THE BROKEN MARCONIGRAM,
by Frank Lovell Nelson“Telegram for you, Clarke,” I said.
I took the message which the boy delivered at the door of our Oak Street apartments one morning in midsummer. A shade of anxiety passed over the face of my housemate. Strange, I thought, that Carlton Clarke, the great telepathic detective, should be disturbed by so ordinary an event as the receipt of a telegram.
Clarke took the yellow envelope and held it thoughtfully in his hand as if summoning the courage to open it.
“Do you remember Thaida?” he asked suddenly, still holding the envelope as I signed the messenger’s book.
Did I remember Thaida? As if I could forget that glorious vision of young womanhood that had flashed into our presence in the ghetto district of New York, and whose psychometric mind h
