Both had a great fund of philosophy at their command.

When I met Hall (about four years older than Flint) he was in his
fifties: a devil-may-care old codger (old to a fifteen-year-old,
that is) full of good humour and indulgence for a youthful admirer
who had journeyed far to meet him. He casually referred to his 600
published stories, and I carried away the impression of one who
resembled both in output and in looks that other fiction-factory
of the time, Edgar Wallace.

Finally: Several years ago, before I knew anything about the
present volume, I had an unusual experience. (At that time I had
no reason to think THE BLIND SPOT would ever become available as a
book, for the location of the heirs proved a Herculean task by
itself; publishers had long wanted to present this amazing novel
but could not do so until I located Mrs. Mae Hall and Mrs. Mabel
Flindt.) While, unfortunately, I did not take careful notes at the
time, the gist of the occurrence was this:

I visited a friend whose hobby (besides reading fantasy) was the
occult, who volunteered to entertain me with automatic writing and
the ouija-board. Now, I share Lovecraft's scepticism towards the
supernatural, regarding it as at best a means of amusement. When
the question arose of what spirits we should try to lure to our
planchette, the names of Lovecraft, Merritt, Hall, and Flint
popped into my pixilated mind. So I set my fingers on the wooden
heart and, since my host was also a Flint admirer, we asked about
Flint's fatal accident. The ouija spelled out:

N-O A-C-C-I-D-E-N-T--R-O-B-B-E-R-Y