and met W. T. Stead; he was getting his letters from 'Julia' about that time and having himself photographed with spooks. He showed 'em to me; I was sorry for him. I thought he was touched. That was in nineteen-six."
"This is nineteen nineteen," said Lucas.
"Yes," said Jaccard, "and over there in that office," he jerked with his head toward a suite in another part of the building, "is Vin Parding, who goes to a medium every few days to talk to his boy; and on the next floor there's Bill Woolston. I reckon on about every floor of this building, or in any other, there's a man or two these days—not counting any women—who know they're able to talk 'through the veil.'"
"But you," Lucas persisted. "How 'bout yourself?"
"Me?" said Jaccard. "I wouldn't care to talk 'through', even if I was sure I could. That communicating process doesn't appeal to me. May be so; may not be so; I don't care much. But there's something I do care about that reached me out of it all, since you want to know. That's this," and Jaccard's eyes rested upon a small framed photograph which always stood turned toward him upon his desk. "I'm going to see my wife again, Lucas Cullen, that I lost thirty-two years ago; and I'm not going to find her just a washed-out angel in a silly, white, psalm-singing choir that'd mean nothing to me. I'm going to find her—her that went away that night. I'll know her; and she'll know me." Jaccard checked short his feeling. "I mean," he said after a minute, "that whatever else all this spiritual stir has done, it knocked out that old Christian Endeavor idea of heaven from anybody who can think. As they used to sketch heaven to us, no one but
