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DR. LEROY

There may now be presented, as bearing upon Mrs. Wells' strange illness, a conversation which took place between Dr. William Owen and Dr. Edgar Leroy, the psychic healer, on the evening following Penelope's entrance into the Leroy sanitarium on Fortieth Street, just south of Bryant Park.

Owen began in his bluff, outspoken way: “Doctor, I have put into your hands a lady I am very fond of, in spite of the fact that your theories contradict everything I stand for. Not very complimentary, is it?—but I may as well tell you the truth. Mrs. Wells has not improved under my treatment, I admit that, and I have turned her over to you as a sort of last hope.”

Leroy's rather stern face brightened with a flash of humor.

“The same thing has happened to other physicians, doctor. I believe you diagnose this case as shell shock?”

“Unquestionably—with unfavorable developments, dual personality complications—I wrote you.”

“Yes. I spent several hours with Mrs. Wells last evening when she arrived. She was agitated, but I soothed her and explained certain things that had troubled her, and, gradually, she grew calm. I think I can help her.”

In spite of himself Dr. Owen was favorably impressed both by the man and his surroundings. There was nothing garish or freakish or Oriental about the place, which was furnished with the business-like simplicity of an ordinary doctor's office. And Leroy certainly had a fine head—a clean-shaven face with heavy black brows under which shone grave, kindly eyes that twinkled now and then in good-natured understanding. He was about ten years younger than his colleague.

“May I ask, doctor, if there is any scientific evidence to prove the existence of this healing spiritual power that you use or think you use?” In spite of himself, Owen put this question a little patronizingly.

“There are the results—the cures. And there is the evidence of Christianity. Spiritual power is the basis of Christianity, isn't it?”

A deeper note sounded here, and the hard-headed materialist began to realize that he was in the presence of an unusual personality, developed by suffering and struggle, a man who had finally reached a haven of sure and comforting belief. There was great kindness in this face as well as strength.

“Nothing else? Is there no evidence similar to that which convinces us that the X-rays really exist?”

Leroy thought a moment, then he spoke with a quiet impressiveness that was not lost upon Dr. Owen.

“There is evidence that would probably convince any fair-minded person who was willing to give to the investigation time enough to get results. The X-rays were not discovered in a day, were they? Suppose I tell you how I got into this occult field—would that interest you?”

“Very much.”

“Take that other chair—make yourself comfortable—that's better. It began accidentally with certain persistent hallucinations, as I used to call them, in a patient of mine, a Southern lady whom I attended when I was a regular practitioner like yourself. These hallucinations worried me, and, being an open-minded man, I found it impossible to dismiss them as of trivial importance; so I began an investigation that led me—well, it led me very far, it is still leading me, for I am scarcely over the threshold of that mysterious region where spirit phenomena occur. I resolved to know for myself whether these things are true.”

“And you think they are true?”

“I know they are true,” was the grave reply.

Dr. Owen listened attentively while Leroy described his first groping efforts to determine whether or not he personally possessed psychic powers. He began with regular periods of mental concentration, an opening of the soul, as it were, to spirit impressions; he would sit alone, in a state of meditative receptiveness for ten or fifteen minutes every day, and later several times a day, waiting for something to happen—he did not know what.

Day after day the psychologist persisted in this singular experiment and, soon, he began to see small blue figures, irregularly shaped, that moved rapidly about the room and cast no shadows. Some of these blue figures were luminous, and among them were occasional luminous white figures. As weeks passed and his efforts continued, there came a noticeable increase in the number of these moving shapes until, when the doctor desired it, he could make them swarm everywhere, over the walls, the pictures, the bookcases.

“Wait!” interrupted Owen. “Do you see these blue shapes or luminous figures at all times? Do you see them now?”

“No. I only see them when I desire to see them—when I prepare myself to use them—for a case.”

Leroy told how the phenomena continued to increase in frequency and in intensity, how gradually he felt an unmistakable sense of power growing in himself, as if he had somehow tapped a vast source of energy, a kind of spiritual trolley-line, and he was now impelled to use this power. He made his first trial on a poor man who had suffered for years from headaches that seemed incurable.

“Stretch out on that reclining chair, close your eyes, don't think of anything,” ordered the experimenter. Then he laid his hands on the man's forehead and concentrated his mind in the psychic way he had adopted. Almost immediately the blue shapes appeared in great numbers, and began to pour themselves in fine, pulsing streams, like a purplish mist, over the patient's brow and head and shoulders, over his whole body until he was completely enveloped in them, laved by them, penetrated by them.

“That was a crude beginning,” Leroy went on, “but it drove away those obstinate headaches for three months; then a second laying on of hands completed the cure. After that, as months passed, other persons were cured in the same way—especially nervous cases. Whatever these blue streams are, they benefit the patient in most cases. One woman told me, during a treatment, that she saw blue shapes about her!”

“You hypnotized her,” declared Owen.

“Possibly. I did not intend to.”

“What I want to know is, have you ever treated a case like this one of Mrs. Wells?”

“Yes, I treated a young woman in Mrs. Wells' profession, a trained nurse. She came of good family and was very intelligent, but she was driven toward certain forms of depravity. It was pretty bad. All efforts to change her had failed and, at last, her mother in desperation decided to try psychic treatment.”

“And you cured her?”

“Yes. She is now doing useful work in Washington for the Red Cross.”

“How did you cure her—it wasn't simply by the laying on of hands, was it?”

“No. I recognize the necessity of getting at the forgotten or concealed causes of these abnormalities, just as Freud does in his psycho-analysis, but, instead of following the uncertain trail of dreams, I conceived the idea of discovering the truth by clairvoyant revelation. I engaged Mrs. Seraphine Walters to assist me in my work. She has astonishing psychic gifts and—” he hesitated.

“Yes?”

“In her entranced condition, Mrs. Walters discovered things about this young woman, painful things that had been hidden for years and—well, I was able to relieve her of her fears and check her waywardness,” he concluded abruptly.

“But the details? Tell me more about this case. What were the painful things that Mrs. Walters discovered?”

Leroy shook his head.

“What's the use? I can state the result of my treatment, but if I go into details, if I try to make you understand the cause of this young woman's evil desires and how I overcame them—” he paused, his eyes shining with an inspired light. “Don't you see, doctor, you and I do not speak the same language. You are always in opposition. You have no faith. It's your narrow training.”

“Narrow?” snorted the other.

“Yes, you scientists are childishly narrow. You believe in atoms and ions and electrons that you have never seen and never will see, but if anyone mentions secrets of the soul that control human happiness, you laugh or sneer.”

“Not necessarily. I suppose you refer to your theory of possession by evil spirits. If you could only furnish any evidence—”

“It isn't my theory. It's as old as Christianity, it's a part of Christianity. As to evidence, my dear sir, you are blind to evidence. The young lady I speak of was despaired of by everybody, she was on her way to an insane asylum, two alienists had declared her case hopeless, yet, thanks to psychic treatment, she was restored to health and happiness. Does that impress you? Not at all if you call it a coincidence. And if I am fortunate enough to cure Mrs. Wells, whom you have failed to cure, you will call that a coincidence, too.”

Dr. Owen tried to control his irritation, but his prejudices got the better of him.

“Of course I want to see Mrs. Wells cured, but—do you mean to tell me seriously that you believe she is possessed by an evil spirit?”

“I believe that some malignant influence is near her and able to control her—intermittently. How else do you account for the facts in her case? Even Mrs. Wells believes this.”

“That is because Seraphine put the notion in her head. It's unfortunate.”

“No, she believes this because of the way her friend died. You know how she died?”

“Miss Vallis? She died suddenly, but the cause of her death is doubtful. People die suddenly from all sorts of causes.”

“Yes,” answered Leroy with a significant tightening of the lips, “and one of the causes is fear. People die suddenly of fear, doctor.”

“Referring to Mrs. Wells and her bad dreams?”

“Precisely. If you had seen her last night—after midnight—watching the clock with dark, furtive glances, watching, waiting, as the hands approached half past twelve, you would understand what fear can do to a woman. That is Mrs. Wells' worst symptom, she is afraid—not all the time but intermittently.”

Owen leaned forward in concentrated attention.

“Why was she in such a state at half past twelve rather than at any other time?”

“Because the change in her takes place then, the change into her other personality.”

“Fauvette? You saw her—in that personality?”

“Yes. I saw her. Besides, she told me about it in advance. She knows what is going to take place, but is powerless against it. Every night at exactly half past twelve there comes a violent period that lasts until one o'clock. Then she falls into a deep sleep, and a dream begins, always the same dream, a horrible dream that terrifies her and drains her life forces. She had this dream last night, she will have it again tonight, and again tomorrow night. She believes that she will die tomorrow night, just as her friend died!”

“Good God! What a pity!” exclaimed Owen. “Why does she think she is going to die tomorrow night?”

“Her Voices tell her so, and she believes them.”

“She told you this?”

“Yes.”

The older man tapped impatiently on his chair-arm.

“And you? What did you say to her? You surely do not believe that Mrs. Wells will die tomorrow night? You know these are only the morbid fancies of an hysterical woman, don't you?”

Leroy rose quietly and took down a volume from the bookcase.

“How we love to argue over the names of things!” he answered gravely. “I don't care what you call the influence or obsession that threatens this lady. I ask, What do you propose to do about it? Do you believe that Mrs. Wells will die tomorrow night? Do you?”

Owen moved uncomfortably on his chair, frowned, snapped his fingers softly and finally admitted that he did not know.

“Ah! Then is it your idea to wait without doing anything until tomorrow night comes, and see if Mrs. Wells really does die at half-past twelve, and then, if she does, as the Vallis woman died, to simply say: 'It's very strange, it's too bad!' and let it go at that? Is that your idea? Will you take that responsibility?”

“No, certainly not. I don't mean to interfere with your plans. I told you I have left this matter entirely in your hands,” answered the skeptic, his aggressiveness suddenly calmed.

“Very well. Take my word, doctor, fear is terribly destructive, it may cause death. Listen to this case, cited by a French psychologist.” He turned over the pages. “Daughter of an English nobleman, engaged to a man she loves, perfectly happy; but one night she is visited, or thinks she is, by her dead mother who says she will come for her daughter the next day at noon. The girl tells her father she is going to die. She reads her Bible, sings hymns to the accompaniment of a guitar, and just before noon, although apparently in excellent health, she asks to be helped to a large arm chair in her bedroom. At noon exactly she draws two or three gasping breaths and sinks back into her chair, dead. That shows what fear will do.”

But his adversary was still unconvinced.

“What does that prove? Do you think you could have saved this young woman if you had been in charge of the case?”

“Perhaps. I hope to save Mrs. Wells.”

“How?”

Leroy hesitated, frowned with a nervous squinting, as if he were trying to solve a baffling problem.

“How? I wish I could tell you, doctor, but you would not understand. That is the sad part of my work, I am all alone.”

His eyes burned somberly, then he spoke with intense feeling.

“Not one of you orthodox physicians will join me in my effort to save millions of unfortunates from the tragedy of our state hospitals. You won't lift a hand to help me. You all say there is nothing to be done. What a wicked evasion of responsibility! Nothing to be done? I tell you there is everything to be done. Suppose you had a daughter or a sister or a wife who was suffering from such an affliction—how would you feel? God grant you may never know how you would feel. Why do you doctors scoff at miracles when the Bible is full of them and we all live among them? What is life but an unceasing miracle? Tell me how you move your finger except by a miracle? What is vision? What is death? How do you know that spirits of the departed, good and bad, do not come back to help us—or to harm us? Many great men believe this and always have. Many fine women know that this is true. Mrs. Walters has actually seen an evil spirit hovering about a girl who was called insane. How do you know that insanity is not caused by evil possession?”

“Hold on! I can't answer all those questions,” laughed Owen and now his manner changed quite charmingly as he made an amende honorable. “I'm a stubborn old fool, doctor. I ought to have had more sense than to get into this argument. What I care about is to have this dear lady restored to health and happiness. There!” He held out his hand. “Forgive me! The more miracles you can work for her cure, the better I shall like it.”

At this Leroy relented in his turn.

“Dr. Owen, I will not conceal from you that Mrs. Wells is in great peril. I have no more doubt that she will die tomorrow night, unless she consents to do something that I have already indicated to her as necessary, than I have of your presence in this room.”

“Extraordinary! Do you really mean that? What is this thing? Is it a definite thing, or is it some—some spiritual thing?”

Dr. Leroy sighed and shook his head.

“It's hard for you to believe, isn't it? I suppose you want me to give Mrs. Wells a dose of medicine or put a hot water bag at her feet. No, doctor, it's much more difficult than that.”

The veteran pondered this in puzzled exasperation.

“If Mrs. Wells does this definite thing that you have told her to do, will she be saved?”

“Yes, I think so,” Leroy spoke confidently.

There came a knock at the office door, but both men were so absorbed in their conversation that they paid no attention to it.

“Is there any doubt about her doing this definite thing that will save her?”

“That's the trouble, she fights against doing it with all her strength. She says she cannot do it. But I tell her she must do it!”

The knock sounded sharper. An attendant had come with a message from Seraphine asking Dr. Leroy to come to her at once. She was upstairs in Mrs. Wells' sitting-room. Something serious had happened.

“Tell Mrs. Walters that I will be right up,” he said. “You had better wait here, doctor.” Leroy glanced at his watch. “It's half-past nine. We have three hours.”