obscures the sitter and other times it seems to be condensed as if it were in the process of being worked into a definite form for the completion of which either time or some other conditions were lacking. It was also noticeable that the entity whoever it may be which builds up the form who is giving off sufficient solidity to impress its image upon the plate in the camera having once created the form will use it repeatedly without any change of position or expression this will no doubt seem a great stumbly block to many. But the fact is as I have stated it in our first business is to ascertain facts whether they tell or against any particular hypothesis. It may be that the disembodied spirit in order to establish its identity constructs out of the aura given off by the photographer or other medium a mask or cast bearing the unmistakable resemblance to the body which it bore in its sojourn here on earth. Having once built it up for use in the studio it may be easier to employ the same cast again and again instead of building up a new one at each fresh sitting upon this point however I shall have something to say further on. I was very much interested in the results I obtained although as none of the photographs were identified I did not deem the experiment completely successful. I was very anxious to introduce Mr. B to devote some months to an uninterrupted series of experiments and asked him on what terms I could secure his services but he absolutely refused. He said he did not like it it made him unwell made people speak ill of him and it did not matter what terms were offered he would not consent. He was an old man he said and he could not find out how these things came and in short neither scientific curiosity nor financial consideration would induce him to consent to more than an occasional sitting. I therefore dropped the matter and for some years I discontinued my experiments. I had a friend who often accompanied me to Mr. B's studio where she had been photographed both with and without shadow pictures appearing in the background. We often promised each other that if either of us passed over we would come back to be photographed by Mr. B if possible in order to prove the reality of spirit return. Shortly after this my friend died but it was not until nearly four years after her death at the request of a friend who was very anxious to know whether she could communicate with those on the other side that I went back to Mr. B's studio. He had always been slightly clairvoyant and clairvoyant. He told me that a few days before I had written asking for the appointment my deceased friend had appeared in the studio and told him that I was coming. This reminded me of her promise and I said at once that I hoped he would be able to photograph her. He said he didn't know. He was rather frightened of her for reasons into which I need not enter but if she came he would see what he could do. My friend and I sat together. The first plate was exposed nothing appeared in the background. When the second plate was placed in the camera Mr. B nodded with a quick look of recognition. We saw nothing. After he had exposed the second plate and before he developed it he asked us to change seats. We did this and as he was exposing the third plate he said I am told to ask you to do this. And when he closed the shutter he said it is Mrs. M. On the fourth plate there appeared a picture of a woman whom I had never seen before and whom my friend had never seen. Neither had Mr. B. When the plates came to be developed I found the second and third plates contained unmistakable likeness of my friend Mrs. M. These portraits were immediately recognized by my friend as unmistakable likeness of the deceased Mrs. M. It will be objected that she had frequently been photographed by the same photographer and that he had simply faked a photograph from one of his old negatives. I don't believe that this is possible for these portraits. Although recognized immediately by everyone who knew her including her nearest relative are all quite different from any photograph she had ever taken in life. She certainly never was photographed enveloped in white drapery nor do I believe that Mr. B. had any negative of any of her portraits in this possession. But I fully admit that from the point of view of one who wishes to exclude every possibility of error the fact that Mrs. M. had been frequently photographed in her lifetime by the same photographer renders it impossible to regard these photographs as conclusive testimony as to their authenticity as a photograph of a form assumed by a disembodied spirit. I have mentioned that on the fourth plate there appeared a portrait of an unknown female. On my return I was showing the print of the shadow picture to a friend when she startled me by declaring that the shrouded form which appeared behind me in the photograph was a portrait of her mother who had died some months before in Dublin. I had never seen her mother and my friend did not know of her existence. Neither did the photographer nor does he to this day. It was only many months afterwards that I was able to obtain a photograph of my friend's mother but it was taken when she was a comparatively young woman and bore no manner of resemblance to the portrait of the lady who appeared behind me. Her daughter however had not the slightest hesitation in asserting that it was her mother that she had recognized her instantly and that it was a very good portrait of her as she appeared in the later years of her life. This startled me not a little and convinced me that I had good prospect of attaining some definite results as an outcome of my experiments. Mr. B encouraged by this success was willing to continue his experiments and this time I insisted upon paying him for his work. From this time onward the occurrence of photographs that were recognizable on the background of the photographs taken by Mr. B became frequent. Sometimes the plates were marked but not invariably. For my part I attached comparatively no importance to the marking of the plates and the close supervision of the operator. The test of the geniusness of a photograph that is obtained when the unknown relative of an unknown sitter appears in the background of the photograph was immeasurably superior to the precautions any expert conjurer or trick photographer might evade. Again and again I sent friends to Mr. B giving him no information as to who they were nor telling him anything as to the identify of the person's deceased friend or relative whose portrait they wished to secure and time and time again when the negative was developed the portrait would appear in the background or sometimes in front of the sitter. This occurred so frequently that I am quite convinced of the impossibility of any fraud one time it was a French editor who finding the portrait of his deceased wife appear on the negative when developed was so transported with delight that he insisted on kissing the photographer Mr. B much to the old man's embarrassment. On another occasion it was a Lancashire engineer himself a photographer who took marked plates in all possible precautions. He obtained portraits of two of his relatives and another of an imminent personage with whom he had been in close relations or again it was in your neighbor who going as a total stranger to the studio obtained the portrait of her deceased daughter. I attach no importance whatever to the appearance of portraits of well known personages which might easily be copied from existing pictures but I attach immense importance to the production of the spirit photographs of unknown relatives of sitters who are unknown to the photographer who receives them solely as a lady or gentleman who was one of my friends. Although as I have said I do not attach much importance to photographs appearing of well known men I confess that I was rather impressed by one of my most recent experiments. I received a message from a medium in Sheffield who was unknown to me saying that Cecil Rhodes who had them been dead about nine months had spoken to her clarionately and had told her to ask me to go to the photographers and that he would come and be photographed. The medium was a stranger to me and I confess that I received the message with considerable skepticism. However, when she came up to town I accompanied her to the studio. She declared that she saw Cecil Rhodes and that he spoke to her and that he was standing behind me when the plate was exposed. When the plate came to be developed although there was one well-defined figure standing behind me and several other faces half visible in the background there was no portrait of Cecil Rhodes. I was not surprised and went away. A month afterwards I went to have another sitting with the photographer. I chatted with him for a short time and then he left the room for a moment. When he came back he said to me there was a round face well set up man here with a short mustache and a dimple in his chin. Do you know him? No, I said. I do not know any such man. Well, he seems to be very busy about you. Well, I said. If he comes upstairs we shall see what we can get. I don't know, said he. When I was sitting he said there he is and I see the letter R. Is it Robert or Richard do you think? I don't know any Robert or Richard. I said. He took the picture. He then proceeded with the second plate and said that man is still here and I see behind him a country road. I wonder what that means. He went into the dark room and presently came out and said I see a road or roads. Do you know any one of that name? Of course, I said. Cecil Rhodes. Do you mean him as died in the travesol lately? Said he. I said yes. Well, he said. Was he a man like that? Well, he had a mustache. I said. And sure enough when the plate was developed there was a Cecil Rhodes looking fifteen youngers than when he had died. Some other plates were exposed. One was entirely blank. On two others, the mist was formed into a kind of clot of light. But no figure was visible. The fifth had a portrait of a none known man. And on the sixth, when it came to be developed, there was the same portrait of Cecil Rhodes that had appeared on the first but without the white drapery around the head. Of course, it may be said that it was well known that I was connected with Cecil Rhodes and that the photographer, therefore, would have no difficulty in faking a portrait. I admit all that. And therefore, I would not have introduced this if it had not stood alone as any evidence showing that it was a bona fide photograph of an invisible being. But it does not stand alone. And I have almost every reason to believe in the almost stupid honesty if I may use such a phrase of the photographer. I am naturally much interested in these latest photographs of the African Colossus. They are, at any rate, entirely new. No such portraits to the best of my knowledge. And I have made a collection of all I can lay my hands on, exactly resembling those portraits which I obtained at Mr. B's studio. I will conclude the account of my experiments by telling how I secured a portrait under circumstance to switch preclude any possibility of fake or fraud. One day, when I entered the studio, Mr. B said to me, There is a man come with you who has been here before. He came here some days ago when I was by myself. He looked very wild and he had a gun in his hand. And I did not like the look of him. I don't like guns, so I asked him to go away for I was frightened of the gun and he went away. But now he has come with you and he has not got his gun anymore. So we will let him stop. I was rather amused at the old man's story and said, Well, see if you can photograph him. I don't know as I can, he said. I never know what I can get, which is quite true for often the photographs which he says he sees clairvoyantly do not come out on the plate. While he was photographing me, I said to him, If you can tell this man to go away, you can ask him his name. Yes, said he. Will you do so, I said. Yes, he said. After seeming to ask the question mentally, he said, he says his name is Piat Bahta. Piat Bahta, I said, I know no such name. There are Lewis and Philip and Chris Bahta. I have never heard of a Piat. Still, they are a numerous family and there are plenty of Bahtas in South Africa and it will be interesting to ask General Bahta when he arrives, whether he knows of any Piat Bahta. When the negative was developed, sure enough, there appeared behind me a photograph of a stalwart bearded person who might have been a bower or a Russian Molozhuik but who was certainly unknown to me. I had never seen a portrait of anyone which bore any resemblance to the photograph. When General Bahta arrived, I did not get an opportunity of asking him about the photograph. But sometime afterwards, I asked Mr. Fisher, one of the delegation from the South African Republics, to look at the photograph and if he got an opportunity to ask General Bahta if he knew of such a man as Piat Bahta. Mr. Fisher said he thought he had seen the face before but he could not be certain. He departed with the photograph. Some days afterwards, Mr. Wessels, a member of the delegation with Mr. Fisher, came down to my office. He said, I want to know about that photograph that you gave Mr. Fisher. Yes, I said. What about it? I want to know where you got it. I told him. He replied disdainfully. I don't believe in such things. It is superstition. Besides, that man didn't know Mr. B. He has never been to London. How could he come there? What, I said. Do you know him? Know him, said Mr. Wessels. He is my brother-in-law. Really, I said. What did they call him? Pietrus Johannes Botha. But we always called him Piet for short. Is he dead then? I said. Yes, said Mr. Wessels. He was the first bower officer who was killed in the siege of Kimberley. But there is a mystery about this. You didn't know him. No, I said. And never heard of him. No, I said. But, he said. I have the man's portrait in my house in South Africa. How could you get it? But, I said. I never have had it. I don't understand, he said, moodily, and so departed. I afterwards showed the photograph to another free-state bower who knew Piet Botha very well, and he had not the slightest hesitation in declaring that it was an unmistakable likeness of his dead friend. This is a plain, straightforward narrative of my experiences. They are still going on. But if I continue them forever, I don't see how I am going to obtain better results than those which I have already secured. At the same time, I must admit that when I have taken my own Kodak to the studio and taken a photograph immediately before Mr. B had exposed his plate, I got no results. The same failure occurred with another photographer whom I took, who took his own camera in his own plates and took a photograph immediately before and immediately after Mr. B had exposed his plate and secured no result. Mr. B's explanation of this is that he thinks he does, in some way or other, magnetize, as he terms it, the plate, that there is some effluence from his hand, which is as necessary for the development of the psychic figure as the developing liquid is for the development of an ordinary photograph. This explanation would no doubt be derided as, I presume, wise-akers would have derided the first photographs when they insisted upon the necessity of darkness while developing their plates. What I hope to be established is that in the presence of this particular individual, Mr. B, who at presence is the only person known to me who is able to produce these photographs, it is possible to obtain, under test conditions, photographs that are unmistakably portraits of deceased persons. The said deceased persons being entirely unknown to him and in some cases equally unknown to the sitter. Neither was any portrait of such person accessible either to the sitter or the photographer. Neither was either the sitter or the photographer conscious of the very existence of these persons whose identity was subsequently recognized by their friends. I am willing to admit that there is no conceivable conditions in the way of marking plates and supervising the actions or the operations of the photographer are of the least use in so much as an expert conjurer can easily deceive the eye of the unskilled observer. But what I do maintain is that it is impossible for the cleverest trick photographer and the ableist conjurer in the world to produce a photograph at a moment's notice of an unknown relative of an unknown sitter. This portrait to be unmistakably recognizable by all survivors who knew the original in life, this Mr. B has done again and again. And it seems to me that a great step has been made towards establishing the possibility of verifying by photography the reality of the existence of other intelligences than our own. The photographer alluded to in this article is Mr. Borsnell. He died shortly after it was written, and although farther experimented with others, he never obtained such convincing and satisfactory results. End of Photographing Invisible Beings, recorded by Aaron Stone. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. With hideous, goggling eyes, the great god Bud sat cross-legged on a pedestal and stared stolidly into the semi-darkness. He saw by the wavering light of a peacock lamp which swooped down from the ceiling with wings outstretched, what might have been a nook in a palace of East India. Draperies hung here, there, everywhere. Richly embroidered demand sprawled about. Fierce tiger rugs glared up from the floor. Grotesque idols grinned mirthlessly in unexpected corners. Strange arms were grouped on the walls. Outside, the trolley-cars clanged blatantly. The single human figure was a distinct contradiction of all else. It was that of a man in evening dress, smoking. He was fifty, perhaps sixty years old, with the ruddy color of one who has lived a great deal out of doors. There was only a touch of gray in his abundant hair and mustache. His eyes were steady and clear and indolent. For a long time he sat. Then the draperies to his right parted, and a girl entered. She was a part of the picture of which the man was a contradiction. Her lustrous black hair flowed about her shoulders. Lambet mysteries lay in her eyes. Her dress was the dress of the East. For a moment she stood looking at the man and then entered with light tread. Varik Sihib, she said timidly, as if it were a greeting. Do I intrude? Her voice was softly guttural, with the accent of her native tongue. Oh no, Jada, come in, said the man. She smiled frankly and sat down on a hassik near him. My brother, she asked, he is in the cabinet. Varik had merely glanced at her and then continued his thoughtful gaze into vacancy. From time to time she looked up at him shyly, with a touch of eagerness. But there was no answering interest in his manner. His thoughts were far away. May I ask what brings you this time, Sihib? She inquired at last. A little deal in the market, responded Varik carelessly. It seems to have puzzled at him as much as it did me. He has been in the cabinet for half an hour. He stared on musingly as he smoked, then dropped his eyes to the slender, graceful figure of Jada. With knees clasped in her hands she leaned back on the hassik deeply thoughtful. Her head was tilted upward and the flickering light fell full on her face. It crossed Varik's mind that she was pretty and he was about to say so as he would have said it to any other woman when the curtains behind them were thrown apart and they both glanced around. Another man, an East Indian, entered. This man was at him sing the crystal gazer and the ostentatious robes of Asir. He too was a part of the picture. There was an expression of apprehension mingled with some other impalpable quality on his strong face. Well at him, inquired Varik. I have seen strange things, Sihib, replied the seer solemnly. The crystal tells me of danger. Danger, repeated Varik with a slight lifting of his brows. Oh well. In that case I shall keep out of it. Not danger to your business, Sihib. The crystal gazer went on with troubled face, but danger in another way. The girl, Jada, looked at him with quick startled eyes and asked some question in her native tongue. He answered in the same language and she rose suddenly with terror-stricken face to fling herself at Varik's feet, weeping. Varik seemed to understand too and looked at the seer in apprehension. Death, he exclaimed. What do you mean? At him was silent for a moment and bowed his head respectfully before the steady, inquiring gaze of the white man. Pardon, Sihib, he said at last. I did not remember that you understood my language. What is it? insisted Varik abruptly. Tell me. I cannot, Sihib. You must, declared the other. He had arisen commandingly. You must. The crystal gazer crossed to him and stood for an instant with his hand on the white man's shoulder and his eyes studying the fear he found in the white man's face. The crystal, Sihib, he began. It tells me that— that— No, no, brother, pleaded the girl. Go on, Varik commanded. It grieves me to say that, which will pain one whom I love as I do you, Sihib, said the seer slowly. Perhaps you had rather see for yourself. Well, let me see then, said Varik. Is it in the crystal? Yes, by the grace of the gods. But I can't see anything there, Varik remembered. I've tried scores of times. I believe this will be different, Sihib, said odd him quietly. Can you stand? A shock. Varik shook himself a little impatiently. Of course, he replied. Yes, yes. A very serious shock. Again there was an impatient twist of Varik's shoulders. Yes, I can stand anything, he exclaimed shortly. What is it? Let me see. He strode toward that point in the draperies where I had him had entered, while the girl on her knees sought with intriguing hands to stop him. No, no, no, she pleaded. No. Don't do that, Varik expostulated in annoyance, but gently he stooped and lifted her to her feet. I am not a child or a fool. He threw aside the curtains. As they fell softly behind him he heard a pitiful little cry of grief from Jada and set his teeth together, hard. He stood in the crystal cabinet. It was somewhat larger than an ordinary closet and had been made impenetrable to the light by hangings of black velvet. For a while he stood still so that his eyes might become accustomed to the utter blackness and gradually the sinister fascinating crystal ball appeared faintly visible by its own mystic luminosity. It rested on a pedestal of black velvet. Varik was accustomed to his surroundings. He had been in the cabinet many times. Now he dropped down on a stool in front of the table whereon the crystal lay and leaning forward on his arms, stared into its limpid depths. Unblinkingly for one, two, three minutes he sat there with his thoughts in a chaos. After a while there came a change in the ball. It seemed to glow with a growing light other than its own. Suddenly it darkened completely and out of this utter darkness grew shadowy, vague forms to which he could give no name. Finally a veil seemed lifted for the globe grew brighter and he leaned forward eagerly, fearfully. Another veil melted away and a still brighter light illumined the ball. Now, Varik was able to make out objects. Here was a table littered with books and papers. There a chair, yonder, a shadowy mantle. Gradually the light grew until his tensely fixed eyes pained him, but he stared steadily on. Another quick brightness came and the objects all became clear. He studied them incredulously for a few seconds and then he recognized what he saw. It was a room, his study, miles away in his apartments. A sudden numb chilliness seized him, but he closed his teeth hard and gazed on. The outlines of the crystal were disappearing. Now they were gone and he saw no more. A door opened and a man entered the room into which he was looking. Varik gave a little gasp as he recognized the man. It was himself. He watched the man, himself, as he moved about the study aimlessly for a time as if deeply troubled. Then as he dropped into a chair at the desk, Varik read clearly on the vision face those emotions which he was suffering in person. As he looked the man made some hopeless gesture with his hands, his hands, and leaned forward on the desk with his head on his arms. Varik shuttered. For a long time it seemed the man sat motionless. Then Varik became conscious of another figure, a man, in the room. This figure had come into the vision from his own viewpoint. His face was averted. Varik did not recognize the figure, but he saw something else and started in terror. A knife was in the hand of the unknown. And he was creeping stealthily toward the unconscious figure in the chair, himself, with the weapon raised. An inarticulate cry burst from Varik's colorless lips. A cry of warning as he saw the unknown creep on, on, on toward himself. He saw the figure that was himself move a little, and the unknown leaped. The upraised knife swept down and was buried to the handle. Again a cry, an unintelligible shriek burst from Varik's lips. His heart fluttered and perspiration poured from his face. With incoherent mutterings he sank forward, helplessly. How long he remained there he didn't know, but at last he compelled himself to look again. The crystal glittered coldly on its pedestal of velvet, but that hideous thing which had been there was gone. The thought came to him to bring it back, to see more. But repulsive fear, terror seized upon him. He rose and staggered out of the cabinet. His face was pallid, and his hands clasped and unclasped nervously. Jada was lying on a devan sobbing. She leaped to her feet when he entered, and looking into his face, she knew. Again she buried her face in her hands and wept afresh. Had him stood with moody eyes fixed on the great God Bud. I saw. I understand, said Varik between his teeth, but I don't believe it. The crystal never lies, Sahib, said the seer sorrowfully. But it can't be that, Varik declared protestingly. Be careful, Sahib. Oh, be careful, urged the girl. Of course I shall be careful, said Varik, shortly. Suddenly he turned to the crystal gazer, and there was a menace in his tone. Did such a thing ever appear to you before? Only once, Sahib. And did it come true? Had him inclined his head, slowly. I may see you tomorrow, exclaimed Varik suddenly. This room is stifling. I must go out. With twitching hands he drew on a light coat over his evening dress, picked up his hat, and rushed out into the world of realities. The crystal gazer stood for a moment while Jada clung to his arm, tremblingly. It is as the gods will, he said sadly, at last. Professor Augustus S. F. X. Von Dusen, the thinking machine, received Howard Varik in the small reception room, and invited him to a seat. Varik's face was ashen. There were dark lines under his eyes, and in them were the glitter of an ungovernable terror. Every move showed the nervousness which gripped him. The thinking machine squinted at him curiously, then dropped back into his big chair. For several minutes Varik said nothing. He seemed to be struggling to control himself. Suddenly he burst out, I'm going to die some day next week. Is there any way to prevent it? The thinking machine turned his great yellow head and looked at him in a manner which nearly indicated surprise. Of course, if you've made your mind up to do it, he said irritably, I don't see what can be done. There was a trace of irony in his voice, a coldness which brought Varik around a little. Just how is it going to happen? I shall be murdered, stabbed in the back, by a man whom I don't know, Varik rushed on desperately. Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate, commented the scientist. Tell me something about it. But here he arose and went into his laboratory. After a moment he returned and handed a glass of some effervescent liquid to Varik who gulped it down. Take a minute to pull yourself together, instructed the scientist. He resumed his seat and sat silent with his long slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Gradually Varik recovered. It was a fierce fight for the mastery of emotion. Now directed the thinking machine at last. Tell me about it. Varik told just what had happened lucidly enough, and the thinking machine listened with polite interest. Once or twice he turned and looked at his visitor. Do you believe in any psychic force, Varik asked once? I don't disbelieve in anything until I have proven that it cannot be, was the answer. The god, who hung a son up there, has done other things which we will never understand. There was a little pause then. How did you meet this man? Add him, sing. I have been interested for years in the psychic, the occult, the things we don't understand, Varik replied. I have a comfortable fortune, no occupation, no dependence, and made this a sort of hobby. I have studied it superficially all over the world. I met Add him, sing in India ten years ago, afterwards in England, where he went through Oxford with some financial assistance from me, and later here. Two years ago he convinced me that there was something in crystal gazing. Call it telepathy, self-hypnotism, subconscious mental action, what you will. Since then the science, I can call it nothing else, has guided me in every important act of my life. Through Add him, sing? Yes. And under a pledge of secrecy, I imagine, that is, secrecy as to the nature of his revelations. Yes. Any taint of insanity in your family? Varik wondered whether the question was in the nature of insolent reproof or was a request for information. He construed it as the latter. No, he answered, never a touch of it. How often have you consulted Mr. Singh? Many times there have been occasions when he would tell me nothing because he explained the crystal told him nothing. There have been other times when he advised me correctly. He has never given me bad advice, even in intricate stock operations. Therefore I have been compelled to believe him in all things. You were never able to see anything yourself in the crystal until this vision of death last Tuesday night, you say? That was the first. How do you know the murder is to take place at any given time? That is, next week, as you say. That is the information Add him, sing gave to me, was the reply. He can read the visions. They mean more to him than- In other words, he makes it a profession, interrupted the scientist. Yes. Go on. The horror of the thing impressed me so, both of us, that he has at my request twice invoked the vision since that night. He, like you, wanted to know when it would happen. There is a calendar by weeks in my study, that is, only one week is shown on it at a time. The last time the vision appeared, he noted this calendar. The week was that beginning next Sunday, the 21st of this month. The only conclusion we could reach was it what happened during that week. The thinking machine arose and paced back and forth across the room, deeply thoughtful. At last he stopped before his visitor. It's perfectly amazing, he commented emphatically. It approaches nearer to the unbelievable than anything I have ever heard of. Varric's response was a look that was almost grateful. You believe it impossible, then? he asked eagerly. Nothing is impossible, declared the other aggressively. Now, Mr. Varric, you are firmly convinced that what you saw was prophetic? That you will die in that manner, in that place. I can't believe anything else. I can't, was the response. And you have no idea of the identity of the murderer to be, if I may use that phrase. Not the slightest. The figure was wholly unfamiliar to me. And you know, you know, that the room you saw in the crystal was yours? I know that absolutely. Rugs, furniture, mantel, books, everything was mine. The thinking machine was again silent for a time. In that event, he said at last, the affair is perfectly simple. Will you place yourself in my hands and obey my directions implicitly? Yes, there was an eager, hopeful note in Varric's voice now. I am going to try to disarrange the affairs of fate a little bit, explained the scientist gravely. I don't know what will happen, but it will be interesting to try to throw the inevitable, the preordained, I might say, out of gear, won't it? With a quizzical grim expression about his thin lips, the thinking machine went to the telephone in an adjoining room and called someone. Varric heard neither the name nor what was said, merely the mumble of the irritable voice. He glanced up as the scientist returned. Have you any servants? A valet, for instance, asked the scientist. Yes, I have an aged servant, a valet, but he is now in France. I gave him a little vacation. I really don't need one now as I live in an apartment house, almost a hotel. I don't suppose you happen to have three or four thousand dollars in your pocket. No, not so much as that was the puzzled reply. If it's your fee, I never accept fees, interrupted the scientist. I interest myself in affairs like these because I like them. They are good mental exercise. Please draw a check for, say, four thousand dollars to Hutchinson Hatch. Who is he? asked Varric. There was no reply. The check was drawn and handed over without further comment. It was fifteen or twenty minutes later that a cab pulled up in front of the house. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, and another man whom he introduced as Philip Byrne, were ushered in. As Hatch shook hands with Varric, the thinking machine compared them mentally. They were relatively of the same size, and he bobbed his head as if satisfied. Now, Mr. Hatch, he instructed, take this check and get it cached immediately, then return here, not a word to anybody. Hatch went out and Byrne discussed politics with Varric until he returned with the money. The thinking machine thrust the bills into Byrne's hand and he counted it, afterwards stowing it away in a pocket. Now, Mr. Varric, the keys to your apartment, please, asked the scientist. They were handed over and he placed them in his pocket. Then he turned to Varric. From this time on, he said, your name is John Smith. You are going on a trip, beginning immediately with Mr. Byrne here. You are not to send a letter, a postal, a telegram, or a package to anyone. You are to buy nothing. You are to write no checks. You are not to speak to or recognize anyone. You are not to telephone or attempt in any manner to communicate with anyone, not even me. You are to obey Mr. Byrne in everything he says. Varric's eyes had grown wider and wider as he listened. But my affairs, my business, he protested. It is a matter of your life or death, said the thinking machine shortly. For a moment Varric wavered a little. He felt that he was being treated like a child. As you say, he said finally. Now Mr. Byrne continued the scientist. You heard those instructions. It is your duty to enforce them. You must lose this man and yourself. Take him away somewhere to another place. There is enough money there for ordinary purposes. When you learn that there has been an arrest in connection with a certain threat against Mr. Varric, come back to Boston, to me, and bring him. That's all. Mr. Byrne arose with a businesslike air. Come on, Mr. Smith, he commanded. Varric followed him out of the room. Here was a table littered with books and papers. There a chair, yonder, a shadowy mantle. A door opened and a man entered the room, moved about the study aimlessly for a time as if deeply troubled, then dropped into a chair at the desk, made some hopeless gesture with his hands and leaned forward on the desk with his head on his arms. Another figure in the room, knife in his hand, creeping stealthily toward the unconscious figure in the chair with the knife raised, the unknown crept on, on, on. There was a blinding flash, a gush of flame and smoke, a sharp click, and through the fog came the unexcited voice of Hutchinson Hatch, reporter. Stay right where you are, please. That ought to be a good picture, said the thinking machine. The smoke cleared, and he saw a Hemsing standing, watching with deep concern, a revolver in the hand of Hatch, who had suddenly arisen from the desk in Varric's room. The thinking machine rubbed his hands briskly. Nah, I thought it was you, he said to the crystal gazer. Put down the knife, please. That's right. It seems a little bold to have interfered with what was to be like this, but you wanted too much detail, Mr. Singh. You might have murdered your friend if you hadn't gone into so much trivial theatrics. I suppose I am a prisoner, asked the crystal gazer. You are, the thinking machine assured him cheerfully. You are charged with the attempted murder of Mr. Varric. Your wife will be a prisoner in another half-hour, with all those who are with you in the conspiracy. He turned to Hatch, who was smiling broadly. The reporter was thinking of that wonderful flashlight photograph in the camera that the thinking machine held. The only photograph in the world, so far as he knew, of a man in the act of attempting an assassination. Now, Mr. Hatch, the scientist went on. I will phone to Detective Mallory to come here and get this gentleman, and also to send men and arrest every person to be found in Mr. Singh's home. If this man tries to run, shoot. The scientist went out, and Hatch devoted his attention to his sullen prisoner. He asked half a dozen questions, and receiving no answers he gave it up as hopeless. After a while, Detective Mallory appeared in his usual state of restrained astonishment, and the crystal gazer was led away. Then Hatch and the thinking machine went to the Adhem Singh house. The police had preceded them and gone away with four prisoners, among them the girl Jada. They obtained an entrance through the courtesy of a policeman left in charge, and sought out the crystal cabinet. Together they bowed over the glittering globe, as Hatch held a match. But I still don't see how it was done, said the reporter after they had looked at the crystal. The thinking machine lifted the ball, and replaced it on its pedestal half a dozen times, apparently trying to locate a slight click. Then he fumbled all around the table, above and below. At his suggestion, Hatch lifted the ball very slowly, while the scientist slid his slender fingers beneath it. Ah! he exclaimed at last. I thought so. It's clever, Mr. Hatch. Clever! Just stand here a few minutes in the dark, and I'll see if I can operate it for you. He disappeared, and Hatch stood staring at the crystal until he was developing a severe case of the creeps himself. Just then a light flashed in the crystal, which had been only dimly visible, and he found himself looking into the room and Howard Varrick's apartments, miles away. As he looked, startled, he saw the thinking machine appear in the crystal and wave his arms. The creepiness passed instantly in the face of this obvious attempt to attract his attention. It was later that afternoon that the thinking machine turned the light of his analytical genius on the problem for the benefit of Hatch and Detective Mallory. Charlotteanism is a luxury which cost the peoples of the world incredible sums, he began. It had its beginnings, of course, in the dark ages, when a man's mind grasped at some tangible evidence of an infinite power, and through its very eagerness was easily satisfied. Then quacks began to prey upon man, and due to this day under many guises, and under many names, this condition will continue until enlightenment has become so general that the man will realize the absurdity of such a thing as nature or the other world's forces going out of its way to tell him whether a certain stock will go up or down. A sense of humor ought to convince him that disembodied spirits do not come back and wrap on tables in answer to asinine questions. These things are merely prostitutions of the divine revelations. Hatch smiled a little at the lecture platform tone, and Detective Mallory chewed his cigar uncomfortably. He was there to find out something about crime. This thing was over his head. This is merely preliminary, the thinking machine went on after a moment. Now, as to this crystal gazing affair, a little reason, a little logic. When Mr. Varick came to me, I saw he was an intelligent man who had devoted years to a study of the so-called occult. Being intelligent, he was not easily hoodwinked, yet he had been hoodwinked for years. Therefore, I could see that the man who did it must be far beyond the blundering fool usually found in these affairs. Now, Mr. Varick personally had never seen anything in any crystal. Remember that, until the vision of death. When I knew this, I knew that vision was stamped as quackery. The mere fact of him seeing it proved that, but the quackery was so circumstantial that he was convinced. Thus, we have quackery. Why? For a fee? I can imagine successful guesses on the stock market bringing fees to add him sing. But the vision of a man's death is not the way to his pocket-book. If not for a fee, then what? A deeper motive was instantly apparent. Mr. Varick was wealthy. He had known Sing and had been friendly with him for years, had supplied him with funds to go through Oxford, and he had no family or dependents. Therefore, it seemed probable that a will, or perhaps in another way, Sing would benefit by Mr. Varick's death. There was a motive for the vision which might have been at first an effort to scare him to death, because he had a bad heart. I saw all these things when Mr. Varick talked to me first, several days after he saw the vision, but did not suggest them to him. Had I done so, he would not have believed so sordid a thing, for he believed in Sing, and would probably have gone his way to be murdered, or to die of fright as Sing intended. Knowing these things, there was only the labor of trapping a clever man. Now the Hindu mind works in strange channels. It loves the mystic, the theatric, and I imagine that having gone so far, Sing would attempt to bring the vision to a reality. He presumed, of course, that Mr. Varick would keep the matter to himself. The question of saving Varick's life was trifling. If he was to die at a given time, in a given room, the thing to do was to place him beyond possible reach of that room at that time. I phoned to you, Mr. Hatch, and asked you to bring me a private detective who would obey orders, and you brought Mr. Byrne. You heard my instructions to him. It was necessary to hide Mr. Varick's identity, and my elaborate directions were to prevent anyone getting the slightest clue as to him having gone, or as to where he was. I don't know where he is now. Immediately Mr. Varick was off my hands. I had Martha, my housekeeper, write a note to Sing explaining that Mr. Varick was ill and confined to his room, and for the present was unable to see anyone. In this note a date was specified when he would call on Sing. Martha wrote, of course, as a trained nurse who was in attendance merely in daytime. All these points were made perfectly clear to Sing. That done it was only a matter of patience. Mr. Hatch and I went to Mr. Varick's apartments each night. I had Martha there in daytime to answer questions, and waited, and hiding. Mr. Hatch is about Varick's size, and a wig helped us along. What happened then, you know. I may add that when Mr. Varick told me the story, I commented on it as being almost unbelievable. He understood, as I meant he should, that I referred to the vision. I really meant that the elaborate scheme which Sing had evolved was unbelievable. He might have killed him just as well with a drop of poison, or something equally pleasant. The thinking machine stopped, as if that were all. But the crystal, asked Hatch, how did that work? How was it I saw you? That was a little ingenious, and rather expensive, said the thinking machine. So expensive that Sing must have expected to get a large sum from success. I can best describe the manufacture of the vision as a variation of the principle of the camera obscura. It was done with lenses of various sorts, and a multitude of mirrors, and required the assistance of two other men, those who were taken from Sing's house with Jada. First, the room in Mr. Varick's apartments was duplicated in the basement of Sing's house, even to rugs, books, and wall decorations. There two men rehearsed the murder scene that Mr. Varick saw. They were disguised, of course. You have looked through the wrong end of a telescope, of course? Well, the original reduction of the murder scene to a size where all of it would appear in a small mirror was accomplished that way. From this small mirror there ran pipes with a series of mirrors and lenses through the house, carrying the reflection of what was happening below. So vaguely, though, that features were barely distinguishable. This pipe ran up inside one of the legs of the table on which the crystal rested, and then, by reflection, to the pedestal. You, Mr. Hatch, saw me lift that crystal several times, and each time you might have noticed the click. I was trying to find, then, how the reflection reached it. When you lifted it slowly and I put my fingers under it, I knew. There was a small trap in the pedestal, covered with velvet. This closed automatically and presented a solid surface when the crystal was lifted, and opened when the crystal was replaced. Thus the reflection reached the crystal which reversed it the last time, and made it appear right side up to the watcher. The apparent growth of the light in the crystal was caused below. Someone simply removed several sheets of gauze, one at a time, from in front of the first lens. Well, exclaimed Detective Mallory, that's the most elaborate affair I ever heard of. Quite right, commented the scientist. But we don't know how many victims Singh had. Of course any vision was possible with the change of scene in the basement. I imagine it was a profitable investment, because there are many fools in this world. What did the girl have to do with it? asked Hatch. That, I don't know, replied the scientist. She was pretty. Perhaps she was used as a sort of bait to attract a certain class of men. She was really Singh's wife, I imagine. Not his sister. She was a prominent figure in the mummery with Varik, of course. With her aid, Singh was able to lend great effectiveness to the general scheme. A couple of days later, Howard Varik returned to the city in tow of Philip Byrne. The thinking machine asked Mr. Varik only one question of consequence. How much money did you intend to leave Singh? About $250,000 was the reply. It was to be used under his direction in furthering an investigation into the psychic. He and I had planned just how it was to be spent. Personally, Mr. Varik is no longer interested in the occult. End of The Problem of the Crystal Gazer by Jacques Foutrelle The Problem of the Hidden Million by Jacques Foutrelle This is a LibreVox recording. I'll LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Recording by Brock Price The Problem of the Hidden Million by Jacques Foutrelle The gray hand of death had already left its ashen mark upon the wrinkled, venomous face of the old man who lay huddled up in bed. Save for the feverishly brilliant eyes, cunning, vindictive, hateful, there seemed to be no spark of life in the aged form. The withered lips were mute and the thin yellow claw-like hands lay helplessly outstretched on the white sheets. All physical power was gone. Only the brain remained doggedly alive. Two men and two women stood beside the deathbed. Upon each and turned the glittering eyes rested with the merciless, unreasoning hatred of age. Crouched on the floor was a huge Saint Bernard dog, and on a perch across the room was a parrot which screeched, abominably. The gloom of the wretched little room was suddenly relieved by a ruddy sunbeam which shot a thwart the bed and lighted the scene fantastically. The old man noted it and his lips curled into a hideous smile. That's the last sun I'll ever see, he piped feebly. I'm dying. Dying. Do you hear? And you're all glad of it. Every one of you. Yes. You are. You are glad of it because you want my money. You came here to make me believe you were paying a last tribute of respect to your old grandfather. But that isn't it. It's the money you want. The money. But I've got a surprise for you. You never get the money. It's hidden safely. You'll never get it. You all hate me. You have hated me for years. And after the sun dies, you will all hate me worse. But not more than I hate you. You'll all hate me worse then, because I'll be gone and you'll never know where the money is hidden. It will lie there safely where I put it. Rodding and crumbling away. But you shall never warm your fingers with it. It's hidden. Hidden. Hidden. There was a rasping in the shrunken throat, a deeply drawn breath. Then the figure stiffened and a distorted soul passed out upon the eternal way. Martha held a card within the blinding light of the reflector and Professor Augustus S. F. X. Von Dueson with his hands immersed to the elbows and some chemical mess squinted at it. A Dr. Walter Ballard, he read. Show him in. After a moment Dr. Ballard entered, the scientist was still absorbed in his labors but paused long enough to jerk his head toward a chair. Dr. Ballard accepted this as an invitation and sat down, staring curiously at the singular childlike figure of the imminent man of science at the mop of tangled straw-yellow hair, the enormous brow and the peering blue eyes. Well, demanded the scientist abruptly. I beg your pardon, began Dr. Ballard with a little start. Your name was mentioned to me some time ago by a newspaper reporter, a Hutchinson Hatch, whom I chance to meet in his professional capacity. He suggested then that I come and see you, but I thought it useless. Now the affair in which we were both interested at that time seems hopelessly beyond solution, so I came to you for aid. We want to find one million dollars in gold and United States bonds, which were hidden by my grandfather, John Walter Ballard some time before his death just a month ago. The circumstances are all together out of the ordinary. The thinking machine abandoned his labors and dried his hands carefully, after which he took a seat facing Dr. Ballard. Tell me about it, he commanded. Well, began Dr. Ballard reminiscently as he settled back in his chair. The old man, my grandfather, died, as I said, a month ago. He was nearly eighty-six, and the last five or six years of his life he spent as a recluse in a little hut twenty miles from the city, a place some distance from any other house. He had a spot of ground there, half an acre or so, and lived like a pauper, despite the fact that he was worth at least a million dollars. Previous to the time he went there to live, there had been an estrangement with my family, his sole heirs. My family consists of myself, wife, son, and daughter. My grandfather lived in the house with me for ten years before he went out to this hut, and why he left us then is not clear to any member of my family, unless, and he shrugged his shoulders. He was mentally unbalanced. Anyway, he went. He wouldn't either come to see us, nor would he permit us to go see him. As far as we know, he owned no real property of any sort, except this miserable little place worth altogether furnishing and all, not more than a thousand or twelve hundred dollars. Well, about a month ago someone stopped at the hut for something and found he was ill. I was notified, and with my wife, son, and daughter went to see what we could do. He took occasion on his deathbed to heap the tuperation upon us, and incidentally to state that something like a million dollars was left behind, but hidden. For the sake of my son and daughter I undertook to recover this money. I consulted attorneys, private detectives, and in fact exhausted every possible method. I ascertained, beyond question that the money was not in a bank anywhere, and hardly think he would have left it there, because, of course, if he had, even with a will disinheriting us, the law would have turned it over to us. He had no safe deposit vault, as far as one month's close search revealed, and the money was not hidden in the house or grounds. He stated on his deathbed that it was in bonds and gold, and that we should never find it. He was just vindictive enough not to destroy it, but to leave it somewhere, believing we should never find it. Where did he hide it? The thinking machine sat silent for several minutes, with his enormous yellow head tilted back, and slender fingers pressed together. The house and the grounds were searched, he asked. The house was searched from cellar to garret was the reply. Workmen under my directions practically wrecked the building, floors, ceilings, walls, chimney, stairs, everything, little cubby holes in the roof, the foundation of the chimney, the pillars, even the flagstones leading from the gate to the door, everything was examined. The joists were sounded to see if they were solid, and a dozen of them were cut through. The posts on the veranda were cut to pieces, and every stick of furniture was dissected. Mattresses, beds, chairs, tables, bureaus, all of it. Outside in the grounds the search was just as thorough, not one square inch but what was overturned. We dug it all up to a depth of ten feet. Still nothing. Of course, said the scientist at last, the search of the house and grounds was useless. The old man was shrewd enough to know that they would be searched. Also it would appear that the search of banks and safety deposit vaults was equally useless. He was shrewd enough to foresee that, too. We shall for the present assume that he did not destroy the money or give it away, so it is hidden. If the brain of man is clever enough to conceal a thing, the brain of man is clever enough to find it. It's a little problem in subtraction, Dr. Ballard. He was silent for a moment. Who was your grandfather's attending physician? I was. I was present at his death. Nothing could be done. It was merely the collapse consequent upon old age. I issued the burial certificate. Were any special directions left as to the place or manner of burial? No. Have all his papers been examined for a clue as to the possible hiding place? Everything. There were no papers to amount to anything. Have you those papers now? Dr. Ballard silently produced a packet and handed it to the scientist. I shall examine these at my leisure, said the thinking machine. It may be a day or so before I communicate with you. Dr. Ballard went his way. For a dozen hours the thinking machine sat with the papers spread out before him, and the keen, squinting blue eyes dissected them, every paragraph, every sentence, every word. At the end he arose and bundled up the papers impatiently. Dear me. Dear me, he exclaimed irritably. There's no cipher. That's certain. Then what? Devastating hands had wrought the wreck of the little hut where the old man died. Standing in the midst of its litter, the thinking machine regarded it closely and dispassionately for a long time. The work of destruction had been well done. Can you suggest anything? asked Dr. Ballard impatiently. One mind may read another mind, said the thinking machine, when there is some external thing upon which there can come concentration as a unit. In other words, when we have a given number, the logical brain can construct either backward or forward. There are so many thousands of ways in which your grandfather could have disposed of this money that the task becomes tremendous in view of the fact that we have no starting point. It is a case for patience rather than any other quality, and therefore for greater speed we must proceed psychologically. The question then becomes not one of where the money is hidden, but one of where that sort of man would hide it. Now, what sort of man was your grandfather, the scientist continued? He was crabbed, eccentric, and possibly not mentally sound. The cunning of a diseased brain is greater than the cunning of a normal one. He boasted to you that the money was in existence, and his last words were intended to arouse your curiosity, to hang over you all the rest of your life and torment you. You can imagine the vindictive, petty brain like that putting a thing safely beyond your reach, but just beyond it, near enough to tantalize, and yet far enough to remain undiscovered. This seems to me to be the mental attitude in this case. Your grandfather knew that you would do just what you have done here, that is, search the house and lot. He knew too that you would search banks and safety deposit vaults, and with a million at stake he knew it would be done thoroughly. Knowing this, naturally he would not put the money in any of those places. Then what? He doesn't own any other property, as far as we know, and we shall assume that he did not buy property in the name of some other persons. Therefore, what have we left? Obviously, if the money is still in existence, it is hidden on somebody else's property. And the minute we say that, we have the whole wide world to search. But again, doesn't the devil tree and maliciousness of the old man narrow that down? Wouldn't he have liked to remember, as a dying thought, that the money was always just within your reach, and yet safely beyond it? Wouldn't it have been a keen revenge to have you dig over the whole place, while the money was hidden just six feet outside in a spot where you would never dig? It might be sixty or six hundred or six thousand, but then we have the law of probability to narrow those limits. So, Professor Von Dusen turned suddenly and strolled across the uneven ground to the property line. Walking slowly and scrutinizing the ground as he went, he circled the lot, returning to the starting point. Dr. Ballard had followed along behind him. Are all your grandfather's belongings still in the house? asked the scientist. Yes, everything just as he left it, that is, except his dog and a parrot. They are temporarily in charge of a widow down the road here. The scientist looked at Dr. Ballard quickly. What sort of dog is it? he inquired. A Saint Bernard, I think, replied Dr. Ballard wonderingly. Do you happen to have a glove or something that you know your grandfather wore? I have a glove, yes. From the debris which littered the floor of the house, a well-worn glove was recovered. Now the dog, please, commanded the scientist. A short walk along the country road brought them to a house, and here they stopped. The Saint Bernard, a shaggy, handsome, boisterous old chap with wise eyes, was let out on leash. The thinking machine thrust the glove forward, and the dog sniffed at it. After a moment he sank down on his haunches, and with his head thrust forward and upward, wind, softly. It was the call of the brute soul to its master. The thinking machine padded the heavy-coated head, and with the glove still in his hand made as if to go away. Again came the wine, but the dog sank down on the floor with his head between his fore paws, regarding him intently. For ten minutes the scientist sought to coax the animal to follow him, but still he lay motionless. I don't mind keeping that dog here, but that parrot is powerful noisy, said the woman after a moment. She had been standing by watching the scientist curiously. There ain't no peace in this house. Noisy how? asked Dr. Ballard. He swears, and sings and whistles, and does arithmetic all day long, the woman explained. It nearly drives me distracted. Does arithmetic, inquired the thinking machine? Yes, replied the woman, and he swears. Just terrible. It's almost like having a man bout the house. There he goes now. From another room came a sudden, squawking burst of profanity, followed instantly by a whistle, which caused the dog on the floor to prick up his ears. Does the parrot talk well? asked the scientist. Just like a human being, replied the woman, and just about as sensible as some I've seen. I don't mind his whistling, if only he wouldn't swear so, and do all his figure and out loud. For a minute or more the scientist stood staring down at the dog in deep thought. Gradually there came some subtle change in his expression. Dr. Ballard was watching him closely. I think perhaps it would be a good idea for me to keep the parrot for a few days, suggested the scientist finally. He turned to the woman. Just what sort of arithmetic does the bird do? All kinds, she answered promptly. He does all the multiplication table, but he ain't very good in subtraction. I shouldn't be surprised, commented the thinking machine. I'll take the bird for a few days, doctor, if you don't mind. And so it came to pass that when the thinking machine returned to his apartments he was accompanied by his noisy and vociferous a companion as one would care to have. Martha, the aged servant, viewed him with horror as he entered. That professor, do be getting old, she muttered. I suppose there'll be a cat next. Two days later Dr. Ballard was called to the telephone. The thinking machine was at the other end of the wire. Take two men whom you can trust and go down to your grandfather's place, instructed the scientist curtly. Take picks, shovels, a compass, and a long tape line. Stand on the front steps facing east. To your right will be an apple tree some distance off that lot, on the adjoining property. Go to that apple tree. A boulder is at its foot. Measure from the edge of that stone twenty-six feet. Do north by the compass. And from that point, fourteen feet, do west. You will find your money there. Then please have someone come and take this bird away. If you don't, I'll wring its neck. That's the most blasphemous creature I ever heard. Goodbye. Dr. Ballard slipped the catch on the suitcase and turned it upside down on the laboratory table. It was packed, literally packed, with United States bonds. The thinking machine fingered them idly. And there is this, too, said Dr. Ballard. He lifted a stout sack from the floor, cut the string, and spilled out its contents beside the bonds. It was gold, thousands and thousands of dollars. Dr. Ballard was frankly excited about it. The thinking machine accepted it as he accepted all material things. How much is there of it? He asked quietly. I don't know, replied Dr. Ballard. And how did you find it? As you directed, twenty-six feet north from the boulder, and fourteen feet west from that point. I knew that, of course, snapped the thinking machine. But how was it hidden? It's rather peculiar, explained Dr. Ballard. Fourteen feet brought the man who had measured it to the edge of an old, dried up well, twelve or fifteen feet deep, not expecting any such thing, he tumbled into it. In his efforts to get out, he stepped upon a stone which protruded from one side, that fell out and revealed the wooden box which contained all this. In other words, said the scientist, the money was hidden in such a manner that it would in time have come to be buried twelve or fifteen feet below the surface, because the well, being dry, would ultimately, of course, have been filled in. Dr. Ballard had been listening only hazily. His hands had been plowing in and out of the heap of gold. The thinking machine regarded him with something like contempt about his thin-lipped mouth. How? How did you ever do it? asked Dr. Ballard at last. I am surprised that you want to know, remarked the thinking machine cuttingly. You know how I reached the conclusion that the money was not hidden, either in the house or lot. The plain logic of the thing told me that, even before the search you made, had demonstrated it. You saw how logic narrowed down the search, and you saw my experiment with the dog. That was purely an experiment. I wanted to see the instinct of the animal. Would it lead him anywhere? Perhaps to the spot where the money had been hidden. It did not. But the parrot. That was another matter. It just happens that once before I had an interesting experience with a bird, a cockatoo, which figured in a sleep-walking case, and naturally was interested in this bird. Now, what were the circumstances in this case? Here was a bird that talked exceptionally well. Yet that bird had been living for five years alone with an old man. It is a fact that, no matter how well a parrot may talk, it will forget in the course of time, unless there is someone around it who talks. This old man was the only person near this bird. Therefore, from the fact that the bird talks, we know that the old man talked. From the fact that the bird repeated the multiplication table, we know that the old man repeated it. From the fact that the bird whistles, we know that the old man whistled, perhaps to the dog. And in the course of five years under these circumstances, a bird would have come to that point where it would repeat only the words or sounds that the old man used. All this shows, too, that the old man talked to himself. Most people who live alone a great deal do that. Then came a question as to whether at any time the old man had ever repeated the secret of the hiding place within the hearing of the bird. Not once, but many times, because it takes a parrot a long time to learn phrases. When we know the vindictiveness, which lay behind the old man's actions in hiding the money, when we know how the thing preyed on his mind, coupled with the fact that he talked to himself and was not wholly sound mentally, we can imagine him doddering about the place alone, repeating the very thing of which he made so great a secret. Thus, the bird learned it. But learned it disjointedly, not connectedly. So when I brought the parrot here, my idea was to know by personal observation what the bird said that didn't connect, that is, that had no obvious meaning. I hoped to get a clue which would result, just as the clue I did get did result. The bird's trick of repeating the multiplication table means nothing, except it shows the strange workings of an unbalanced mind. And yet, there is one exception to this. In a disjointed sort of way, the bird knows all the multiplication tables to ten. Except one. For instance, listen. The thinking machine crept stealthily to a door and opened it softly a few inches. From somewhere out there came the screeching of the parrot. For several minutes they listened in silence. There was a flood of profanity, a shrill whistle or two. Then the squawking voice ran off into a monotone. Six times one or six. Six times two or twelve. Six times three or eighteen. Six times four or twenty-four and add two. That's it, explained the scientist as he closed the door. Six times four or twenty-four and add two. That's the one table the bird doesn't know. The thing is incoherent, except is applied to a peculiar method of remembering a number. That number is twenty-six. On one occasion I heard the bird repeat a dozen times twenty-six feet to the polar star. That could mean nothing except the direction of the twenty-six feet due north. One of the first things I noticed the bird saying was something about fourteen feet to the setting sun or due west. When set down with the twenty-six I could readily see that I had something to go on. But where was the starting point? Again, logic. There was no tree or stone inside the lot except the apple tree which your workmen cut down, and that was more than twenty-six feet from the boundary of the lot in all directions. There was one tree in the adjoining lot, an apple tree with a boulder at its foot. I knew that by observation, and there was no other tree, I knew also, within several hundred feet. Therefore that tree, or boulder rather, as a starting point, not the tree so much as the boulder because the tree might be cut down or would in time decay. The chances are the stone would have been allowed to remain there indefinitely. Naturally, your grandfather would measure from a prominent point, the boulder. That is all. I gave you the figures. You know the rest. For a minute or more, Dr. Ballard stared at him, blankly. How was it you knew, he asked, that the direction should have been first twenty-six feet north, then fourteen feet west, instead of first fourteen west, and then twenty-six feet north? I didn't know, replied the thinking machine. If you had failed to find the money by those directions, I should merely have reversed the order. Half an hour later, Dr. Ballard went away, carrying the money and the parrot and its cage. The bird cursed the thinking machine roundly as Dr. Ballard went down the steps. End of The Problem of the Hidden Million by Jacques Foutrelle