HOW ZOMAH DELAYED A MURDER.

THE Zomahs are undoubtedly the greatest professional thought readers the world has ever known. Their almost incredible feats have startled audiences in England and the American continent for many years past, and many experts have confessed themselves completely baffled by their performances.

Early in the month of February, 1920, they were performing at the Princes' Theatre, Montreal. After their evening show was finished, the stage door attendant presented a card to Mr. Zomah, and stated that a man was waiting who insisted on being granted an interview. But the words "Major Robert M. Griffith," which were written on the strip of pasteboard, conveyed nothing to the thought reader.

The door attendant went on to explain that the Major seemed extremely agitated. More out of curiosity than anything else, Zomah consented to see the man.

Within a few seconds there was a tap on the door. In response to the performer's cheery "Come in," a tall middleaged man entered the room, and introduced himself as Major Griffith.

"I'm pleased to meet you," said Zomah. "What can I do for you?"

Major Griffith played nervously with the brim of his hat.

"Mr. Zomah," he said. "I am in very great trouble. I have not, however, come to borrow money. I wish to God it was only a question of finance that was worrying me. It is something far, far worse. I have been hypnotised. I am the plaything of another man's will. Can you help me?"

"Please explain," said Zomah, extremely puzzled.

Major Griffith explained. It appeared that, a short time previously, he had attended an amateur theatrical performance at Sainte Agathe. A certain Williarn A. Holland, a prominent stockbroker, had been present and had hypnotised Griffith. From that moment the unfortunate Major had never known a moment's happiness, for, so he said, he was completely dominated by Holland's personality.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Zomah, who wondered whether he was addressing a madman.

"I don't know exactly," replied Griffith, but something must be done. Why, only two days ago, I was on my way to the office. I had a heavy day's work in front of me, and was anxious to get ahead with it as soon as possible. But it was no good. I had to return home."

"Why?"

Because Holland had willed it, Mr. Zomah. That man haunts me night and day." Griffith lowered his voice dramatically. "If you cannot help me, I will shoot him like a dog. But, because I have seen your performance, and believe you to be possessed of some supernatural power, I have come to ask your advice!"

"I certainly can help you, Major," said Zomah, thinking it best to humour his strange visitor. "At the moment, it is quite obvious that your will is too weak to cope with the power that this man has put over you. With my help, however, you will be able to more than hold your own, because I can will you to strengthen your own determination. From henceforward, you must forget that such a man as Holland ever existed."

Major Griffith was profuse in his thanks, and took his departure in a much happier state of mind. A few days later, he informed the thought reader that he had quite thrown off the uncanny influence that had been placed over him. As a result, he was healthier both in mind and body.

That, so far as the Zomahs are concerned is the end of the story. But twelve months later there was a sudden and dramatic sequel which might well have been taken from a Lyceum melodrama. In January, 1921, Major Griffith murdered William Holland by shooting him through the heart.

It can only be assumed that for a short time Griffith had been persuaded he was free from Holland's influence. But, after, a few months, the major had again felt himself to be under the hypnotic curse, and determined to carry out his threat of murder.

Accompanied by a man called Coffee--who seemed to be in entire ignorance of Griffith's intentions--he called at Holland's office, but was refused admission. He had lunch, and called again. This time he made no mistake. Holland was shot through the heart whilst sitting at ease in his office chair.

Whether Griffith's fears were real or imaginary will never be known. But to me the whole story reads like a drama quite worthy of the pen of Conan Doyle or Edgar Wallace. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction.