The acquaintance, lightly enough begun, ripened soon to intimacy, and so were the eyes of Bean first opened to mysteries that would later affect his life so vitally.  He was soon carrying wood and coal up the back stairs of Mrs. Jackson, in return for which the lady ministered to him in her professional capacities.  At their first important session on a rainy Saturday of leisure she trimmed and polished each of his ten finger-nails, told his past, present and future—­he was going to cross water and there was a dark gentleman he had need to beware of—­and suggested that his feet might need attention.

He squirmingly demurred at this last operation, and successfully resisted it.  But the bonds of their friendship were sealed over a light collation which she served.  She was a vegetarian, she told him.  You couldn’t get on to a high spiritual plane if you ate the corpses of murdered animals.  But her food seemed sufficing and she drank beer which he brought her in a neat pitcher from the cheerful store on the corner where they sold such things.  Beer, she explained to him, was a strictly vegetable product, though not the thing for growing boys.  The young must discriminate, even among vegetables.

They liked each other well and in a little time he had absorbed the simple tale of her activities.  When you rented rooms, people sometimes left without paying you.  So had gone Professor de Lavigne, the chiropodist; so had vanished the original Madam Wanda.  They had left their signs, and nothing else.  The rest was simple after you had been seeing how they did it—­a little practice with a nail-file, a little observation of parties that came in with crepe on, to whom you said, “Standing right there I see some one near and dear to you that has lately passed on to the spirit land”; or male parties that looked all fussed up and worried, to whom you said that the deal was coming out all right, only they were always to act on their first impulse and look out for a man with kind of brownish hair who carried a gold watch and sometimes wore gloves.  She said it was strange how she could “hit it” sometimes, especially where there were initials in the hats they left outside in the hall, or a name inside the overcoat pocket.  It was wonderful what she had been able to tell parties for a dollar.

Bean cared little for these details, but he was excited by the theory back of them; a world from which the unseen spirits of the dead will counsel and guide us in our daily affairs if we will listen.  It was a new terror added to a world of terrors—­they were all about you, striving with futile hands to touch you, whispering words of cheer or warning to your deaf ears.

Mrs. Jackson herself believed it implicitly and went each week to consult one or another of the more advanced mediums.  The last one had seen the spirit of her Aunt Mary, a deceased person so remote in time that she had been clean forgotten.  But it was a valuable pointer.  When you come to think about it, at least seven parties out of ten, if they were any way along in years, had a dead Aunt Mary.  And it was best to go to the good ones.  Mrs. Jackson admitted that.  You paid more, but you got more.