The Heart Line 46

The Heart Line 46

"How do you intend to go about it?" Cayley asked. "I’ll tell you what

I’d do. I’d ask him to answer a few definite questions. If he can do

that, it’ll be a pretty good test, even if it is only thought-reading."

 

"If there’s anything in thought transference there may be something in

spiritualism, too. One’s as unexplainable as the other. See here!

Suppose I ask him something that I don’t know the answer to

myself—wouldn’t that prove it is not telepathy?"

 

"I should say so; but what could you ask?"

 

Mr. Payson had arisen, and was walking up and down the room with his

hands behind his back. He stopped to deliberate beside the bookcase,

then he took down a volume at random. "Suppose I ask him what the first

word is on page one hundred of this book."

 

He looked over at Cayley, then down at the title of the book.

 

"_The Astrology of the Old Testament_—queer I should put my hand on

that! I’ll try it. I won’t look at the page at all." He put the book

back on the shelf. "Can’t you suggest something? Suppose you give me a

question that you know the answer of and I don’t."

 

Blanchard Cayley sought for an idea, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Then he said slowly: "I used to know a girl once in Sacramento who lived

next door to me. Try Vixley on her name, why don’t you?"

 

"Good! I’ll do it. Now one more."

 

"You might ask him the number of your watch."

 

"That’s a good idea; then I can corroborate that on the spot."

 

"You’d better let me see if there’s one there, though," Cayley

suggested. "I believe sometimes they are not numbered. Just let me

look."

 

Mr. Payson took out his watch and handed it to the young man, who opened

the back cover and inspected the works. He noted the number, took a

second glance at it and then snapped the cover shut. "All right, if he

can tell that number, he’s clever." He handed it back to Mr. Payson.

"When did you say you were going to see him?" he asked.

 

"Next Tuesday or Wednesday, I expect," was the reply. "I’ve got to go

up to Stockton to-morrow, and I may be gone two or three days attending

to some business. By the by, Cayley, I heard rather a queer story last

week when I was up there. You’re interested in these romantic yarns of

California; perhaps you’d like to hear this."

 

"Certainly, I should. It may do for my collection of Improbabilities."

 

"Well, I met the cashier of the Savings Bank up there—he’s been with the

bank nearly thirty years and he told me the story. It seems one noon,

about twenty years ago, while he was alone in the bank, a little boy of

seven or eight years of age came in, and said he wanted to deposit some

money. The cashier asked him how much he had, thinking, of course, that

he’d hand out a dollar or two. The boy put a packet wrapped in

newspaper on the counter, and by Jove! if there wasn’t something over

five thousand dollars, in hundred-dollar greenbacks! What do you think

of that? The cashier asked the boy where he got so much money,

suspecting that it must have been stolen. The boy wouldn’t tell him.

The cashier started round the counter to hold the boy till he could

investigate, and, if necessary, hand him over to the police. The little

fellow saw him coming, got frightened, and ran out the door, leaving the

money on the counter. He has never been heard from since."

 

"Well, what became of the money, then?"

 

"Why, it had to be entered as deposited, of course. The boy had written

a name—the cashier doesn’t know whether it was the boy’s own name or

not—on the margin of the newspaper, and the account stands in that name,

awaiting a claimant."

 

"What was the name?"

 

"The cashier wouldn’t tell me, naturally. It has been kept a secret.

With the compound interest, the money now amounts to something like

double the original deposit."

 

"It’s a pity I don’t know the name; I might prove an alibi."

 

"Oh, I forgot—and it really is the point of the whole story. The

package was wrapped in a copy of _Harper’s Weekly_, and the boy, whose

hands were probably dirty, had happened to press a perfect thumb-print

on the smooth paper. Of course, that would identify him, and if any one

could prove he was in Stockton at that time, give the name and show that

his thumb was marked like that impression, the bank would have to permit

him to draw that account."

 

"That lets me out," said Cayley, "unless that particular thumb-print

happens to show a banded, duplex, spiral whorl."

 

"What in the world do you mean?" Payson asked.

 

"Why, you know thumb-prints have all been classified by Gallon, and

every possible variation in the form of the nucleal involution and its

envelope has been named and arranged."

 

"I didn’t know that," said Payson. "But I did know there were no two

thumbs alike. That’s the way they identified my partner when he was

drowned. He was interested in the subject, having read of the Chinese

method, and he happened to have a collection of thumb-prints, including

his own, of course, done in India ink. His body was so disfigured and

eaten by fishes that he couldn’t be recognized until, suspecting it

might be he, we proved it by his own marks."

 

"I didn’t know you ever had a partner."

 

"Oh, that was years ago, soon after Cly was born. His name was Ichabod

Riley. That was a queer story, too. His wife was a regular Jezebel,

Madge Riley was, and there’s no doubt she poisoned her first two

husbands. She was arrested and tried for the murder of the second, but

the jury was hung, and she wasn’t. Ichabod was supposed to have been

accidentally drowned off Black Point, but I have good reason to believe

that he committed suicide on account of her. He was afraid of being

poisoned as well. She is supposed to have killed her own baby, too.

 

"Well," Mr. Payson added, rising, "I’ve got to go up-stairs and get

ready for dinner. You’ll stay, won’t you?"

 

"I’ll wait till Cly gets home, at any rate, but I’ll not promise to

dine."

 

The old man went up-stairs, leaving Cayley alone beside the bookcase.

 

When he returned he found Cayley, cool and suave as ever. Clytie was

with him, standing proudly erect on the other side of the room, a red,

angry spot on either cheek. She held no dreamy, listless pose now;

something had evidently fully awakened her, stinging her into an

unaccustomed fervor. Her slender white hands were clasped in front of

her, her bosom rose and fell. Her lips were tightly closed.

 

Mr. Payson, near-sighted and egoistic, was oblivious of these stormy

signs, and remarked genially: "You’re going to stay to dinner, aren’t

you, Blanchard?"

 

Blanchard Cayley drawled, "I think not, Mr. Payson; I’ll be going on, if

you’ll excuse me," smiling, "and if Cly will."

 

"Don’t let us keep you if you have another appointment," she said,

without looking at him.

 

He left after a few more words with the old man, who began at last to

smell something wrong.

 

"What’s the matter, Cly?" he asked.

 

She had sat down and was pretending to read. Now she looked up

casually:

 

"Oh, nothing much, father, except that he was impertinent enough to

question me about something that didn’t concern him."

 

"H’m!" Mr. Payson took a seat with a grunt and unfolded his newspaper.

"I’m sorry you two don’t get on any better."

 

"We’d get on well enough if he’d only believe that when I say ’no’ I

mean it."

 

He stared at her, suddenly possessed by a new thought. "Is there

anybody else in the field, Cly?"

 

"There are many other men that I prefer to Blanchard Cayley."

 

"What is this about your being with this palmist chap?"

 

"Did Blanchard tell you that?" she asked with exquisite scorn.

 

"Have you seen much of this Granthope?"

 

"I’ve seen him four times."

 

"And you have invited him to my house?"

 

"He has been here."

 

Mr. Payson rose and shook his eye-glasses at her. "I must positively

forbid that!" he exclaimed. "I won’t have you receiving that fellow

here. From what I hear of him he’s a fakir, and I won’t encourage him

in his attempts to get into society at my expense."

 

"Do you mean to say that you forbid him the house, father? Isn’t that a

bit melodramatic? I wouldn’t make a scene about it. I am twenty-seven

and I’m not absolutely a fool. I think you can trust me."

 

"Then what have you been doing with him? What does it all mean,

anyway?"

 

"As soon as I know what it means, I’ll tell you. At present, I think we

had better not discuss Mr. Granthope."

 

He blustered for a while longer, iterating his reproaches, then simmered

down into a morose condition, which lasted through dinner. Clytie knew

better than to discuss the subject with him. Her calmness had returned,

though she kept her color and did not talk. The two went into the library and read.