Aunt Abby laughed.  “You are a queer lad!  Why, I’m not sure I’d care, if it didn’t affect me in any way.  I’m not responsible for your truthfulness—­though I don’t mind advising you that you ought to be a truthful boy.”

“Land, ma’am!  Don’t you s’pose I know that?  But, honest now, are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?”

“Certainly I am!  What do you mean by speaking to me like that?”

“Well, don’t you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort’a to make it more interestin’ like?  Most ladies do—­that is, most ladies of intelligence and brains—­which you sure have got in plenty!”

“There, there, boy; I’m afraid I’ve humored you too much you’re presuming.”

“I presume I am.  But one question more, while we’re on this absorbin’ subject.  Didn’t you, now, just add a jot or a tittle to that ghost story you put over?  Was it every bit on the dead level?”

“Yes, child,” Aunt Abby took his question seriously; “it was every word true.  I didn’t make up the least word of it!”

“I believe you, ma’am, and I congratulate you on your clarviant powers.  Now, about that raspberry jam, ma’am.  That’s a mighty unmistakable taste—­ain’t it, now.”

“It is, McGuire.  It certainly is.  And I tasted it, just as surely as I’m here telling you about it.”

“Have you had it for supper lately, ma’am?”

“No; Eunice hasn’t had it on her table since I’ve been visiting her.”

“Is that so, ma’am?”

CHAPTER XV

MARIGNY THE MEDIUM

The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic recommended by Willy Hanlon.

As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet and an odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, “Gee! a clairviant!  Now for some fun!”

Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion, seated herself, and waited patiently.

At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and waited quietly, too.

Soon the psychic entered.  He was robed in a long, black garment, and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds.  His face was olive-colored—­what was visible of it for his beard was white and flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips.  Locks of white hair showed from the turban’s edge, and a pair of big, rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his eyes.

The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a psychic has a right to disguise himself, if he choose.

Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed an expression of face quite different from his usual one.  He managed to look positively vacant-minded.  His eyes became lack-luster, his mouth, slightly open, looked almost imbecile, and his roving glance betokened no interest whatever in the proceedings.