At midnight, shortly after we reached home, Sperry called me on the phone. "Be
careful, Horace," he said. "Don't let Mrs. Horace think anything has happened. I
want to see you at once. Suppose you say I have a patient in a bad way, and a
will to be drawn."
I listened to sounds from upstairs. I heard my wife go into her room and close the
"Tell me something about it," I urged.
"Just this. Arthur Wells killed himself tonight, shot himself in the head. I want you
to go there with me."
"Yes. I say, Horace, did you happen to notice the time the seance began
"It was five minutes after nine when my watch fell."
"Then it would have been about half past when the trance began?"
There was a silence at Sperry's end of the wire. Then:
"He was shot about 9:30," he said, and rang
I am not ashamed to confess that my hands shook as I hung up the receiver. A
brick house, she had said; the Wells house was brick. And so were all the other
houses on the street. Vines in the back? Well, even my own house had vines. It
was absurd; it was pure coincidence; it was - well, I felt it was queer.