You may see wrong, hear wrong, but once touch this sixth sense and it acts with absolute fidelity, you are certain.

No, I hear nothing in the Mission garden.

I see nothing, nothing touches me, but I am CERTAIN for all that." Presley hesitated for a moment, then he asked: "Shall you go back to the garden again?
Make the test again ?" "I don't know." "Strange enough," commented Presley, wondering.
Vanamee sank back in his chair, his eyes growing vacant again: "Strange enough," he murmured.
There was a long silence.

Neither spoke nor moved.

There, in that moribund, ancient town, wrapped in its siesta, flagellated with heat, deserted, ignored, baking in a noon-day silence, these two strange men, the one a poet by nature, the other by training, both out of tune with their world, dreamers, introspective, morbid, lost and unfamiliar at that end-of-the-century time, searching for a sign, groping and baffled amidst the perplexing obscurity of the Delusion, sat over empty wine glasses, silent with the pervading silence that surrounded them, hearing only the cooing of doves and the drone of bees, the quiet so profound, that at length they could plainly distinguish at intervals the puffing and coughing of a locomotive switching cars in the station yard of Bonneville.
It was, no doubt, this jarring sound that at length roused Presley from his lethargy.