Then, not unnaturally, the talk drifted into a sombre channel, and we began recounting stories, dealing with the gloomy and mysterious side of life.
Some of these were worth remembering, and some were not.

The one that left the strongest impression on my mind was a tale that Jephson told us.
I had been relating a somewhat curious experience of my own.

I met a man in the Strand one day that I knew very well, as I thought, though I had not seen him for years.

We walked together to Charing Cross, and there we shook hands and parted.

Next morning, I spoke of this meeting to a mutual friend, and then I learnt, for the first time, that the man had died six months before.
The natural inference was that I had mistaken one man for another, an error that, not having a good memory for faces, I frequently fall into.
What was remarkable about the matter, however, was that throughout our walk I had conversed with the man under the impression that he was that other dead man, and, whether by coincidence or not, his replies had never once suggested to me my mistake.
As soon as I finished, Jephson, who had been listening very thoughtfully, asked me if I believed in spiritualism "to its fullest extent." "That is rather a large question," I answered.