I could not very well take an entire
stranger into my confidence, and describe to him the extraordinary
encounters I was having with an uncanny other self. He would not
have believed the truth, hence I told him an untruth, and assented
to his proposition.
"Yes," I replied, "the vein is worked out. I have written ghost
stories for years now, serious and comic, and I am to-day at the end
of my tether--compelled to move forward and yet held back."
"That accounts for it," he said, simply. "When I first saw you to
-night at the door I could not believe that the author who had
provided me with so much merriment could be so pale and worn and
seemingly mirthless. Pardon me, Mr. Thurlow, for my lack of
consideration when I told you that you did not appear as I had
expected to find you."
I smiled my forgiveness, and he continued:
"It may be," he said, with a show of hesitation--"it may be that I
have come not altogether inopportunely. Perhaps I can help you."
I smiled again. "I should be most grateful if you could," I said.
"But you doubt my ability to do so?" he put in. "Oh--well--yes--of
course you do; and why shouldn't you? Nevertheless, I have noticed
this: At times when I have been baffled in my work a mere hint from
another, from one who knew nothing of my work, has carried me on to
a solution of my problem.
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