The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic recommended by
Willy Hanlon.
As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the
unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet and an
odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, “Gee! a clairviant!
Now for some fun!”
Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion, seated
herself, and waited patiently.
At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and waited
quietly, too.
Soon the psychic entered. He was robed in a long, black garment,
and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds. His face was
olive-colored--what was visible of it for his beard was white and
flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips. Locks
of white hair showed from the turban’s edge, and a pair of big,
rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his eyes.
The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a psychic has
a right to disguise himself, if he choose.
Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed an
expression of face quite different from his usual one. He managed to
look positively vacant-minded. His eyes became lack-luster, his mouth,
slightly open, looked almost imbecile, and his roving glance betokened
no interest whatever in the proceedings.
“Mr. Marigny?” said Miss Ames, eagerly anxious for the séance to
begin.
“Yes, madam. You are three minutes late!”
“I couldn’t help it--the traffic is very heavy at this hour.”
“And you should have come alone. I cannot concentrate with an alien
influence in the room.”
“Oh, the boy isn’t an alien influence. He’s a little friend of
mine--he’ll do no harm.”
“I’ll go out, if you say, mister,” Fibsy turned his indifferent
gaze on the clairvoyant.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” spoke up Miss Ames. “I’m
accustomed to séances, Mr. Marigny, and if you’re all right--as I was
told you were--a child’s presence won’t interfere.”
Evidently the psychic saw he had no novice to deal with, and he accepted
the situation.
“What do you want to know?” he asked his client.
“Who killed Sanford Embury--or, did he kill himself. I want you to get
into communication with his spirit and find out from him. But I
don’t want any make-believe. If you can’t succeed, that’s all
right--I’ll pay your fee just the same. But no poppycock.”
“That’s the way to look at it, madam. I will go into the silence,
and I will give you only such information as I get myself.”
The man leaned back in his chair, and gradually seemed to enter a
hypnotic state. His muscles relaxed, his face became still and set, and
his breathing was slow and a little labored.
Fibsy retained his vacuous look he even fidgeted a little, in a bored
way--and rarely glanced toward the man of “clear sight.”
Miss Ames, though anxious for results, was alert and quite on her
guard against fraud. Experienced in fake mediums, she believed Willy
Hanlon’s assertion that this man was one of the few genuine mystics,
but she proposed to judge for herself.
At last Marigny spoke. His voice was low, his tones monotonous and
uninflected.
“Aunt Abby--Aunt Westminster Abbey” the words came slowly.
Miss Ames gave a startled jump. Her face blanched and she trembled as
she clutched Fibsy’s arm.
“That’s what Sanford used to call me!” she whispered. “Can it
really be his spirit talking to me through the medium!”
“Don’t worry,” the voice went on, “don’t grieve for me--it’s
all right--let it go that I took my own life--”
“But did you, Sanford--did you?” Miss Ames implored.
“It would be better you should never know.”
“I must know. I’ve got to know! Tell me, Sanford. It wasn’t
Eunice?
“No--it wasn’t Eunice.”
“Was it--oh, San--was it--I?”
“Yes, Aunt Abby--it was. But you were entirely irresponsible--you were
asleep--hypnotized, perhaps--perhaps merely asleep.”
“Where did I get the stuff?”
“I think somebody hypnotized you and gave it to you--”
“When? Where?”
“I don’t know--it is vague--uncertain--But you put it in my
ear--remember, Aunt Abby, I don’t blame you at all. And you must not
tell this. You must let it go as suicide. That is the only way to save
yourself--”
“But they suspect Eunice--”
“They’ll never convict her--nor would they convict you. Tell them
you got into communication with my spirit and I said it was suicide.”
“Ask him about the raspberry jam,” put in Fibsy, in a stage whisper.
“What!” the medium came out of his trance suddenly and glared at the
boy.
“I told you I could do nothing if the child stayed here,” Marigny
cried, evidently in a towering passion. “Put him out. Who is he? What
is he talking about?”
“Nothing of importance. Keep still, McGuire. Can you get Mr.
Embury’s spirit back, sir?”
“No, the communion is too greatly disturbed. Boy, what do you mean by
raspberry jam?”
“Oh, nothin’,” and Fibsy wriggled bashfully. “You tell him, Miss
Ames.”
It needed little encouragement to launch Aunt Abby on the story of her
“vision” and she told it in full detail.
Marigny seemed interested, though a little impatient, and tried to hurry
the recital.
“It was, without doubt, Embury’s spirit,” he said, as Aunt Abby
finished; “but your imagination has exaggerated and elaborated the
facts. For instance, I think the jam and the gasoline are added by your
fancy, in order to fill out the full tale of your five senses.”
“That’s what I thought,” and Fibsy nodded his head. “Raspberry
jam! Oh, gee!” he exploded in a burst of silly laughter.
Marigny looked at him with a new interest. The amber-colored glasses,
turned toward the boy seemed to frighten him, and he began to whimper.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” he said, “but raspberry jam was so
funny for a ghost to have on him!”
“It would have been,” assented Marigny, “but that, I feel sure,
existed only in Miss Ames’ fancy. Her mind, upset by the vision, had
strange hallucinations, and the jam was one--you know we often have
grotesque dreams.”
“So we do,” agreed Fibsy; “why once I drempt that--”
“Excuse me, young sir, but I’ve no time to listen to your dreams.
The séance is at an end, madam. Your companion probably cut it off
prematurely--but perhaps not. Perhaps the communication was about over,
anyway. Are you satisfied, Miss Ames?”
“Yes, Mr. Marigny. I know the appearance of Mr. Embury was a genuine
visitation, for he called me by a peculiar name which no one else ever
used, and which you could not possibly know about.”
“That is indeed a positive test. I am glad you received what you
wished for. The fee is ten dollars, madam.”
Aunt Abby paid it willingly enough, and with Fibsy, took her departure.
On reaching home they found Alvord Hendricks there. Mason Elliott had
tarried and Fleming Stone, too, was still there. Eunice was awaiting
Aunt Abby’s return to have dinner served.
“I thought you’d never come, Auntie,” said Eunice, greeting her
warmly. Eunice was in a most pleasant mood, and seemed to have become
entirely reconciled to the presence of Stone.
“You will dine here, too, Terence,” she said kindly to the boy, who
replied, “Yes, ma’am,” very respectfully.
“Well, Eunice,” Aunt Abby announced, after they were seated at the
table, “I’m the criminal, after all.”
“You seem pretty cheerful about it,” said Hendricks, looking at her
in astonishment.
“Well, I wasn’t responsible. I did it under compulsory hypnotism.”
“You owned up to it before, Aunt Abby,” said Eunice, humoring her;
“you said--”
“I know, Eunice, but that time it was to shield you. Now, I know for
certain that I did do it, and how it came about.”
“Dear Aunt Abby,” and Elliott spoke very gently, “don’t you talk
about it any more. Your vagaries are tolerated by us, who love you, but
Mr. Stone is bored by them--”
“Not at all,” said Fleming Stone; “on the contrary, I’m deeply
interested. Tell me all about it, Miss Ames. Where have you been?”
Thus encouraged, Aunt Abby told all.
She described the séance truthfully, Fibsy’s bright eyes--not
lack-luster now--darting glances at her and at Stone as the tale
proceeded.
“He was the real thing--wasn’t he, McGuire?” Miss Ames appealed to
him, at last.
“You bet! Why, if the side wire of his beard hadn’t fetched loose
and if his walnut juice complexion hadn’t stopped a mite short of his
collar, I’d a took him for a sure-fire Oriental!”
“Don’t be so impertinent, Terence,” reproved Stone; “Miss Ames
knows better than you do.”
“It doesn’t matter that he was made up that way,” Aunt Abby
said, serenely; “they often do that. But he was genuine, I know,
because--why, Eunice, what did Sanford use to call me--for fun--Aunt
what?”
“Aunt Westminter Abbey,” said Eunice, smiling at the recollection.
“Yes!” triumphantly; “and that’s what Sanford called me to-day
when speaking to me through the medium. Isn’t that a proof? How could
that man know that?”
“I can’t explain that,” declared Elliott, a little shortly, “but
it’s all rubbish, and I don’t think you ought to be allowed to go to
such places! It’s disgraceful--”
“You hush up, Mason,” Miss Ames cried; “I’ll go where I like!
I’m not a child. And, too, I wasn’t alone--I had an escort--a very
nice one.” She looked kindly at Fibsy.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he returned, bobbing his funny red head. “I
sure enjoyed myself.”
“You didn’t look so; you looked half asleep.”
“I always enjoy myself when I’m asleep--and half a loaf is
better’n no bed,” the boy grinned at her.
“Well, it may all be rubbish,” Alvord Hendricks said, musingly;
“and it probably is--but there are people, Mason, who don’t think
so. Anyway, here’s my idea. If Aunt Abby thinks she poisoned Sanford,
under hypnotism--or any other way--for the love of heaven, let it go
at that! If you don’t--suspicion will turn back to Eunice again--and
that’s what we want to prevent. Now, no jury would ever convict an old
lady--”
“Nor any woman,” said Elliott. “But that isn’t the whole thing.
I say, Alvord, since Mr. Stone is on the job, suppose we give him full
swing--and let him find the real murderer. It wasn’t Eunice!”
His words rang out so vibrantly that Stone gave him a quick glance.
“You’re sure?” he asked, as it seemed, involuntarily.
“I am,” responded Elliott, with a satisfied nod of his handsome
head.
“But your being sure doesn’t help much, Mason,” Eunice said, a
despondent look coming into her eyes. “Are you sure, Mr. Stone?”
“I can’t quite answer that question yet, Mrs. Embury,” the
courteous voice replied. “Remember, I’ve only just begun to look
into the matter.”
“But you know all about it--from Mr. Shane and Mr. Driscoll.”
“I know what they think about it--but that’s a different story.”
“You don’t agree with their deductions, then?” asked Hendricks.
“I don’t agree with their premises--therefore--” Stone smiled
cryptically, and left the sentence unfinished and ambiguous, which was
his deliberate intention.
“We will have coffee in the living-room,” said Eunice, as she rose
from the table. Always a charming hostess, she was at her best to-night.
Her thin black gown was becoming and made her fair throat and arms seem
even whiter by contrast.
She stood back, as the others left the room, and Hendricks, tarrying,
too, came close to her.
“Brace up, dear,” he said; “it will all come out right. I’m
sorry Elliott dragged in this Stone, but--it will be all right,
somehow.”
“But it’s all so mysterious, Alvord. I don’t know what to do--or
say--”
“Don’t lose your temper, Eunice. Let me advise you strongly as to
that. It never does any good--it militates against you. And here’s
another thing--Are you afraid of the little Desternay?”
“Afraid--how?” but Eunice paled.
“Afraid--she knows something--oh, something injurious to--”
“To me? She knows heaps!” The haughty head tossed, and Eunice looked
defiant.
“You beauty!” and Hendricks took a step nearer. “Oh, you splendid
thing! How I adore you. Eunice--you are a goddess to-night! And you are
for me! Some day--oh, I’m not going to say it now---don’t look so
alarmed--but, you know--oh, Sweet, you know! And you yes, you, too, my
splendid Tiger--”‘
“Hush, Alvord! Never call me that!”
“No, I beg pardon. And I don’t want to. That was San’s own name
for you. I shall call you my Queen! My glorious Queen-woman!”
“Oh, stop! Don’t you dare make love to me!
“And don’t you dare say ‘dare’ to me! I dare all--”
Ferdinand’s entrance cut short this dialogue, and Eunice and Hendricks
went into the other room.
Almost immediately a visitor was announced, and Hanlon came in.
“Why, Mr. Hanlon,” Eunice said, greeting him cordially, “I’m
glad to see you again.”
“So am I,” cried Aunt Abby, hastening to welcome the newcomer.
“Oh, Mr. Hanlon, I went to see your man--Mr. Marigny, you know--”
“Yes? I called to see if you had found him all right.”
The necessary introductions were made, and Hanlon took his place in the
group.
He was a little ill at ease, for he was by no means a member of
“society,” and though he had been at the Embury house before, he
seemed a trifle in awe of his surroundings.
“And I called, too,” Hanlon said, “to offer you my respectful
sympathy, Mrs. Embury, and ask if there’s anything I can do for
you.”
“Why, you’re very kind,” said Eunice, touched by his
thoughtfulness, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing you--anybody can
do for me.”
“F. Stone can,” declared Fibsy; “he can do a lot for you, Mrs.
Embury.” The red head nodded vigorously, as was the boy’s habit,
when much in earnest.
Hanlon regarded him closely, and Fibsy returned the scrutiny.
“Say,” the boy broke out, suddenly. “I’ve seen you before.
You’re the man who found the hidden jackknife, in Newark!”
“The same,” and Hanlon smiled at him. “Were you present?”
“I sure was! Gee! You’re a wonder!”
“I was a wonder, but I don’t do wonderful things any more.”
“What do you do now?”
“Yes,” chimed in Eunice, “what are you doing, Mr. Hanlon? You told
me you were going to take up a different line of work.”
“I did, Mrs. Embury; I’m a prosaic and uninteresting painter man
nowadays.”
“An artist?”
“In a way,” and Hanlon smiled; “I paint signs--and I try to do
them artistically.”
“Signs! How dull for you--after your exciting performances!”
“Not so very dull,” interrupted Aunt Abby. “I know about the
signs Mr. Hanlon paints! They’re bigger’n a house! They’re--why,
they’re scenery--don’t you know?--like you see along the railroad--I
mean along the meadows when you’re riding in the cars.”
“Oh, scenic advertising,” observed Fleming Stone. “And signs on
the Palisades--”
“Not on the natural scenery,” laughed Hanlon. “Though I’ve been
tempted by high rocks or smooth-sided crags.”
“Are you a steeple-jack?” asked Fibsy, his eyes sparkling; “can
you paint spires and things?”
“No;” and Hanlon looked at the boy, regretfully. “I can’t do
that. I’m no climber. I make the signs and then they’re put where
they belong by other workmen.”
“Oh,” and Fibsy looked disappointed at not finding the daring hero
he sought for.
“I must not presume further on your kindness, Mrs. Embury,” Hanlon
said, with an attempt at society jargon, “I merely called in for a
minute. Mr. Hendricks, are you going my way? I want to see you about
that sign-”
“No, Hanlon--sorry, but I’m not going now,” and Hendricks shook
his head. “I’m here for the evening.”
“All right see you later, then. Where can I find you? I’m something
of an owl, myself.”
“I’ll call you up after I get home--if it isn’t too late,”
Hendricks suggested.
“Never too late for me. See that you remember.”
Hanlon looked at Hendricks with more seriousness than the subject
appeared to call for, then he went away.
“You got the earache?” asked Fibsy suddenly, of Hendricks, as that
gentleman half absently rubbed his ear.
“Bless my soul, no! What do you mean by such a question? Mr. Stone,
this boy of yours is too fresh!”
“Be quiet, Terence,” said Stone, paying but slight attention to the
matter.
“Oh, all right, no offense meant,” and the boy grinned at Hendricks.
“But didn’t you ever have an earache? If not, you don’t know what
real sufferin’ is!”
“No, I never had it, that I remember. Perhaps as a child--”
“Why, Alvord,” said Aunt Abby, “you had it fearfully about a month
ago. Don’t you recollect? You were afraid of mastoiditis.”
“Oh, that. Well, that was a serious illness. I was thinking of an
ordinary earache, when I said I never had one. But I beg of you drop the
subject of my ailments! What a thing to discuss!”
“True enough,” agreed Stone, “I propose we keep to the theme under
consideration. I’ve been engaged to look into this murder mystery.
I’m here for that purpose. I must insist that I conduct my
investigation in my own way.”
“That’s the right talk,” approved Elliott. “Now, Mr. Stone,
let’s get right down to it.”
“Very well, the case stands thus: Shane says--and it’s perfectly
true--there are five possible suspects. But only one of these had both
motive and opportunity. Now, the whole five are here present, and,
absurd though it my seem, I’m going to ask each one of you the
definite question. Ferdinand,” he raised his voice and the butler came
in from the dining-room, “did you kill your master?”
“No, God hearing me--I didn’t, sir.” The man was quiet and
composed, though his face was agonized.
“That will do, you may go,” said Stone. “Mr. Elliott, did you kill
your friend--your partner in business?”
“I did not,” said Elliott, curtly. He was evidently ill-pleased at
the question.
“Mr. Hendricks, did you?”
“As I have repeatedly proved, I was in Boston that night. It would be
impossible for me to be the criminal--but I will answer your ridiculous
query--I did not.”
“Mrs. Embury, did you?”
“N--no--but I would rather be suspected, than to have--”
“You said no, I believe,” Stone interrupted her. “Miss Ames, do
you really think you killed your niece’s husband?”
“Oh, sir--I don’t know! I can’t think I did--”
“Of course, you didn’t, Aunt Abby!” Mason Elliott rose from his
seat and paced up and down the room. “I must say, Mr. Stone, this is a
childish performance! What makes you think any of us would say so, if we
had killed Embury? It is utterly absurd!”
“You’re absurd, Elliott,” cut in Hendricks. “Mr. Stone is a
psychologist. He learns what he wants to know not from what we say--but
the way we say it. Right, Mr. Stone?”
“Right, Mr. Hendricks.” Stone looked grave. “Anything more to say,
Mr. Elliott?”
“Yes, I have! And it’s this: I asked you to come here. I asked you
to take this case--as you’ve already surmised--to free Mrs. Embury
from wrongful suspicion. Wrongful, mind you! I do not want you to clear
her if she is guilty. But she isn’t. Therefore, I want you to find the
real criminal. That’s what I want!”
“And that’s what I’m doing.”
“Of course he is,” Eunice defended him. “I wish you’d keep
still, Mason! You talk too much--and you interfere with Mr. Stone’s
methods.”
“Perhaps I’d better go home, Eunice.” Elliott was clearly
offended. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”
“Oh, no--” Eunice began, but Hendricks said, “Go on, Elliott, do.
There are too many of us here, and as Eunice’s counsel, I can look
after her interests.”
Mason Elliott rose, and turned to Eunice.
“Shall I go?” he said, and he gave her a look of entreaty--a look of
yearning, pleading love.
“Go,” she said, coldly. “Alvord will take care of me.”
And Elliott went.