I know you're not Tony. What's your name?"
But no, he would not tell me his name and so I called him "Patrick."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE AUTOMATIC WRITING.
Tony was going to set up for himself as a bookseller. He was a great book-worm and wanted to buy into a small second-hand bookshop—or had had it offered to him at a certain price. I offered to lend him some money.
We arranged to meet in town one day to carry out the transaction.
It was just a fortnight after the first of these had begun and I was only waiting till I met him to tell him of them.
"When we have done this business I want to tell you something most extraordinary that has happened to me," I said.
Together we went to the Savings' Bank, where I was to draw out some money and hand it over to him to put into his own account.
While I was writing the slip I felt my hand drawn to the right in such a way that I could hardly write, and when I had written my signature I turned to Tony and said:
"That isn't my own writing at all—isn't it funny?"
He looked at it without interest and laughed. He was full of business and wished only to get the transaction over. We exchanged slips, he handing me a promissory note, I handing him my pound notes.
Then I began my story, telling him as much of my experiences as I could put into words. He hardly listened but talked fast all the time till I seized his attention with persistence.
And then he laughed.
"You have been to the Spiritualists," he said.
"I have not," I said. "I've never believed in them."
"You'll have to now, then."
"I can't and never shall. It's you who believe in the occult. You had your horoscope told."
"Yes and I wanted you to."
"No, thank you," I said. "I will not look into the future. It's quite enough to meet troubles when they come, I
