How the Mediums "Brought Back" Sir Conan Doyle's Dead "Mother"
How the Mediums "Brought Back" Sir Conan Doyle's Dead "Mother" is an article written by Dr. Leonard J. Hartman published in The Examiner (San Francisco) on 10 september 1922.
How the Mediums "Brought Back" Sir Conan Doyle's Dead "Mother"
And How They Were Later Unmasked by an Unsentimental Policewoman and Detective, Told by the Man in Whose House the "Materializations" Occurred and Who Was Himself an Innocent Victim of the Cruel Deception
All of us are eager to know, of course, what becomes of our loved ones after death, and all of us would more than welcome any means by which communication could be opened with those departed loved ones to discover just how they are faring. So deep-rooted and so sacred are these longings of ours to get in touch with our dead that it is hard to conceive anything more cruel and heartless than wilful deception in such a matter.
When Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, distinguished English author and creator of the master detective mind of fiction, "Sherlock Holmes," declared solemnly that he had not only talked to his departed loved ones, but had also seen and touched them, a great many people took it for granted that Sir Arthur had brought into his spiritualistic observations the same power of analysis and observation he showed in his "Sherlock Holmes" cases. And if this had happened for Sir Arthur, they argued, it might also happen for them. Their hopes were fed.
But the story of Dr. Leonard J. Hartman, printed on these pages, would seem to show that the distinguished novelist had not brought all his analytic powers to bear upon the problem, and so casts great doubt upon the authenticity of his other experiences. Dr. Hartman tells the story of two seances given by the mediums, William R. Thompson and Eva A. Thompson, his wife. At the first of these the "spirit" of Sir Arthur's mother was "brought back."
The second seance was three nights later, when Policewoman Geneveive McLaughlin and Detective Andrew McLaughlin, of the Fourth Inspection District, New York police force, were present. These able members of the police force were not so thoroughly convinced of the authenticity of the spirit of "Aunt Emma," invoked for Miss McLaughlin by the same mediums, as Sir Arthur had been of the spirit of his "mother."
Accordingly, Miss McLaughlin grappled with the spirit of "Aunt Emma," while Detective McLaughlin took care of Thompson. When the lights were turned on the "spirit" proved to be Eva Thompson, the medium, who was supposed to be rigidly entranced in the cabinet. Arrest of the two Thompsons followed.
Mr. Brownell, president of the First Spiritualist Church, whose wife's "spirit" was also impersonated by the versatile Mrs. Thompson, says:
"I was as much deceived as Sir Conan Doyle. If I had thought that it was somebody impersonating my wife I would have thrown her in the East River. These frauds are most deplorable and they do a great deal of harm to genuine spiritualistic phenomena."
Dr. Hartman's story follows:
By Dr. Leonard J. Hartman.
When I read of the remarkable experiences Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has had with the spirits of his relatives, returned to talk with the distinguished creator of Sherlock Holmes, I have to wonder — since a happening last May 9.
When the analytical pen of the famous author describes how the spirits of dead dear ones spoke to him and touched his hands and gave him messages from spirit land I have to wonder if those spirits were as fraudulent as the spirits which spoke with Doyle at my house on the date already mentioned.
It was at my house, No. 282 West Seventieth street, New York, that the great Englishman, Sir Conan Doyle, and his wife, Lady Doyle, and his secretary, Major Sherrill Wood, I think the name was, and a few others of the faithful were heartlessly deceived by William R. Thompson and Eva A. Thompson, who claimed to be materializing mediums.
This materializing means that the medium can summon the spirit of your dear one from the beyond of the departed and can make that spirit talk and walk around for the benefit of the relative still in the flesh.
At my house the "mother" of Conan Doyle returned and let her son tap her on the back of the hand. I am one of the trustees of the First Spiritualist Church, New York City. Until the police came to my house and grasped the "materialized spirit" of a ghost and fought with it as the lights were turned on disclosing the spirit to be the medium herself, I believed as much in the spirits which were nightly invoked from the cabinet at my house as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in them.
Mr. Clay Brownell, the president of our church, had written to Sir Arthur that he had two very wonderful materializing mediums at our place of worship and asked Sir Arthur to put these mediums to the test. Sir Arthur had consented.
I shall never forget the performance that went on in that room — the front room on the second floor of my house. The Doyles, Major Sherrill Wood, Sir Arthur's secretary, Mr. Brownell, Miss Alice Moriarity, my wife, Mrs. Hartman, myself, twelve altogether, including the Thompsons, man and wife, were present. The Doyles arrived at a little after eight. We all then went upstairs, where we darkened the room.
But before this we introduced the two mediums, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, to the distinguished Englishman.
"This," Sir Arthur was told, "is Mr. Thompson, our inspired minister. And this is Mrs. Eva Thompson, our inspired ministers' wife, likewise inspired herself. We congratulate ourselves, Sir Arthur, that Mrs. Thompson is the best and, in fact, the only materializing medium here in New York City. Any medium, Sir Arthur, fraudulent or inferior, can describe to you vaguely, vague conditions which he says he sees happening to dear ones who have crossed to spirit land. But only a medium with genuine powers, consecrated to his task, his sensitive nature attuned to the finer harmonies of our etherialized dead, can bring those dead back to us, in materialized form, and even make them speak. Such a medium we have at our church, Sir Arthur, in Mrs. Eva Thompson."
At this Sir Arthur agreed. "You are right,"
said he. "Such a phenomenon is rare. The materializing medium certainly gives us better scope for communication and investigation than any other spiritual manifestation."
Then after the introductions we proceeded to explain to the Doyles the proceedure of our seances. Certain things Mr. Brownell impressed upon them particularly.
"Now, Sir Arthur," said he, "there are two or three points we must warn you about. If you don't comply with these, the sittings can't go on. Our materializing mediums cannot work for you, Sir Arthur, unless you conform. These are, first, that you promise to sing, you and Lady Doyle and your secretary and all the party. You must sing while Eva Thompson is going into a trance; you must sing while she's coming out, and you must sing in between."
At this the great Englishman looked a little discouraged. "I'm — not much of a singer,"
said he, "besides I am — er — so to speak — a trifle deaf."
"That's all right," somebody told him. "The spirits don't care if you are deaf, nor if you get out of tune, so long as you sing. Otherwise the materializing medium cannot perform."
"I will try,"
said Doyle; "are there — er — any hymns the medium prefers?"
"No, all hymns are the same to the spirits, so long as you keep singing — industriously."
"Very well, we will,"
said Sir Arthur. "Now, what are the other conditions?"
"One other condition is that you don't get up and rudely turn on the lights," explained medium Mr. Thompson.
"We have been to enough seances to know better than that," said Lady Doyle. "Of course we never would."
"All right," said Mr. Thompson, "I am glad you have learned what is correct in these cases. If the light is turned on, it might kill; at any rate, it would injure the medium. Likewise, if you touch the spirit you will probably kill yourself. Under only one circumstance may you touch the spirit — that is when the spirit says to."
"We will abide by all the rules," one of the Doyle party, I forget which, assured Mr. Thompson. "Now, tell us the last of the conditions."
"The last conditions are two," explained Thompson. "First, don't stare at the materialized spirit. It's very bad form. In good society you never stare at anybody, especially when they are looking. Well, so it is with the spirits. Don't stare at them. It disturbs the conditions."
"All right," agreed the Doyles, "we promise not to stare."
"The last condition, and we will start the performance," promised Thompson, husband of Mrs. Thompson. "Don't rudely press too near the spirits. Give them elbow room."
At this Conan Doyle lifted his glasses to his eyes, and placed his face near the medium, Thompson.
"Why,"
asked he, "why may I not step very close to the spirits?"
"Because," explained Thompson, "the spirits my wife calls up greatly object to being pressed close to. They are the denizens of spaciousness. Therefore, they demand room — yes, I repeat it — room, when they return."
"Very well,"
agreed Doyle, "we understand. No lights; we must sing, at intervals; we must not rudely stare, and we must not touch the spirit."
"No, you must not, otherwise, the vibrations will abort, and the seance run awry."
Then the real business of the evening began. We sat in a circle in my office, Sir Conan Doyle, Lady Doyle at his side, his secretary, and then the others. Mrs. Eva Thompson, the materializing medium, went into her cabinet in the corner of the room, and a red electric light, in the opposite corner, was trained upon the cabinet where she disappeared. Now this light cast the dimmest illumination, so that you could hardly see your hand before your face. Thompson, the husband, sat right outside the cabinet to announce the spirits as they made their way from the beyond, via Eva Thompson's cabinet, out into the darkened room.
"Now, start the singing, to sing my wife into her trance," directed Thompson; "nothing happens till we sing her off. Kindly suggest a hymn, Sir Arthur."
"My husband is slightly hard of hearing," explained Lady Doyle, "just say it a little louder, please."
"Kindly — suggest — a hymn," urged Thompson of Sir Arthur, bellowing into the ear of the great Englishman through his hands, curved like a trumpet.
"One of my favorites is 'Onward Christian Soldiers,'"
explained Sir Arthur; "this is the pitch, as near as I can remember——"
We sang it all through once, and then stopped, looking toward the cabinet. Nothing happened. "She's not in her trance yet," explained Thompson, "sing some more!"
So Sir Arthur started up the same hymn again.
After that, nothing stirring yet from the cabinet, Lady Doyle suggested, "Nearer, My God, to Thee." We all sang that through. Then somebody spoke for "There's a Land That Is Fairer Than Day," and somebody else for "In the Sweet By and By."
By this time we had been singing for a very good spell. Then, at length, nobody could remember any more hymns, though the spirit still lingered.
"Keep up your courage, Sir Arthur," urged Thompson; "keep up your courage. Please suggest another hymn. It's the singing that gets the spirit here."
"Do you know,"
explained the great English investigator, "I am ashamed to confess that I have exhausted my repertory of hymns. You see, I know many hymns by title, but few hymns the whole way through in the dark."
He hesitated. And then the analytical mind of the creator of "Sherlock Holmes" made a suggestion. "Since,"
said he, "it is immaterial to the spirits what we sing, so long as we do sing why not start — er — 'Onward Christian Soldiers' all over again? It is the one hymn, from my whole repertory, which I sing with least exertion."
So we all started "Onward Christian Soldiers" over again. But the wait was becoming weary. At last, just before the spirit made her appearance, this was the monologue in my darkened office. Sir Arthur was the speaker.
"Onward Christian Soldiers," sang he, feebly, from a parched throat. Then he broke off, "Isn't it about time for the spirit to appear?' Marching as to war — 'it is too bad conditions are not so arranged that I could get a glass of water.' With the Cross of Jesus, 'please do not be too critical. I know that I am very much off the tune.' Going on before — 'it really is taking the spirits a long while to-night, isn't it?'"
Then he interjected, when we were in the middle of another hymn, as follows: "We shall meet beyond the river, where bright angels' feet have trod — 'we must have been singing fully half an hour' — meet and gather at the river — 'is anything stirring yet in the cabinet' — close by the throne of God — 'we are really all to be congratulated — here's the spirit at last.'"
Sir Arthur desisted singing, while out from the slightly parted curtains of the cabinet appeared a form, white, ghostlike, quiet in dignity, contained, astral, cold and aloof.
"And who art thou, spirit?" asked Thompson, sitting near the curtain. The spirit whispered something, very obligingly, to Thompson, and he announced, with a flourish:
"I will now announce to you, ladies and gentlemen and Sir Arthur, that the spirit of Mr. Brownell's wife is now among us."
Mr. Brownell, as I explained before, is the president of the First Spiritualist Church. The spirit bowed, very formal. At this Mr. Brownell stood up.
"Very interesting; very interesting phenomena. The only drawback,"
Conan Doyle explained, "is that we can hardly see the spirit; and we are at such a distance, we can hardly tell how much force your wife — er — Mrs. Brownell — retains in her spirit body."
"Well, we'll see," said Mr. Brownell.
Then he addressed the spirit.
"Now, wife," said he, "we are happy to have with us this evening one of the most distinguished spiritualists in the world, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Can't you oblige the gentleman by giving him a little exhibition of your powers-your astral, spiritual power so to speak."
"I will try," replied the spirit, very solemnly.
And the materialization clasped her arm in his, and the two walked all around the room, back of the chairs of the guests, who were sitting in a complete circle. Then the spirit went back into the cabinet.
"Quite remarkable!"
exclaimed Sir Arthur.
We sang "Onward Christian Soldiers" once again, but in a minute or two were stopped by the appearance of another spirit.
"And who art thou, spirit?" asked Thompson, the announcer.
"I am she for whose sake my son, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would travel far to speak with," replied the spirit of Doyle's "mother," in accents slow, measured and very dignified. "Son — do you know your mother?"
At that Conan Doyle, great man, elderly investigator, illustrious author, was overcome with emotion. He bent forward; almost his head rested in his hands. His voice came pleading, like a little boy crying to his mother whom he trusted.
"Mother,"
said he, "mother — oh, my dear mother — show me some sign, put in my heart some miracle of faith and love by which your son may truly believe in your presence here to-night."
In stately gesture the hand of Conan Doyle's mother rose till nearly upright it halted, while a weak voice spoke the words, "bless you, my child."
It is hard to explain the effect these words had upon the elderly gentleman. Perhaps some far-away memory of his childhood was stirred in him by the simple words.
Perhaps it was the will to believe which made belief so easy. Perhaps it was the spell of the darkness and the quiet breathing all about him and the force of past credulities in other darkened rooms which so affected the great man. At any rate he laid the investigator quite aside; he almost forgot to examine as his voice shook with emotion and his words were spoken with intensity.
"Can't I — oh, mother — can't I — just be permitted to touch your hand."
He pleaded, overcome, as a little boy might plead in the extremities with a living mother.
The spirit bent over Thompson, the mediator, and whispered. Thompson, in turn, answered back.
"Son," said he, "your mother says you may touch the back of her hand. But, remember, she says, contacts of the flesh, even contacts of flesh with body etherialized, are of little moment. Your mother says it is faith — faith in her risen spirit, faith in her spirit now made manifest to you which is what she seeks in you — her son."
Sir Conan Doyle rose to touch his mother on the back of her hand. Tremblingly, like a child, he answered. "But I have faith; oh, mother, indeed I have faith. Still the flesh is weak. We love to feel the touch of body to body in this our yet carnal state."
"I have pity on you, my child. I know — how it is — with us yet in the body," whispered the "spirit."
In the meantime the great man had stumbled his way across the room to the place where his "mother" stood. He touched her hand on its back. He was well over the verge of tears — he the great Conan Doyle. When I think now how the feeling of that son for that little old mother long dead was played upon by those charlatans I feel indignant clear through. For the most sacred loves of life should be beyond the vulgar communion of such frauds. At length Sir Arthur broke the spell of reverent greeting long enough to ask a question.
"Oh, mother,"
said he, "can't you tell your son something which he should know?"
"Son," said Sir Arthur's mother, shouting very loud, "son, I see nothing but prosperity ahead. You will go to Australia, where you will have a very successful journey."
"But, mother, I have just come from Australia and do not intend going back there,"
objected Sir Arthur.
"It isn't good form," said Conan Doyle's "mother" to him, at our seance, "for a boy to contradict his mother. You will go again to Australia."
"And what else, mother?"
Sir Arthur was eager for more. "Nothing else," said she, "I like to talk and I brook no interruption."
At that Sir Arthur was almost too affected to speak. His voice shook, as he sat down.
"Did you get any sensation?" asked one of those present, eagerly. "Did you get any substance? Anything that responded to touch?"
"There was, indeed, substance,"
allowed Sir Arthur; "my powers of observation told me there was not as much substance to my mother's hand as to Mrs. Brownell's arm, but still there was substance. I distinctly felt her hand, cold and ethereal. But I doubt if I could have walked up and down with her."
"I doubt it, too," replied Thompson, who sat at the cabinet entrance. "The spirit of the mother of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle passes," he intoned.
Into the cabinet went the shade. After several further renditions of Sir Arthur's favorite and standby, "Onward Christian Soldiers," the curtain was again parted. "And who are you, spirit?" asked Thompson. "I am John, known to Lady Doyle in her youth," explained the spirit. At that he started to converse with Lady Doyle.
"Do you remember, dearest," he asked, "that lane in merry old England? And you were young, and so was I. And the moon was all spirit of youth and the about us, as we walked down that lane together. That was before ever you had met your husband. And do you remember how we linked arms, once, and started out together, and, after a while, I took your hand, and you took mine, and we then——"
"We have gone far enough, spirit," said Lady Doyle, with some asperity. "Remember I am the wife of Sir Arthur, now."
The "shade" then started on a new tack. "See my collar and tie," said he, "see my mustache!"
We looked, and could all see these masculine appendages.
"It's the first gentleman spirit this evening," said somebody.
Then the spirit felt very jocular, it seemed, even though, as I understood, way back in real life, he had been rejected as a lover, when Conan Doyle appeared. The spirit then lifted a finger to his fore-head.
"Look at the spirit candle I carry in my forehead," said he. A soft light like an illuminated button shone out. Then he started a sort of ghostly dance. He took the light in his hand.
"See my light!" he chanted, "see my light! See my light!"
He danced up and down, waving the spirit lamp to and fro.
"A remarkable phenomena,"
said Conan Doyle. "This spirit is mischievous!"
Next appeared the spirit of my wife's — Mrs. Hartman's — dead baby. It had just one request to make, though it had departed this life at a very tender age.
"Sing, mother, sing," said it to my wife. And she rebelled.
"I have sung, baby dear," said she, "sung until my voice is sore. Sung till my throat is parched. Sung till my sides ache. Why — why — do you always want me to sing so? You are really worse than Mr. Brownell's wife for always insisting upon a tune."
"Sing, mother, sing up big!" was all the baby would say.
Conan Doyle then bent the full force of his mind upon the phenomena present.
"It is peculiar,"
said he, "that Mrs. Hartman's baby seems to be about the height of my mother. And that my mother is exactly the same proportions as Lady Doyle's John."
Whereat Thompson, the medium, explained.
"That," said he, "is very simple. For what are measurements, what is an inch more or less, or even a yard or a mile to spirits, from Spirit Land?"
"Yes, of course,"
agreed Sir Arthur, "what is an inch or a mile?"
Then the seance was over. Then began the uphill grind once more.
"You must sing my wife out of the trance, just as you sang her in," said Thompson at the curtains of the cabinet. "So sing!"
We all sighed, with extreme fatigue, and then, before Sir Arthur could get started on "Onward Christian Soldiers" again we all struck up "God Be With You Till We Meet Again." We were so tired of the other hymn.
This hymn was good for our throats, because you could sing it slow. It is more suited to weary voices than the more martial strains of Doyle's favorite. Because the soldiers' hymn needs real spirit to do it justice. And we were in no condition, then, having sung fully two hours already to do justice to any of the old, resounding favorites.
At last the curtain of the cabinet were thrown aside, and the medium was disclosed, lying down, very exhausted, on the couch where she had sat at the beginning of the seance. She stirred, languidly, and raised a feeble arm.
"I am so tired, so spent," said she; "I need a doctor."
"Of course, we have a doctor right here, waiting," said one of those present. Because we always had somebody to treat Mrs. Thompson, after one of what she used to call to us, her "flesh-and-spirit-rending seances."
After this we had a short session with the trumpet. This is a seance where the shade of the departed is supposed to talk through a trumpet, provided of earthly material, for that purpose. The trumpet is used because most shades' voices are very low, but the trumpet magnifies them so loud they can be heard distinctly. Lady Doyle got a message and heard very clearly, but this part of the performance was lost on Conan Doyle. All he said, as he pressed the trumpet to his ear was, "it's no use, no use! I'm too deaf for the ethereal trumpet spirit, but, nevertheless, I had enough. I touched my mother — on the back of her hand."
At length all was over.
So Conan Doyle and Lady Doyle and their party rose to go. But before they went they went over to the medium, Mrs. Eva Thompson, who had materialized all the ghosts for us so obligingly. Sir Arthur then showed that he is a courteous gentleman, as well as a highly trained scientific mind.
"I am so obliged for what you have done for us to-night,"
said he. "I have been moved! I have been affected by all I have heard and seen. The chance to touch my mother's hand, and feel the substance there; the chance to see her force, was very precious to me. I wish to congratulate you, very heartily, Mrs. Thompson. You are indeed a materializing medium. I shall tell what I have seen here from the platform."
Sir Arthur then promised Mr. Brownell to address the members of our church May 28.
That was all of that Conan Doyle seance the evening of May 9 at my house. Three nights later, however, the Thompsons again had a seance.
At this a young woman known to us as "Mrs. Bob Martin" and her husband were present. We had never seen the husband before. He, so Mrs. Martin told us, was a travelling salesman and therefore was not able to come with her to the meetings very often. Mrs. Martin had been coming to our church for several weeks then and we all trusted her.
That evening was the one before which the Thompsons were going out West for a visit. The seance began; the lights in the upstairs office were lowered. At last together strenuously and long we sang the medium into her trance. Then the "spirits" came forth as per usual. At last she came — the Martin's spirit of their Aunt Emma, which relative later we found out they never had. With painful interest the Martins approached the "spirit."
"Oh, Aunt Emma," begged Mrs. Martin, "oh, Aunt Emma, don't you recognize Bob? Do — Aunt Emma — do give us some sign by which Bob will believe. Come nearer, Bob, and ask Aunt Emma a question."
"Bob," approached. "Will you, Aunt Emma?" he asked. "Will we prove successful in our next undertaking?"
Aunt Emma spoke. "You will indeed prove successful my children," said she, "successful in your next undertaking." Her prediction that time was correct.
This, however, seemed to be the signal by which the drama of the evening was precipitated. For then quick as a flash out from her sides shot the arms of Mrs. Martin. In deadly earnest rang out the detective's words meanwhile.
"Then, Aunt Emma, then, if we are to be successful I put you under arrest. You're a mighty healthy ghost, Aunt Emma."
They grappled, fell with a thud, and rolled over on the floor, Mrs. Martin and the ghost. Thompson, the medium, threw himself into the scuffle and was promptly quelled by Detective McLaughlin. Then Mrs. Martin, stepping to the window, blew a police whistle. Thompson, the medium, in the meantime forgot his sanctity enough to emit some very able-bodied oaths while the lights went on nobody knew how.
And on the floor was revealed the "ghost" of "Aunt Emma" — none other than Mrs. Eva Thompson herself in a white silk robe!
Downstairs came the sounds of blows on the street door, blows thick, furious and fast.
"If you won't open, we will break in." voices of men loudly raised came through the casement. And the sounds of women shrieking, shrill, nervous, beside themselves with the breaking of the religious spell rang in and out of the more violent crashing and furniture falling. At last four police officers bounded up over the stairs. And then the whole mystery was revealed.
"Mrs. Martin" was Policewoman Geneveive McLaughlin and "Bob" was Detective Andrew McLaughlin, both of the New York force. And the Thompsons were arrested for having broken the fortune telling act. The Thompsons, whose miraculous "materializations" just three nights before had brought tears of reverence and wonder to the eyes of Sir Arthur, were arrested.
The police also took away with them the white silk robes Mrs. Thompson wore when she slipped out of her cabinet into the darkened room and which had been supposed to be the materialized vestments of the spirit; a black silk cloth that she used to give the effect of a man's coat, some phosphorescent buttons which were the "spirit lights" she waved, a "spirit" piano, upon which "spirit" hands were supposed to play, but which turned out to be a clever mechanical device which played of itself when wound up, and her trumpet. All these interesting exhibits of trickery are now at Police Headquarters.
Judge Simpson found the Thompsons guilty of violating the fortune telling act and fined them each one hundred dollars. And to those of us in that company to whom the fraud was then revealed came just then much light and many answers to various things which before had been riddles. For instance, we knew then why the two Thompsons, man and wife, always warned us not to turn on the lights. It was because they knew we would recognize the features of Eva through the slit she made in her white veil to talk through.
We still feel, my wife and I, that there are genuine mediums in the world. But we are thankful that the Thompsons were arrested and exposed, even if it had to be at our house. And the next time that I, as church trustee, investigate any other medium, I shall see that such tests as the police use are given to the mediums. For such tests are the only way to prove the genuine medium from the false. If a spirit fades out of your grasp it's indeed a spirit. But if it screams and rolls over on the floor — it is just another fraud.
Image captions :
- When His "Mother" Came Out of the Dark Cabinet Sir Conan Asked if He Might Kiss the "Spirit's" Hand. Consent Was Given and the Distinguished Author Stepped Forward Falteringly, Raised the Hand to His Lips, and, Greatly Moved, Let a Tear Fall Upon It.
- How "Ghosts" Are Made to Appear from Dark Cabinets. The Medium, Lying Upon the Floor, Raises a White Cloth Saturated in Some Phosphorescent Substance. In the Darkened Room the Fraud's Arm Is Not Seen and the Illusion of a Spectral Form Is Perfect.
- Mrs. Eva Thompson, the Materializing Medium Who "Brought Back" Sir Conan Doyle's "Mother" for Him and Was Later Detected Impersonating Another "Spirit."
- A Photograph of the Robes Which Mrs. Thompson Wore While Impersonating "Spirits" in the Materializing Seances, and Which Were Torn from Her by the Detective and Police Woman.
- The Distinguished English Artist, Sir John Millar's, Striking Painting "Speak, Speak!" It Depicts an Apparition of the Dead Appearing to Her Beloved.
- A "Materialization" Photographed by Professor Richet, of Paris, Which Afterward Turned Out to Be Manufactured of Phosphorescent Robes and a False Face.
- Three Nights Later, from the Same Cabinet, Another "Spirit" Came Out. But This Time, Instead of a Credulous, Awe-Stricken Sir Arthur, It Met Mrs. McLoughlin, an Unsentimental Police Woman, Who Threw Her Arms Around It and Ripped off Its Veil. And Lo and Behold! There Was the Extremely Flesh and Blood, Discon certed and Very Angry Face of Mrs. Thompson, the Medium, Who Was Supposed to Be in a Trance in the Cabinet!
