“No.”

“But suppose you had tried her?”

“Her! In what way?”

“By hiding a watch, for example, or a bit of gold, or a silver spoon, where nobody knew of it but yourself?”

“No; not even then.”

“No! And why not, pray?”

“Simply because, judging by the experiments I have been able to make, I do not see any good reason for believing that, because a subject may tell us of what we ourselves know, or have heretofore known, which I admit very common, therefore she can tell me what I do not know and never did know.  My notion is—­but I maybe mistaken—­that she sees with my eyes, hears with my ears, and remembers with my memory; and that she can do nothing more than reflect my mind while we are in communication.”

“May be so; but the woman we are dealing with has actually pointed out the direction, and, at last, by a process of lining peculiar to herself, the actual position of what I had buried in the earth at a considerable distance, and without the knowledge or help of any living creature.”

“Could she do this always and with certainty, and so that a third person might go to the treasure without help, on hearing her directions?”

“Why no, perhaps not; for that some few mistakes may have occurred, in the progress of our investigations, I am not disposed to deny.”

“Probably.  But, after all, were the directions given by her at any time, under any circumstances, definite and clear enough to justify a man of plain common sense in risking his reputation or money upon a third party’s finding, without help, what you had concealed?”

Instead of answering my question, the poor fellow grew uneasy, and pale, and anxious; and, after considering awhile, and getting up and sitting down perhaps half a dozen times before he could make up his mind what to say, he told me a story—­one of the most improbable I ever heard in my life—­the leading features of which, nevertheless, I know to be true, and will vouch for as matters of fact.

There had been here, in Portland, for about six months, it appeared, a strange-looking, mysterious man—­I give the facts, without pretending to give the words—­who went by the name of Greenleaf.  He was a sailor, and boarded with a man who kept a sailor boarding-house, and who, I am told, is still living here, by the name of Mellon.  People had taken it into their heads that the stranger had something upon his mind, as he avoided conversation, took long walks by himself, and muttered all night long in his sleep.  After a while, it began to be whispered about among the seafaring people that he was a pirate; and Mellon, his landlord, went so far as to acknowledge that he had his reasons for thinking so; although Greenleaf, on finding himself treated, and watched, and questioned more narrowly than he liked, managed to drop something about having sailed under the Brazilian flag.  And, on being plied with liquor one day, with listeners