Reaching the corner of the streets that bounded the lot, Hanlon made no pause, but started on a straight diagonal toward the center of the lot.  He stepped into a tangle of charred logs and ashes, but forged ahead unhesitatingly, though slowly, and picked his way by thrusting the toe of his shoe tentatively forward.

Mortimer, about three paces behind him, followed, unheeding the rubbish he stalked through, and very evidently absorbed in doing his part to its conclusion.

For the knife was hidden in the very center of the burned-down house.  A bit of flooring was left, on which Hanlon climbed, Mortimer getting up on it also.

Hanlon walked slowly round in a circle, the floor being several yards square.  Mortimer stepped behind him, gravely looking toward the hiding-place, and exerting all his mentality toward “guiding” Hanlon to it.  At no time was he nearer than two feet, though once, making a quick turn, Hanlon nearly bumped into him.  Finally, Hanlon, poking about in the ashes with his right foot, kicked against something.  He picked it up and it proved to be only a bit of wire.  But the next moment he struck something else, and, stooping, brought up triumphantly the hidden penknife, which he waved exultantly at the crowd.

Loud and long they cheered him.  Cordially Mr. Mortimer grasped the hands of the hero, and it was with some difficulty that Alvord Hendricks restrained Miss Abby Ames from getting out of his car and rushing to congratulate the successful treasure-seeker.

“Now,” she exclaimed; “no one can ever doubt the fact of telepathy after this!  How else could that young man have done what he has done.  Answer me that!”

“It’s all a fake,” asserted Hendricks, “but I’m ready to acknowledge I don’t know how it’s done.  It’s the best game I ever saw put up, and I’d like to know how he does it.”

“Seems to me,” put in Eunice, a little dryly, “one oughtn’t to insist that it is a fake unless one has some notion, at least, of how it could be done.  If the man could see—­could even peep —­there might be a chance for trickery.  But with those thick cotton pads on his eyes and then covered with that big, thick, folded silk handkerchief—­it’s really a muffle-there’s no chance for his faking.”

“And if he could see—­if his eyes were wide open—­how would he know where to go?” demanded Aunt Abby.  “That blindfolding is only so he can’t see Mr. Mortimer’s face, if he turns round, and judge from its expression.  And also, I daresay, to help him concentrate his mind, and not be diverted or distracted by the crowd and all.”

“All the same, I don’t believe in it,” and Hendricks shook his head obstinately.  “There is no such thing as telepathy, and this ‘willing’ business has all been exposed years ago.”

“I remember,” and Aunt Abby nodded; “you mean that Bishop man and all that.  But this affair it quite different.  You don’t believe Mr. Mortimer was a party to deceit, do you?”