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T IS A plainly furnished room—almost squalid. Except for some black velvet tapestries here and there, it has the appearance of a living-room of a person who has little of the worldly goods.

Seated at a small table in the center of the room is a little old woman. Her head is bent forward, her eyes are closed, She is talking in a low, sometimes barely audible voice. Now the words come clear and distinct; again they are an unintelligible mutter.

The woman is a spirit medium.

Two men sit near her and listen. They are prominent members of a psychological research society. Noted scientists they are, and cynical, skeptical. Now they glance at each other and smile superciliously as the woman's voice falters, halts and goes on again.

I, too, am in the room. I see everything about me, I hear every spoken word. I move about, trying, ever trying, to make my presence known, to be seen.

Oh, why does not that conceited, skeptical ass look at me, see me? I stand directly before him and peer into his very soul. They are fools, these men who have studied so much, learned so much, and yet know so little!

I am a ghost.

The woman knows I am here. She is 49