“Take down everything that happens, Clara, and all we say,” Mrs. Dane said in a low tone.  “Even if it sounds like nonsense, put it down.”

It is because Clara took her orders literally that I am making this more readable version of her script.  There was a certain amount of non-pertinent matter which would only cloud the statement if rendered word for word, and also certain scattered, unrelated words with which many of the statements terminated.  For instance, at the end of the sentence, “Just above the ear,” came a number of rhymes to the final word, “dear, near, fear, rear, cheer, three cheers.”  These I have cut, for the sake of clearness.

For some five minutes, perhaps, Miss Jeremy breathed stertorously, and it was during that interval that we introduced Clara and took up our positions.  Sperry sat near the medium now, having changed places with Herbert, and the rest of us were as we had been, save that we no longer touched hands.  Suddenly Miss Jeremy began to breathe more quietly, and to move about in her chair.  Then she sat upright.

“Good evening, friends,” she said.  “I am glad to see you all again.”

I caught Herbert’s eye, and he grinned.

“Good evening, little Bright Eyes,” he said.  “How’s everything in the happy hunting ground tonight?”

“Dark and cold,” she said.  “Dark and cold.  And the knee hurts.  It’s very bad.  If the key is on the nail—­Arnica will take the pain out.”

She lapsed into silence.  In transcribing Clara’s record I shall make no reference to these pauses, which were frequent, and occasionally filled in with extraneous matter.  For instance, once there was what amounted to five minutes of Mother Goose jingles.  Our method was simply one of question, by one of ourselves, and of answer by Miss Jeremy.  These replies were usually in a querulous tone, and were often apparently unwilling.  Also occasionally there was a bit of vernacular, as in the next reply.  Herbert, who was still flippantly amused, said: 

“Don’t bother about your knee.  Give us some local stuff.  Gossip.  If you can.”

“Sure I can, and it will make your hair curl.”  Then suddenly there was a sort of dramatic pause and then an outburst.

“He’s dead.”

“Who is dead?” Sperry asked, with his voice drawn a trifle thin.

“A bullet just above the ear.  That’s a bad place.  Thank goodness there’s not much blood.  Cold water will take it out of the carpet.  Not hot.  Not hot.  Do you want to set the stain?”

“Look here,” Sperry said, looking around the table.  “I don’t like this.  It’s darned grisly.”

“Oh, fudge!” Herbert put in irreverently.  “Let her rave, or it, or whatever it is.  Do you mean that a man is dead?”—­to the medium.

“Yes.  She has the revolver.  She needn’t cry so.  He was cruel to her.  He was a beast.  Sullen.”

“Can you see the woman?” I asked.