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“And here is where the weird and uncanny part of it comes in,” commented Craig, turning from the doctor to me to call my attention particularly to what was about to follow.

“Having arrived at the point where he asserts that he can create and destroy matter, life, and mind,” continued the doctor, as if himself fascinated by the idea,” Prescott very naturally does not have to go far before he also claims a control over telepathy and even a communication with the dead. He even calls the messages which he receives by a word which he has coined himself, ‘telepagrams.’ Thus he says he has unified the physical, the physiological, and the psychical – a system of absolute scientific monism.”

The doctor paused again, then resumed. “One afternoon, about a week ago, apparently, as far as I am able to piece together the story, Prescott was demonstrating his marvellous discovery of the unity of nature. Suddenly he faced Mr. Haswell.

“‘Shall I tell you a fact, sir, about yourself?’ he asked quickly. ‘The truth as I see it by means of my wonderful invention? If it is the truth, will you believe in me? Will you put money into my invention? Will you share in becoming fabulously rich?’

“Haswell made some noncommittal answer. But Prescott seemed to look into the machine through a very thick plate-glass window, with Haswell placed directly before it. He gave a cry. ‘Mr. Haswell,’ he exclaimed, ‘I regret to tell you what I see. You have disinherited your daughter; she has passed out of your life and at the present moment you do not know where she is.’

“‘That’s true,’ replied the old man bitterly, ‘and more than that I don’t care. Is that all you see? That’s nothing new.’

“‘No, unfortunately, that is not all I see. Can you bear something further? I think you ought to know it. I have here a most mysterious telepagram.’

“‘Yes. What is it? Is she dead?’

“‘No, it is not about her. It is about yourself. To-night at midnight or perhaps a little later,’ repeated Prescott solemnly, ‘you will lose your sight as a punishment for your action.’

“‘Pouf!’ exclaimed the old man in a dudgeon, ‘if that is all your invention can tell me, good-bye. You told me you were able to make gold. Instead, you make foolish prophecies. I’ll put no money into such tomfoolery. I’m a practical man,’ and with that he stamped out of the laboratory.

“Well, that night, about one o’clock, in the silence of the lonely old house, the aged caretaker, Jane, whom he had hired after he banished his daughter from his life, heard a wild shout of ‘Help! Help!’ Haswell, alone in his room on the second floor, was groping about in the dark.

“‘Jane,’ he ordered, ‘a light – a light.’

“‘I have lighted the gas, Mr. Haswell,’ she cried.

“A groan followed. He had himself found a match, had struck it, had even burnt his fingers with it, yet he saw nothing.

“The blow had fallen. At almost the very hour which Prescott, by means of his weird telepagram had predicted, old Haswell was stricken.

I’m blind,’ he gasped. ‘Send for Dr. Burnham.’

“I went to him immediately when the maid roused me, but there was nothing I could do except prescribe perfect rest for his eyes and keeping in a dark room in the hope that his sight might be restored as suddenly and miraculously as it had been taken away.

“The next morning, with his own hand, trembling and scrawling in his blindness, he wrote the following on a piece of paper:

“‘Mrs. GRACE MARTIN. – Information wanted about the
present whereabouts of Mrs. Grace Martin, formerly
Grace Haswell of Brooklyn.

STEPHEN HASWELL,
Pierrepont St., Brooklyn.

“This advertisement he caused to be placed in all the New York papers and to be wired to the leading Western papers. Haswell himself was a changed man after his experience. He spoke bitterly of Prescott, yet his attitude toward his daughter was completely reversed. Whether he admitted to himself a belief in the prediction of the inventor, I do not know. Certainly he scouted such an idea in telling me about it.