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Rh packed, and will be sent to any address you may mention."

"Hell!" I ejaculated, with some heat.

"Does that mean we are to burn them?" he asked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "There's no use in fussing about it," he added, more genially. "Angeline intends to abide by the decision of the divorce court."

"But surely she is convinced that it was not I who ill-treated her," I pleaded.

"I think she gives you the benefit of the doubt so far as the boot-jack episode is concerned; but to do that is to admit that you ran away with the wife of another man."

"But under conditions so spiritual—"

"Tut-tut, Scranton! Don't beg the question. There's no getting away from the fact that you did not invite you wife to your little astralization party. I will bid you good-evening, Mr. Scranton,"

"Stand aside," I ordered, "this is still my home—"

"I advise you to see your lawyer, Mr. Scranton. Good-evening." And he shut my own door in my outraged face.

I went to a hotel where I had long been a welcomed guest, and was received with scant courtesy and ill-concealed amusement, then hustled into an undesirable apartment.

"Not satisfactory? Sorry, Mr. Scranton, but all we have," in a detached, take-it-or-leave-it tone.

I locked myself into my room, found stationery in the dusty little desk, and put my whole soul into an impassioned appeal to my wife. I laid my heart bare and pleaded as I shall never be able to plead again. Scalding tears rolled down my cheeks, as I wrote, and dropped on the paper. I allowed them to remain, thinking that it would not be many hours before tears from Angeline's eyes would be keeping them company.

I could not believe that my wife had ceased to love me. She was only jealous, and jealousy should never discourage truly ardent lover. Of course she would eventually agree, with me, that I had suffered enough—

After hours of waiting that seemed like a taste of eternity my wife's letter was brought to me. Here it is:

The finality of that note was sickening and maddening. I tore it into bits and burned them; then wished I had trampled upon them before throwing them into the grate.

Talk to me of the unswerving love, the divine comprehension, the sweet forgiveness, the madonna-like motherliness of a wife's love! Hm! Nothing to it. I tramped about that room like a caged lion lashing himself into fury with a carpet tack under his toes. At heart I was a murderer. I couldn't kill Jack Walsh, because that which would have been a pleasure to me had already been accomplished by law.

But there still remained Hicks Carew, and Tod Storrs who had introduced me to him, and Angeline and her father, and Colonel Saunders and Helen—and my brain teemed with schemes whereby each could be made to pay the penalty before I was caught—And I wouldn't be caught, because I could so easily leave my body and never return to it!

While these thoughts were chasing one another through my fevered brain, my door opened, as easily as if it had not been locked. It closed softly and locked itself. Hicks Carew stood before me.

"Why despair?" he asked, genially. "You won her love, once; why not again? With your experience—"

"Damn my experience!" I exploded, "And damn you! Get out of here before I kill you."

"You'll feel better now it is out of your system," he said, with gentle sympathy. "And now let me tell you how you can not only win back all you have lost, but add to it a thousand fold—"

"I tell you," I panted, "I want no more of your advice. If it hadn't been for you—"

"Remember," he cautioned, interrupting me, "I came into the game after you had become interested in your neighbor's wife, not before. You were ripe for the experiment and in need of the lesson it taught. But—you have suffered enough."

"Much you care about that," I growled, endeavoring to be firm in my refusal to listen to him, yet wondering if he really could help me win back my wife's love.

"You have suffered," continued Hicks Carew, "and if you will you may reap an hundred fold in satisfaction for every pang you have endured. As a philosopher—"

"A what?" I interrupted.

"A philosopher. A great psychic teacher. A professor of occultism. Your hair curls naturally. Let it grow as long as it will. Likewise your beard. We'll create a uniform for you—something very artistic and becoming. You'll soon be idolized. Women will profess themselves crazy about you. Your wife will be proud to bear your name. She will beg you to take her back."

"But a philosopher," I gasped—"a teacher a professor—I couldn't do it."

"Why not? Have you not proved that the body is only the house of the soul? Can you not say from experience that it is possible for the human tabernacle to harbor different personalities at different times? Can you not warn your pupils of the dangers of astralization? My friend, if you will you can do much to make this world a much more interesting dwelling place than it has ever been, because your experience gives a foundation for a serious belief in a life quite independent of physical limitation. Besides," he added, "you will find that I am pointing out the only way whereby you can ever again be interesting to Angeline."

It is midnight. Hicks Carew left only a few moments ago.

T is queer what a hold occultism can get on a man once he begins to explore its mysteries. I should not advise anyone—unless, possibly, an enemy—ever to begin.

I am thinking of Angeline, not as the late Mrs. Scranton, but as the girl I knew before we were united in the holy bonds of matrimony. She was most alluring. Our courtship was delightful. She was very proud of me.

Yes, it is a fact that I have always loved Angeline. I believe I can win her again.