The fact was that it did appeal to me, though at the moment I was endeavouring to formulate a theory in which Dudley Lawton and an accomplice would account for the facts.

It was early in the evening as we started out on our tour of the clairvoyants of New York.  The first whom Kennedy selected from the advertisements in the clipping described himself as “Hata, the Veiled Prophet, born with a double veil, educated in occult mysteries and Hindu philosophy in Egypt and India.”  Like all of them his advertisement dwelt much on love and money: 

The great questions of life are quickly solved, failure turned to success, sorrow to joy, the separated are brought together, foes made friends.  Truths are laid bare to his mysterious mind.  He gives you power to attract and control those whom you may desire, tells you of living or dead, your secret troubles, the cause and remedy.  Advice on all affairs of life, love, courtship, marriage, business, speculations, investments.  Overcomes rivals, enemies, and all evil influences.  Will tell you how to attract, control, and change the thought, intentions, actions, or character of any one you desire.

Hata was a modest adept who professed to be able to explain the whole ten stages of Yoga.  He had established himself on a street near Times Square, just off Broadway, and there we found several automobiles and taxicabs standing at the curb, a mute testimony to the wealth of at least some of his clientele.

A solemn-faced coloured man ushered us into a front parlour and asked if we had come to see the professor.  Kennedy answered that we had.

“Will you please write your names and addresses on the outside sheet of this pad, then tear it off and keep it?” asked the attendant.  “We ask all visitors to do that simply as a guarantee of good faith.  Then if you will write under it what you wish to find out from the professor I think it will help you concentrate.  But don’t write while I am in the room, and don’t let me see the writing.”

“A pretty cheap trick,” exclaimed Craig when the attendant had gone.  “That’s how he tells the gullible their names before they tell him.  I’ve a good notion to tear off two sheets.  The second is chemically prepared, with paraffin, I think.  By dusting it over with powdered charcoal you can bring out what was written on the first sheet over it.  Oh, well, let’s let him get something across, anyway.  Here goes, our names and addresses, and underneath I’ll write, ‘What has become of Georgette Gilbert?’”

Perhaps five minutes later the negro took the pad, the top sheet having been torn off and placed in Kennedy’s pocket.  He also took a small fee of two dollars.  A few minutes later we were ushered into the awful presence of the “Veiled Prophet,” a tall, ferret-eyed man in a robe that looked suspiciously like a brocaded dressing-gown much too large for him.

Sure enough, he addressed us solemnly by name and proceeded directly to tell us why we had come.