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services any further.”
    As usual, nothing that I could say seemed really to penetrate down to his full attention. It was as though it were dealt with by some automatic secretary, while the chief himself was never even told that you had called.
    â€œPerhaps not, perhaps not. But one can’t be sure, can one? It’s a peculiarly rich case already and a number of apparently side issues may come in again.”
    I don’t think he was thinking of me, but still, even by allusion, I don’t like to be referred to as a side issue. After all, everyone must be central to himself. Indeed, I thought of saying something more, just not to be brushed aside like a ticked-off shopping list. But already the old bird had turned, called a red-cap, and was collecting his things. I called another, as my only possible reply, and our respective bearers led us off, the crowd separating us.
    After a quiet day in which I cleaned myself up and felt supple and smooth again, shaved, washed, properly fed and slept, the morning after I was at my office. My secretary had quite a large amount of interesting work for me to look over. There was a number of new inquiries. The next few weeks I was perfectly happy. This, I said to myself, is my right life—interested but not involved—unraveling riddles, as it were, in a riddle laboratory, but not like a silly, excitable terrier rushing down rabbit holes and getting oneself stuck fast at the bottom of one of them.
    After a month I felt I had, for the moment, everything in perfect running order. So one day, when I had signed all my letters and seen my last inquirer, I looked at my watch and it was still only three-fifty. “I’ll go,” I thought, “and ask Miss Brown. There are two cases I’d like to ask her whether it wouldn’t be worth her while giving a sitting to. And anyhow, I haven’t seen her for an age.” I hadn’t any doubt that my reading of those two riddles which I was taking over to her, had been right, but I knew she would appreciate my talking them over with her and she had a very nice way of appreciating my hunches—an approval which did, I knew, make them work better. There’s nothing like encouragement for the subconscious. A telephone call told me that she was at home and also had no more appointments for that day.
    After a cordial greeting, when we were comfortably settled over tea and she had approved my two interpretations and said that she did not think that a sitting with her “control” would help any further my clients, I asked her about her work.
    â€œOh, the usual thing: 77 percent wanting evidence that Aunt, Uncle, Ma or Pa, Hubby or Wifey is ‘happy, oh, so happy, over there.’ Well, it may be as they wish. I don’t know, as I’m not here when they are trying to use my subconscious as a long, long-distance line or super-world radio-beam. Then there’s the lost luggage department—‘Where’s the will, or the cache of notes or coin?’” She paused. “By the way, did you ever hear again of that queer little fellow whom you brought round when you were last here? He’s been in my mind off and on. You know, I felt about him there was something more than met the eye. That’s the worst,” she went on, “of being an honest medium. You miss all the fun. You’re like a child who has to be sent out of the room as soon as its elders begin to exchange confidences.”
    I wanted, anyhow, to talk about my adventure, now it was over and evidently safely closed. So I had little difficulty in persuading myself that I owed this kindness to a colleague.
    When I had finished, Miss Brown, after a minute’s silence, remarked, “That was an experience. And I have a hunch, for what it is worth, that this adventure isn’t closed. I believe it won’t close until you help close it with your colleague.”
    â€œIt’s not my business. Whatever help