“The vision may argue a passing soul,” Stone said kindly, as if humoring her, “but the effect on your other senses, seems to me to indicate a living person.”

“No,” and Aunt Abby spoke with deep solemnity, “a materialized spirit is evident to our senses—­one or another of them.  In this case I discerned it by all five senses, which is unusual —­possibly unique; but I am very psychic—­very sensitive to spiritual manifestations.”

“You have seen ghosts before, then?”

“Oh, yes.  I have visions often.  But never such a strange one.”

“And where did this spirit disappear to?”

“It just faded.  It seemed to waft on across the room.  I closed my eyes involuntarily, and when I opened them again it was gone.”

“Leaving no trace behind?”

“The faint odor of gasoline—­and the taste of raspberry jam on my tongue.”

Fibsy snickered, but suppressed it at once, and said, “And he left the little dropper-thing beside your bed?”

“Yes, boy!  You seem clairvoyant yourself!  He did.  It was Sanford, of course; he had killed himself with the poison, and he tried to tell me so—­but he couldn’t make any communication—­they rarely can—­so he left the tiny implement, that we might know and understand.”

“H’m, yes;” and Stone sat thinking.  “Now, Miss Ames, you must not be offended at what I’m about to say.  I don’t disbelieve your story at all.  You tell it too honestly for that.  I fully believe you saw what you call a ‘vision.’  But you have thought over it and brooded over it, until you think you saw more than you did—­or less!  But, leaving that aside for the moment, I want you to realize that your theory of suicide, based on the ‘vision’ is not logical.  Supposing your niece were guilty—­as the detectives think—­might not Mr. Embury’s spirit have pursued the same course?”

Aunt Abby pondered.  Then, her eyes flashing, she cried, “Do you mean he put the dropper in my room to throw suspicion on me, instead of on his wife?”

“There is a chance for such a theory.”

“Sanford wouldn’t do such a thing!  He was truly fond of me!”

“But to save his wife?”

“I never thought of all that.  Maybe he did—­or, maybe he dropped the thing accidentally—­”

“Maybe.”  Stone spoke preoccupiedly.

Mason Elliott, too, sat in deep thought.  At last he said: 

“Aunt Abby, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell that yarn to anybody else.  Let’s all forget it, and call it merely a dream.”

“What do you mean, Mason?  “The old lady bridled, having no wish to hear her marvelous experience belittled.  “It wasn’t a dream —­not an ordinary dream—­it was a true appearance of Sanford, after his death.  You know such things do happen—­look at that son of Sir Oliver Lodge.  You don’t doubt that, do you?”

“Never mind those things.  But I earnestly beg of you, Aunt Abby, to forget the episode—­or, at least, to promise me you’ll not repeat it to any one else.”