The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Read Online Free PDF Page B

other.”
    “Well observed,” Hume said. “Now, young lady, when I give you the word, I want you to toss the medal and catch it on the back of your hand. I will attempt to discern whether it is heads or tails—castle or horse. Do you understand?”
    The young woman nodded and smiled.
    Hume stretched out his arm, the fingers of his hand extended. He lowered his head and appeared to concentrate. From the orchestra pit, a drum roll grumbled.
    “On the count of three,” he said. “One … two … three!”
    The young lady tossed the heavy medal into the air. It glittered in the spotlight as it spun and she caught it on the back of her hand. On stage, Hume closed his fingers and snatched back his hand. “Now tell us,” he said to the young lady, “is it heads or tails?”
    The young lady lifted the hand trapping the medal and gawked with surprise.
    Vanished.
    She looked up at Hume with alarm. “It’s gone, sir!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “It’s gone. I dunno how, but it’s gone!”
    The crowd gasped.
    Hume did not move, milking the moment. Then he slowly extended his arm, the fingers of his hand clenched in a trembling fist.
    “It’s in his hand,” Barrie whispered. “I’ll bet my life it’s in his hand.”
    The entire audience leaned forward in its seats, craning to see, as Hume unfolded his fingers, one-by-one.
    But the hand was empty.
    Hume’s arm fell slack. He threw a defeated look at Oscar Wilde. “Mister Wilde, I am greatly embarrassed to admit it, but I seem to have lost your prized medal.”
    For once, Oscar Wilde was speechless, his face stricken with a look of sick surprise.
    Then Hume smacked a palm to his forehead, as if just realizing something. “Ah, I have found it.” He smiled at the Irish playwright. “Mister Wilde, if you could check the inside pocket of your jacket.”
    Wilde fumbled in his inside pocket and drew out the Berkeley medal. A smile returned to his face as he rose from his seat and held the medal aloft to show the audience.
    The audience burst into cheers. Hume took a modest bow.
    But then the chants began: “Levitate … Levitate … Levitate…”
    Hume raised both hands in an appeal to quiet the crowd, but his minor miracle had only made them hungrier for a big miracle: they wanted to see a man rise from the stage.
    The shouts of “ Levitate  … Levitate  … Levitate …” grew louder and masked the sound as Hume clamped the lace handkerchief to his face and his body was wracked with a coughing fit, his face visibly paling.
    Conan Doyle turned to Wilde and had to shout to be heard. “The fellow’s not well!”
    On stage, Hume had managed to stifle his coughing attack. He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief and waved a hand to silence the crowd. When the hubbub finally abated, he spoke in a ragged voice. “Very well, then. I shall attempt the levitation.”
    The crowd roared with approval and burst once more into applause. Hume dropped his head, seeming to gather his energies. Silence fell as he raised both arms and lifted his gaze to the ceiling.
    Moments passed. Nothing happened. A bead of sweat trickled from Hume’s hairline and ran down his cheek.
    And then, slowly, imperceptibly, he seemed to grow taller. A cascade of gasps rippled from the front to the back rows of the theater as empty space appeared between the stage and the soles of Hume’s shoes. He rose slowly, hesitantly, into the air: a foot … two feet. When he reached three feet his ascent started to waver. His face was strained, running with sweat, a vein bulging on his forehead.
    And then he began to sink. Slowly at first, and then he dropped the last foot to the stage, landing heavily. He forced a smile, dabbed at his sweating face with a handkerchief, and tried to make a showman-like flourish, but then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head as his legs buckled and he slumped to the boards.
    Women screamed. The audience surged to its feet, as did Conan Doyle and his