Weird Tales/Volume 2/Issue 4/The Amazing Adventure of Joe Scranton

by Effie W. Fifield

The Final Thrilling Installment of

The Amazing Adventure
of Joe Scranton

By EFFIE W. FIFIELD

CHAPTER SIX

ONE night, after eating a hearty supper, I slipped out of the house, unobserved, and made my way to a sort of shallow cave I had found under an overhanging rock beside the sea. It was an ideal place in which to leave Jack Walsh's body.

I went straight to my own home. It was closed and dark. I searched every room. All were empty save one, which was occupied by the housekeeper. I went to the barn. The horses were there, and the coachman, who was also our chauffeur, slept soundly in his snug room overhead. The garage was locked. My car had not been used.

I returned to the house, and tried to find some scrap of paper-a forgotten note anything that might tell me what had happened, but in vain. I next went to the house occupied by Angeline's father, and there, in the room which had been hers as a girl, I saw my wife. The lamp burned dimly, and a nurse sat beside the bed.

I breathed a prayer of thankfulness that Angeline had been removed from the presence of my enemy, even though I realized that I might find it difficult to win her back again. It was evident that, womanlike, she had resented the treatment of her supposed husband, and gone home to mother.

But what had become of my body? I went to Helen's room. She lay quietly beside her husband, who had raised himself upon his elbow, and was earnestly studying her face. He appeared greatly perplexed. He spoke to her, but she made no reply. He shook her, but she did not awaken. I saw, at once, that she had astralized herself, and that Colonel Saunders had discovered that she was in an abnormal condition.

I did not doubt that Helen had astralized herself. Perhaps she had made an appointment with my enemy. As likely as not she was with him now. If so, she would at once understand the true condition of affairs, and she might help me out of my fearful predicament.

"What next?" I murmured. "Shall I try to find Helen, or would it be better for me to remain where I am and await her return?"

It was agony to believe that my body was somewhere, untenanted, and I did not know where. Oh, if I could only know its whereabouts! If only I could get to it before my enemy suspected my presence!

I finally decided to go to our most dearly loved haunts, hoping to find Helen. Anything was better than this state of inaction. As luck would have it, I had gone but a little distance from Helen's house, when I came face to face with the astral of my enemy.

"Where is my body?" I demanded.

"I will tell you that when I am ready to give it up," was his insolent reply.

I have since thought that the worst part of being without a body is one's inability stand up to a good square fight, and that is my only objection to being an angel when I die. Should I meet Jack Walsh in heaven, I know I'd whip him if I could.

"Bye-bye, Sonny," he said, with a leer. "Kiss Liz, for me, and mind you keep my body in good repair. I may want it some day."

He floated off, and I decided to follow him and take a chance on getting into my body first. If I failed, I should at least have the satisfaction of seeing it and knowing where to look for it another time. But Jack divined my thought, and immediately turned to me.

or not. I might as well be an astral for the rest of my life, anyhow, but you don't feel that way, so you'd best go away back and sit down."

"Old chap," he said, "you'll be sorry if you attempt that. I shall not go near your body as long as you follow me. If it dies I don't care. You have probably guessed that it makes little difference to me whether I ever see my old shell again, or not.

He had me in his power, and knew it. I turned away without another word, unwiling to do aught that would imperil my precious body. Without doubt, the existence of an astral was preferable to that led by Jack Walsh, but it was not more desirable than the life to which I had been accustomed.

I searched for Helen as long as I dared leave Jack's body. I searched in vain. There was nothing to do but return to the spot where I had hidden the body, and take up its horrible routine. This time it had not been molested. I crept into it, warmed it up, and wearily dragged it to the poverty-stricken home of Jack Walsh. The sun was just rising, when I entered the room, but the brisk Jane was already 'about her work.

"Good morning," said I.

"Humph!" was her reply. "Well, you certainly have not been on a spree this time! Going to work today!"

"Yes," I replied, knowing that it was the only chance I had to keep my borrowed body alive. It seemed to me that it required more food than three such bodies ought to need.

"Liz is in the next room. She sat up all night waiting for you, and has only just dropped asleep."

"Let her sleep. I'll work, and you may give her all I earn except just what is needed to buv food enough to keep me from starving, but I'll be blest if I ever want to see her again."

"Jack, what's got hold of you?"

"That is none of your business. Come, let's have breakfast, and be off as soon as possible."

"There were men here to see you last night. Did you expect them?"

"No."

"One was short and-"

"I don't care anything about them."

"I fancy they meant you no good. Have you been getting yourself into trouble?"

"Not in any way that you can understand."

"Well, here's your breakfast. I have engaged sweeping enough to keep you busy all day."

I ate my breakfast, and went to work. I was glad to work. Do you know, I have since reached the conclusion that there are many idle people who would be willing to make themselves useful, if they were not afraid of soiling their precious bodies, or of making them crooked, or otherwise unpresentable. I had always hesitated about doing anything that would harden my hands or make them rough, but I did not care a penny for Jack Walsh's hands. In fact, I gloried in the knowledge that they were getting some quite unaccustomed blisters and proving themselves of greater use than anyone had ever suspected they could be.

Jane collected my earnings before. At noon she offered me a pint of ale, but I refused it. Then she went to a shop and bought a really good dinner for me. She said she was almost ready to believe that Liz had known me best after all, and in many ways she showed that her opinion of me was rising. But she did not trust me with one penny of the money I had earned.

About the middle of the afternoon, a sheriff and posse called upon me.

"Are you Jack Walsh?" asked the sheriff.

"I am supposed to be."

"That does not answer my question. Are you Jack Walsh? Yes or no."

"Yes."

I did not like to say it, but what else could I have said?

"I believe you lie."

"You're right about that," I replied. "My real name is Joe Scranton. I own a pretty home in Wisconsin, U. S. A. My wife's name is Angeline."

"You dotty old nut, what are you giving us!".

"I'm telling you the truth, but I don't expect you to believe it."

"Haven't you been calling yourself Jack Walsh?"

"No, I haven't; but I have answered to that name."

"This is the fellow who asked me where Jack Walsh lived," said a man in the crowd. I recognized him as the one who had dared me to bet the treats that I was not a relative of Jack Walsh.

"Oh, Jack, Jack, what have you been doing now?"

Liz pushed her way through the crowd that had rapidly collected around me, and attempted to throw herself into my arms. She was weeping, and her lips were puckered ready for kissing.

"Get out of here!" I shouted. "If you touch me I'll kill you!"

"For shame!" said the sheriff.

"Kiss her yourself, if you think it is any fun," I retorted.

"That is not Jack Walsh," said a voice in the crowd. "Jack was mean enough, Lord knows, but he did let his wife kiss him."

"How long has he been like this?" asked the sheriff of Jane.

"Two or three days," was the reply, "but for the Lord's sake don't bring him out of it."

"Have you noticed that he won't allow Mrs. Walsh to kiss him?"

"Not if he can help it; he seems dead set against it."

"Yet you wish him to remain as he is."

"You bet I do."

"Why? Are you getting his kisses?"

"Me? If You mean me! What yeh hintin' at, you big stiff? Think I'd let that bum come near enough to kiss me? Why, I'd blow him into the middle of next week."

"Well, then, what is the reason you want him to remain as he is?"

"He's working for the first time in his life, and he's quit pounding Liz to a jelly."

"What does he do with his money?"

"I keep it. He say I can spend it on Liz, but he'd be tickled stiff if he never had to see her again."

"My man," he said, turning to me, "I guess you have not lived with Mrs. Walsh long enough to know her many good qualities. You may come with me."

I decided to go quietly, for I certainly could not be in a much worse position.

I was taken before a judge and examined, and it was proved beyond the possibility of doubt that I was not Jack Walsh. I could not answer the simplest questions about the former life of that individual. I did not know how many little Walshes I was responsible for, how many had died, how many were boys, nor which ones belonged to my first wife. Neither could I tell whether that wife had been separated from me by death, or divorce.

It was plain that I was not Jack Walsh; then who was I? And what was my little game? And where was Jack? I looked like Jack, they said, but that proved nothing. Many men had a double. Jane and Liz had never heard him mention a brother; but Jane said something to the effect that Jack was devilish enough to have a penitentiary full of relatives, and nothing could be worse than she had all along suspected.

I discovered that I was arrested for murdering two women in Whitechapel. I was supposed to be Jack the Ripper. There seemed to be a great deal of evidence against me, and there was every reason to believe that I should be hung.

The problem that now presented itself was this: Jack's physical body were to be hung what would become of my astral body? Of course, if I could obtain possession of my own body before Jack learned of the probable fate of his—but could I? I thought of astralizing myself just before the ceremony of hanging, as one way out of the difficulty; but soon dismissed that idea as useless. My jailers would simply try to restore me to consciousness—hang me if successful, and bury me if unsuccessful. The prospect was gloomy enough, whatever way one looked at it.

Finally, I was left alone in my cell, and, without loss of time, I stretched Jack's tired body on the iron pallet, and escaped, speeding my way home to Angeline. I had not gone half the distance when I met Jack Walsh.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, quite fraternally. "Want your old body back?"

"Lord, yes!" I began, with joyful enthusiasm, then, suddenly deciding to appear a little more diplomatic, I continued in carefully measured tones: "Of course, if you're through with it—umm! while I've had some interesting experiences in your body—er—ah—m—m—most interesting; yet—ah—you know—one's own body fits just a little better."

"Don't palaver! Mine's a rotten old shell, and you know it."

"Mine is far from being perfect," I murmured, wondering what argument I could use to persuade him to abandon it forever.

"Oh, I'm not making any kicks about the body! It's your family that gets my goat."

"My family?"

"Your women have never been taught to treat men with respect. Now you can't make any such complaint against my old woman. She's been trained!"

"She certainly has!" I exclaimed with all the cordiality at my command.

"Think she'll be glad to get me back again?"

"Why—e-h ye-es! I think she will. She seems surprisingly fond of you."

"That's more'n I can say for you and your damned skirt.

"You'll know, soon enough! Oh, you're going to get it in the neck! You'll get it good and plenty, and 'twill serve you jolly well right—whatever you get."

"Sir!" I exclaimed. "Explain yourself."

"I've got drunk—and I've knocked my old woman round a bit; but I never ran away with any other woman. I'm pretty rotten, all right, all right—but compared to you I'm a lily-white angel."

The contempt in the man's voice was so cutting that I quite naturally became enraged.

"What do you mean, you dirty, lazy wife-beater," I demanded.

"Better ask Colonel Saunders," he leered. "He's waiting for you with a strong, new, black snake whip."

I was so shaken with anger that the electrons composing my body seemed to lose all sense of relationship. For a time I knew not how long—I was as if I were not. When I once more realized that I was I, there were many thousands of miles of atmosphere between Jack Walsh and me. And suddenly I remembered I had neither told my enemy where his body was to be found, nor ascertained the resting place of my own.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE problem that now confronted me was "How am I to find my own body and take possession before Jack Walsh discovers that his body is to be hung?"

I didn't know which way to turn, but finally decided to be guided by my great longing to see Angeline. I would go to the old home, first. She must have returned by this time. I could not believe she would want to remain away when she had taken time to remember how good I'd always been to her.

The house was dark, empty, silent as on my last visit. Not one little clue could I find to the last resting place of my beloved body.

I went to the home of my wife's parents. Angeline lay on the bed where I had last seen her. She seemed to be sleeping, but there were traces of tears on her cheek. In her hand was a copy of the evening paper. I glanced at the words which she had evidently been reading, when she fell asleep.

"SCANDAL IN HIGH LIFE!"

Those were the words I saw, in the most insolent of bold-faced type. I read the article through to the end. It told how I, Joseph Scranton, had cruelly beaten my wife, Angeline, with my bootjack in the presence of witnesses, and how she had taken the advice of her family and friends and instituted proceedings for a divorce. It hinted that I had long been addicted to the use of drugs, but had been very successful in disguising the fact, and ended by promising its readers that if they would visit the court house at a certain hour of a certain day they would be regaled with other bits of juicy news concerning the Scranton family, and a certain other family, well known in social circles.

I do not attempt to quote, but simply give a synopsis of an article that, without doubt, made me the maddest astral in the universe.

I could gain nothing by staying where I was, so I decided to go to Helen's house. Perhaps I might learn something there about myself. If I could only have known how long a time had elapsed since my body had been vacated, I might not have been so worried. It was terrible to think that the earthly me might even now be dying.

Yet why should I want to live when Angeline was going to get a divorce? What would life be worth, if it must be lived without her? I had never believed in divorces, and now I was more than ever against a country where the laws made them possible. Why could not Angeline have had more faith in me? So far as she could know, she had had no cause to doubt me. Why should not her love for me have told her that I could not strike her, and be myself?

Of course, if she could have known of my atmospherical journeys with Helen, that would, undoubtedly, have caused her to lose faith in me, but how could she know of them? Even if she were told, her limited knowledge of occult laws would have moved her to say that it was not possible. I did not want Angeline to obtain a divorce. I believed that if I could get possession of my body, send for her, let her see that I was my own lovable self, I could easily win her back again, and all would be well with us, forever after.

My first glance at Helen, on reaching her room, told me that she had again astralized herself. I turned to leave the room and caught sight of a card which she had put in a conspicuous place beside the clock on her dressing table. It contained the words, "Beside the little lake in Italy."

Like a flash these words illumined my mind. Helen had guessed that a strange astral had possession of my body. She believed that, in my consequent unhappiness, I might visit her, and she had written these words, hoping that I might see them, and join her on the shore of the beautiful lake which our astral bodies had once visited.

In a remarkably short space of time—as time is usually measured—I was on my way to Italy, I had found Helen, and we were exchanging confidences.

"That is what I thought," she said, when I had told her of Jack Walsh. "The whisky and tobacco on your library table first aroused my suspicions."

"Did you explain to Angeline?"

"Explain to Angeline! Humph! Wait until you've tried it."

"You have tried to explain?"

"I have." Her tone was ominous.

"She couldn't understand?"

"She didn't try. Neither will anyone else. But I'm not worrying about you. I've troubles of my own. What do you suppose is in store for me?"

"Nothing very bad, I hope."

"My husband has seen a physician about me. There has been a consultation. It has been decided that my brain is inflamed by pressure and that I'm a fit subject for trepanning—"

"Trepanning! You can't mean trepanning."

"That is exactly what I mean. That's what I have to thank you for. I ought to be in my body this instant. If they find it unconscious—why, it may be on the operating table now—this very moment!"

"Yet you took the chance of leaving it, just to meet me—"

"Not because I wanted to, believe me. If only I never had seen you—"

"Similar thoughts visit me about four times a minute," I interrupted, politely sarcastic.

"I had to see you," continued Helen, "to let you know that it's up to you to get me out of this frightful mess."

"Up to me!"

"Certainly. You got me into it."

"Dragged you in, I suppose," I breathed, icily.

"You've got to go back to your own body—at once," commanded Helen—

"You don't mean it!" I sneered.

"Then you've got to convince those doctors, and my poor, dear husband—"

"Who carries a black snake whip—"

"Coward! Suppose he does use it on you! Is that anything to compare with my suffering!"

"Nothing at all. I'm having a blissful time."

"Joe, please go back to your body. I'll try to restrain my husband."

"So good of you! Will you kindly tell me where I can find my body?"

"In the work house. Didn't you know?"

"Work house! My body in the work house!"

"Sent up for ninety days; drunkenness."

Work house! Ninety days. My body. Oh, if I only had Jack Walsh by the scruff of the neck for one sweet minute—but why snort fire and brimstone! What had I done to him? Wouldn't he find his body in jail—about to be hung for murder?

When I opened my eyes, at the work house, I found two doctors and several nurses working over me, while the workhouse officials looked on. It was believed that I had attempted suicide, and the interesting problem was, what had I taken that brought me so near to death's door, yet gave none of the usual indications of poisoning? They questioned me in vain. What would they have said had I informed them that I had not located my body until it was almost too late to save it! Since I could not tell the truth, it seemed better to keep still.

"What he needs," said one of the doctors, severely, "is plenty of hard work."

"We'll see that he gets it," replied the man in charge.

He kept his word.

Eighty-nine days left in which to pound rocks. Nothing I could say would convince the wooden-headed superintendent that I did not deserve all that and as much more. I was taken under guard to meet Angeline, my dear wife, in the divorce court.

Oh, the agony of that moment! My hands, which had been soft and white when last they clasped hers, were now rough and bleeding. A bit of flying stone had hit me on one cheek, leaving a cruel cut and closing one eye. One front tooth was missing—a result of a hand-to-hand scrimmage in which Jack Walsh had come off second best, and the suit I wore also bore mute evidence of the way my poor body must have been dragged around a very dirty floor.

The court room was crowded. It was proved by many who had once called me friend that I had struck my wife, swore at her in the presence of our friends, shown no concern when she lay ill as a result of my behavior. Finally, it was stated that I was now serving a term in the work house for drunkenness.

My attorney had advised me not to make any attempt to defend myself. "Better let your wife have her divorce," he said. "You and she could never be happy together, after all that has happened between you and public feeling is so strong against you that the quieter you keep the better it will be for you."

He was right. I should have listened to him, and kept out of that court room. But I could not do it. I had to see Angeline. I could not believe she would allow the divorce proceedings to continue, when she saw me there before her.

I should have kept silence, no matter what they said against me—but I could not. I felt impelled to try to defend myself. I must. But what could I say? I obtained permission to speak—I stood up—I fixed my eyes—my one good eye—on my wife.

"Angeline," I said, "you know I did not do all that has been charged against me, here today. Your heart tells you that I couldn't possibly have done it—that I was never like that "

"Not before you became a drunkard," sobbed Angeline. "I'll admit that it was drink that changed you."

"I do not drink," I protested. "I loathe the taste of liquor—just as I always have. I persuaded my jailers to tempt me—they will tell you I never touched a drop of the best Scotch procurable, although it remained in my cell for forty-eight hours."

"He really seems to have reformed," ventured my attorney.

"Reform nothing!" I retorted with very natural indignation. "I tell you, I never did drink. I never swore. I never struck my wife—"

"May I ask who did strike her?" inquired Angeline's attorney, in a tone that rasped like a file.

Then it all came back, and things went black before me. For a moment I had forgotten that I had not lived in my own body as continuously as I should have done.

"I will tell you who struck my wife," I said, desperately, as I faced my tormentor. "To understand, you must believe me when I tell you that I know how to astralize myself. You must believe me when I tell you that I left my body for a little while and another astral took possession."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Angeline's attorney, "what an alibi!"

"Can you beat that?" said Angeline's father, who, for the moment looked too dazed to be indignant.

I turned to Angeline, and held out my hands, imploringly. "Try to believe me," I said, "You know I have never lied to you. Dearest, it was not I who struck you—"

"Who was it, then?" snapped the attorney.

"He is named Jack Walsh," I replied, steadily. "His home is in England, where the court officials claim he is Jack the Ripper. He has been convicted of murder. He has a poor, unfortunate, slatternly ill-used wife named Liz—"

I was interrupted by a roar of laughter. Even the Judge laughed. I tried to elaborate my explanation—but no one would hear me—could hear me, as a matter of fact. I was simply a joke. There were some formalities that I was too indignant to follow, and then my wife was assured that she was no longer related to me, and I was escorted back to the work house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A SENSATIONAL newspaper took up my story. A reporter was allowed to visit me. He was sympathetic, and I bared my very soul. He promised to help me, and left me feeling greatly comforted.

Time passed slowly. Nothing happened, and I believed myself forgotten. And then a Sunday edition of that sensational paper was allowed to reach me. There were pictures of my home, Angeline, myself; the Saunders home, Helen and her husband; Jack Walsh, Liz and Jane, and the sordid place they called home. There was confession from Jack Walsh, and attention was called to the fact that he was hung on the "Friday before this paper goes to press." Jack told with convincing detail many episodes of his life with Angeline; and how, after swearing at her the first time he returned to the room intending to kiss and make up; but he found her face daubed with mud, which made him so infernally mad that he hit her with a boot jack instead of kissing her, "and by thunder," he added, "wouldn't any red-blooded man have did that same?"

That newspaper article made a tremendous sensation. It completely alienated Colonel Saunders and Helen, both of whom fled to parts unknown—but not together. The city rocked with laughter. They could not bear it. The only mitigating circumstance in that tragedy was that Helen was saved from the trepanning ordeal. She now had the bitter knowledge that her husband no longer cared whether she needed it, or not.

My time at the work house had expired. It had been shortened by my excellent behavior.

I waited only long enough to scrub my toil-worn hands before hastening to my home and my wife. That Sunday supplement had been shocking, but I figured that it must, at least, have given me the benefit of the doubt in the mind of Angeline. She must know, now, that it was Jack Walsh, not I, who had caused her so much misery. Of course she would still have much to forgive, but when she realized how I had suffered—how penitent I was—

My father-in-law met me at the door of my home. He placed himself so that I could not enter without difficulty.

"We expected you," he said, grimly. "My daughter wishes you to be advised that your personal effects have been packed, and will be sent to any address you may mention."

"Hell!" I ejaculated, with some heat.

"Does that mean we are to burn them?" he asked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "There's no use in fussing about it," he added, more genially. "Angeline intends to abide by the decision of the divorce court."

"But surely she is convinced that it was not I who ill-treated her," I pleaded.

"I think she gives you the benefit of the doubt so far as the boot-jack episode is concerned; but to do that is to admit that you ran away with the wife of another man."

"But under conditions so spiritual—"

"Tut-tut, Scranton! Don't beg the question. There's no getting away from the fact that you did not invite you wife to your little astralization party. I will bid you good-evening, Mr. Scranton,"

"Stand aside," I ordered, "this is still my home—"

"I advise you to see your lawyer, Mr. Scranton. Good-evening." And he shut my own door in my outraged face.

I went to a hotel where I had long been a welcomed guest, and was received with scant courtesy and ill-concealed amusement, then hustled into an undesirable apartment.

"Not satisfactory? Sorry, Mr. Scranton, but all we have," in a detached, take-it-or-leave-it tone.

I locked myself into my room, found stationery in the dusty little desk, and put my whole soul into an impassioned appeal to my wife. I laid my heart bare and pleaded as I shall never be able to plead again. Scalding tears rolled down my cheeks, as I wrote, and dropped on the paper. I allowed them to remain, thinking that it would not be many hours before tears from Angeline's eyes would be keeping them company.

I could not believe that my wife had ceased to love me. She was only jealous, and jealousy should never discourage truly ardent lover. Of course she would eventually agree, with me, that I had suffered enough—

After hours of waiting that seemed like a taste of eternity my wife's letter was brought to me. Here it is:

"Mr. Scranton: If I had never idealized you, what you did to me would have been less hard to bear. Because you have deceived me, I can never again believe in your protestations of affection. I did my best—and failed to satisfy you. And if I am to believe your amazing story how am I ever to know that the man I greet in the morning is the same man who kissed me good-night. Life with a man like you is not sufficiently stable to offer any attraction to a woman of my domestic nature. Better get yourself a 'Liz' or a 'Helen.'

"Good-by forever,
"Angeline."

The finality of that note was sickening and maddening. I tore it into bits and burned them; then wished I had trampled upon them before throwing them into the grate.

Talk to me of the unswerving love, the divine comprehension, the sweet forgiveness, the madonna-like motherliness of a wife's love! Hm! Nothing to it. I tramped about that room like a caged lion lashing himself into fury with a carpet tack under his toes. At heart I was a murderer. I couldn't kill Jack Walsh, because that which would have been a pleasure to me had already been accomplished by law.

But there still remained Hicks Carew, and Tod Storrs who had introduced me to him, and Angeline and her father, and Colonel Saunders and Helen—and my brain teemed with schemes whereby each could be made to pay the penalty before I was caught—And I wouldn't be caught, because I could so easily leave my body and never return to it!

While these thoughts were chasing one another through my fevered brain, my door opened, as easily as if it had not been locked. It closed softly and locked itself. Hicks Carew stood before me.

"Why despair?" he asked, genially. "You won her love, once; why not again? With your experience—"

"Damn my experience!" I exploded, "And damn you! Get out of here before I kill you."

"You'll feel better now it is out of your system," he said, with gentle sympathy. "And now let me tell you how you can not only win back all you have lost, but add to it a thousand fold—"

"I tell you," I panted, "I want no more of your advice. If it hadn't been for you—"

"Remember," he cautioned, interrupting me, "I came into the game after you had become interested in your neighbor's wife, not before. You were ripe for the experiment and in need of the lesson it taught. But—you have suffered enough."

"Much you care about that," I growled, endeavoring to be firm in my refusal to listen to him, yet wondering if he really could help me win back my wife's love.

"You have suffered," continued Hicks Carew, "and if you will you may reap an hundred fold in satisfaction for every pang you have endured. As a philosopher—"

"A what?" I interrupted.

"A philosopher. A great psychic teacher. A professor of occultism. Your hair curls naturally. Let it grow as long as it will. Likewise your beard. We'll create a uniform for you—something very artistic and becoming. You'll soon be idolized. Women will profess themselves crazy about you. Your wife will be proud to bear your name. She will beg you to take her back."

"But a philosopher," I gasped—"a teacher a professor—I couldn't do it."

"Why not? Have you not proved that the body is only the house of the soul? Can you not say from experience that it is possible for the human tabernacle to harbor different personalities at different times? Can you not warn your pupils of the dangers of astralization? My friend, if you will you can do much to make this world a much more interesting dwelling place than it has ever been, because your experience gives a foundation for a serious belief in a life quite independent of physical limitation. Besides," he added, "you will find that I am pointing out the only way whereby you can ever again be interesting to Angeline."

It is midnight. Hicks Carew left only a few moments ago.

IT is queer what a hold occultism can get on a man once he begins to explore its mysteries. I should not advise anyone—unless, possibly, an enemy—ever to begin.

I am thinking of Angeline, not as the late Mrs. Scranton, but as the girl I knew before we were united in the holy bonds of matrimony. She was most alluring. Our courtship was delightful. She was very proud of me.

Yes, it is a fact that I have always loved Angeline. I believe I can win her again.

THE END