Barry looked at her curiously, and said, "Come on, then."

They started across the lawn, and soon Natalie turned and looked back.

"Could you see me from here?" she asked.

"Not at night, no. But I didn't try. I thought you had gone in the

house, and I went straight ahead. The dogs were jumping all over me, and

I was thinking of them."

"Oh, Barry! After the conversation we had just had, were you thinking of

the dogs instead of me?"

"Well, the dogs were bothering me,--and you weren't!"

"Where next?"

But Barry hesitated. "By Jove. I don't know which way I did go next. Let

me see."

Natalie waited. "Down to the Italian gardens?" she said at last.

"No,--that is, I don't think so. Where _did_ I go?"

"Barry! You must know where you went. How silly."

"It isn't silly. I--I can't remember,--that's all."

"Then you refuse to tell me?"

"I don't refuse,--I just don't remember."

"Barry! Do remember. You must!"

After a moment's silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying,

"I have no recollection. Don't ask me that again."

Natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned

their footsteps toward the Italian gardens, the beautiful landscape

planned and laid out by a genius. Down the stone steps they went and

paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. Then Barry took her in

his arms. "Dear little girl," he breathed in her ear, "don't be afraid.

It will all come out right. But we don't want the truth known. Now,

don't give way," as a sob shook Natalie's quivering shoulders. "You

mustn't talk or think another word about it. Obey me, now, take your

mind right off the subject! Think of something pleasanter,--think of me!"

"I can't very well help that,--when you're so close!" and the lovely deep

blue eyes smiled through unshed tears.

"You heavenly thing! Natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?"

"If I am, I am glad, for your sake. I needn't ever pose again, need I,

Barry?"

"Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the

nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you

marry me?"

"Oh, I can't marry you! I can't--I can't!"

"Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn't to

be my wife!" and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which

was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed

jacket.

"I oughtn't to be here--but--but I love you, Barry, I do--I do!"

"Of course you do, my blessed infant. Now, as we didn't get along very

well with our marriage settlement for a topic, let's try again. Beatrice

wants to go away from here. Do you want her to?"

"Oh, no! Don't let her go. I'd be lost without her. I want to go, you

know, but I can't, I suppose. Beg her to stay as long as I do,--won't

you, dear?"

The pleading in the blue eyes was so tender and sweet that Barry kissed

them both before replying. "I will, darling. I'll beg anybody in the

world for anything you want, if I have to become a professional

mendicant. Now, brace up, Sweetheart, for I want to talk to you about

lots of things, and how can I, if you burst into tears at every new

subject I bring up?"

"I'm upset to-day, Barry mine. Don't let's talk. Just wander around the

gardens."

"Wander it is," and Barry started off obediently, still with his arm

round her.

"Unhand me, villain," she said, trying to speak gaily. But it was

impossible, and the scarlet lips trembled into a curve that broke

Barry's heart for its sadness. He gathered her to himself.

"Dear heart, you are all unstrung. Go to your room for a time, don't you

want to? Let Beatrice look after you,--she's kindness itself."

"Indeed she is. I'll do that. And I'll come back, Barry, a new woman."

"For heaven's sake, don't do that! You'd make a fine militant

suffragist!"

"No, not that. But a sensible, commonplace girl, who can talk without

crying."

"Commonplace isn't exactly the word I'd choose to describe you, you

wonder-thing! But run away and powder your nose, it needs it. Ha, I

thought that would stir you up!" as Natalie pouted. "Run along, and I'll

see you at dinner time. And this evening we'll have our chat."

But that evening Orienta came. Joyce had refused to listen to any one's

objections and had made the appointment with the clairvoyant to come for

a preliminary conference whether she gave them a séance or not.

Barry and Natalie refused at first to meet the visitor, but Joyce

persuaded them to see her, so that they might argue intelligently for or

against her. Beatrice consented to be present, for Joyce had begged it

as a special favour.

And so, when Blake ushered the stranger into the Reception Room she was

greeted pleasantly by all the members of the household.

Nor was this perfunctory, for the charm of the guest was manifest from

the first. At her entrance, at the first sound of her low, silvery

voice, each hearer was thrilled as by an unexpected bit of music.

"Mrs. Stannard?" she said, as Joyce rose and held out her hand. The long

cloak of deep pansy-coloured satin fell back showing its lining of pale

violet, and the dark Oriental face lighted with responsive cordiality,

while she returned the greetings.

Selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, Orienta sank into it, and

crossed her dainty feet on a cushion which Barry offered. Her purple hat

was like a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicuous nor

eccentric. She chose to keep her hat on, and also retained her long

cloak, which, thrown back, disclosed her robe of voluminous folds of

dull white silk. Made in Oriental design, it was yet modishly effective

and suited well the type of its wearer.

Though not beautiful, the woman was wonderfully charming. In looking at

her each auditor forgot self and others in contemplation of this strange

personality. Each of the four observing her had eyes only for her, and

didn't even glance aside to question the others' approval.

Without seeming to notice this mute tribute, Orienta began to speak. "We

will waste no time in commonplaces," she said, her voice as perfectly

modulated as that of a great actress, "they cannot interest us at this

time. It is for you to tell me whether or not you wish to command my

services in this matter of mystery. If so, well,--if not, I go away, and

that is all."

The name she had chosen to adopt was a perfect description of her whole

personality. Her oval face was of olive complexion; her eyes, not black,

but the darkest seal brown; her hair, as it strayed carelessly from the

edges of the confining turban, was brown, in moist tendrils at the

temples, as if she were under some mental excitement.

It was evident,--to the women, at least,--that the scarlet of her full

lips, and the flush on her cheek bones, was artificial, but it gave the

impression of being frankly so, and not with intent to deceive. It was

perfectly applied, at any rate, and the flash of her ivory white teeth

made her smile fascinating.

"That's the word," Barry Stannard thought, as it occurred to him, "she's

fascinating, that's what she is. Not entirely wholesome, not altogether

to be trusted, but very, _very_ fascinating."

With a subtle understanding, Orienta perceived that Barry had set his

stamp of approval on her, and turned her attention to the women.

"I in no way urge or insist upon my suggestions," she said. "I only tell

you what I can do, and it is for you to say. For you, I suppose, Mrs.

Stannard?"

"Yes," said Joyce, and her tone was decided. "Yes, it is for me to say,

and I say I want you. I want you to tell us anything you

can,--_anything_--about the mystery that has come to this house. I want to

know who killed my husband, and I want to know why, and all the details

of the deed."

"Oh," Barry protested, "don't begin with that, Joyce. Let Madame Orienta

tell us something of less importance first. Let us have a séance or a

reading or whatever the proper term may be, and test her powers."

The visitor gave him a slow smile. "It is as I am instructed," she said,

in a matter-of-fact, every-day sort of way. "But I must inform you

before going further, that my fees are not small. Test my powers in any

way you choose, but I must include the test in my final statement of

your indebtedness."

"All right," said Barry. "I'll pay the test bill, and then, Joyce, if

you want to go on with your plans, you can assume the further expense."

"Can we do anything to-night?" asked Natalie. She had sat breathless,

listening, but now, with eyes like stars, she eagerly questioned.

"You are interested?" and Orienta looked at her.

"Oh, so much. But I fear what you will reveal----"

"Fear my revelations!"

"Only because I know they will not be true, but you will make us think

they are."

Instead of being annoyed or offended, Orienta looked at her and smiled

from beneath her heavy dark brows. "You are psychic, yourself," she

said.

"Yes," said Natalie, "I am."

XI

Sealed Envelopes

With a high hand Joyce carried the matter through. She ignored

opposition and met remonstrance with a baffling disdain. She arranged

for a return of Orienta for the experiments on the following evening,

and after the departure of the medium, she declared she would listen to

no comments on her actions and went off at once to her own rooms.

Beatrice Faulkner expressed herself guardedly. "I don't care what

revelations come," she said, "except as they affect you people here. It

doesn't seem to me that that woman can say anything to make me think

either Joyce or Natalie committed the crime, but I don't want her to say

anything that will make either of them uncomfortable."

"If she does, there'll be trouble," declared Barry, gloomily. "I feel as

you do, and I want to try her on any ordinary subject first----"

"But we are going to do that," put in Natalie. "I'm crazy to see the

whole performance, but I'm scared, too. I wish Joyce would promise not

to go on with it if any one of us doesn't like it."

"She won't promise that," said Beatrice. "Joyce is bound to see it

through. I don't know what she expects from it, but she has no fear,

that's certain."

Orienta had stipulated that the séance take place in the studio, saying

that the influences of the place would go far toward producing

favourable conditions for her.

So they awaited her there, at the appointed time, and within a few

minutes of the hour she arrived. Pausing in the hall to lay off her

wraps, Orienta then glided into the great room where her group of

auditors were assembled. This time she wore a robe of dark green, as

full and flowing as the white one. There was no suggestion of Greek

drapery, but an Oriental style of billowing folds that would have been

hard to imitate. A jade bracelet showed beneath the flowing sleeve and a

jade ring was on one finger of the long, psychic hand.

"May I look at it?" said Natalie, as they sat a moment, before beginning

the séance.

"Certainly. It is my talisman,--my charm. Without it, I could do

nothing."

"Really? How wonderful!" and the girl looked earnestly at the carven

stone. "Your power is occult, then?"

"I think it must be. Yet I would not be classed with the people who go

by the general title of mediums. They are, usually, frauds."

Orienta made this statement simply, as if speaking of some matter

unconnected with her own work or claims. She gave the impression that if

fraudulent "mediums" wished to impose upon the gullible public, it was

of no interest to her, but she declined to be considered one of them.

And so secure was she in her own sincerity, she deemed it unnecessary to

emphasise or insist upon it.

"What is your wish?" she asked, at length. "Will you try me first on

some outside matters or shall we proceed at once to the question of the

mystery we seek to solve?"

Just then Robert Roberts was announced.

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Natalie. "Tell him to come some other

time?"

"No," said Joyce, "let him come in here with us. You don't mind, do you,

Madame Orienta?"

"No; why should I? Who is he?"

"The detective who is working on the case."

Orienta shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it matters not to me. But are

you sure you want him to know what I may reveal? It may incriminate----"

"I don't care who may be incriminated!" exclaimed Joyce. "I want to find

out a few things. As a matter of fact, I asked Mr. Roberts to come."

Natalie turned pale. Had Joyce laid a trap? And for whom? What might

they not learn before the evening was over?

Bobsy entered, and was duly presented to the visitor. He was courteous,

but unmistakably curious.

"What may I call you?" he asked, as he bowed before her.

"Priestess, if you please," she returned. "I refuse to be called a

medium or a seeress or even a clairvoyant. I am these things, but the

titles have been so misused that I claim only to be a Priestess of the

Occult. This is no academic title, I simply name myself a priestess of

the cult I express and follow."

"Priestess, I greet you," said Bobsy, and to those who knew him a shade

of mockery might be detected in his tone. But it was the merest hint and

quite unobservable to the one he addressed. In most decorous manner he

took a place in the group, and Joyce announced the plan she had in mind.

"First," she said, "we will have an exhibition of Oriental powers. We

will follow her instructions and she will give us a showing of her

methods and her feats. Then,--if I say so,--we will proceed to try the

other experiment."

"It is well," said the Priestess. "Remember, please, I make no claims to

magic or to witchcraft. I have, within myself, some inexplicable, some

mysterious power that enables me to see clairvoyantly through material

substances. I have also an occult power which allows me to see

happenings at a distance or in the past as if they were transpiring here

and now. These two powers are at your disposal, but further than that I

cannot go. I cannot answer questions, unless they come within the range

of the two conditions I have mentioned to you just now. I cannot read

the future or tell fortunes. I can only see what is shown to me, and if

I disappoint you, I cannot help it. Now let us proceed. I will ask you

each to write a question on a slip of paper and enclose it in an

envelope. Sign your name to your question and seal the envelope

securely."

"Old stuff," said Bobsy Roberts to Barry, in a low whisper. But Barry

shook his head. He would not commit himself until the experiment was

over.

"Will you get some paper and envelopes?" asked Orienta. "Any sort will

do."

Barry rose and went to the desk nearest to him. There was a small paper

pad, and in a pigeon-hole were several small envelopes.

"Will these do?" he asked.

"Any kind will do," said Orienta, wearily, rather than petulantly.

Bobsy looked at her closely. Surely she wasn't at all particular about

the materials used. He must watch carefully for hocus pocus, if he was

to discover any.

"Ink or pencil?" said Barry.

"It doesn't matter," and Orienta was almost irritated now. "I'm not

doing legerdemain tricks, with prepared paraphernalia!"

Barry, a little embarrassed, picked up a pencil, but in trying it, broke

off its point. So he took ink, and wrote on the top slip of the pad a

short question. This he tore off and passed the pad to Joyce.

At last, each had written a question, signed the slip, tucked it in an

envelope and sealed the envelope. Also each put a small private mark on

the outside of his or her envelope to distinguish it again.

"Collect them, Mr. Roberts, please," said Orienta, with a gentle smile.

Bobsy put the five envelopes in a little pack and held them.

"Now," said Orienta, "I propose to read these questions in the dark and

without opening the envelopes. It is no trick, as you can readily see

for yourselves, but I must ask you to sit quietly and not ask questions

until I have finished. Then ask whatever you choose. If you please, Mr.

Roberts, hand me the envelopes, and then turn off the lights. Or, stay,

turn off the lights first, that there may be no chance of my seeing even

a mark on the outside."

Bobsy did exactly as directed. Orienta sat in a large chair, facing the

others, who sat in a row before her. The lights were arranged so that

Bobsy might turn off all at the main switch, save one small table light,

which would give him opportunity to regain his seat, and then this could

be also turned off.

With everybody raptly watching, Roberts, holding the envelopes, turned

off the lights. The room was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing

on a small table. Then he handed the lot of sealed envelopes to Orienta,

who took them in a hand-clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of

them. In another second, Bobsy had taken his seat, and snapped off the

last small light. The room was in perfect darkness. Barry's hand stole

out and clasped Natalie's, but otherwise there was no movement on the

part of any one.

Not a second seemed to have passed before Orienta's soft voice was

heard.

"I will read the questions," she said, "in the order they were given me.

This is the first: 'Who is Goldenheart?' It is signed Joyce Stannard.

This is the answer, as my mind sees it. A woman sitting on a rocky seat

near a rushing brook or river. There is a man near her. He bends above

her, and speaks endearing words. He calls her Marie, she calls him Eric.

She is small and pale. Her hair is Titian red. Though not beautiful, she

is attractive in a pathetic way. Ah, the vision is gone."

As the low voice ceased, there was a slight rustle as of some one about

to speak.

"No questions, please," said Orienta, "unless you want this experiment

to stop right here. I will now read the contents of the next envelope.

This is, 'Who marred my etched picture?' signed Natalie Vernon. My mind

sees the artist who made it, himself scratching it. He is in a fury. It

is because he does not feel satisfied with his own work. He mutters,

'Not right! no, not right, yet!' There is no one with him. He is alone.

The vision fades."

Orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if exhausted. But in a

moment she spoke again. "You know," she said, "if you prefer to have the

lights, it doesn't matter at all to me. I read these in the dark because

I think if the room were lighted you might suppose I saw the message in

some way by means of my physical eyes. It is not so, but if you prefer

the light, turn it on."

"I do," cried Roberts, and before any one could object, he snapped on

the table light and then the main key which flooded the big room with

illumination.

Orienta smiled. "I thought you were sceptical, Mr. Roberts," she said.

And then, as if his doubts were of little consequence, she said, "Shall

I proceed?"

Joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance and reproof at Bobsy

Roberts, who looked a little crestfallen, but determined to take no

chances.

Orienta picked up the next envelope. She had laid aside on a table the

two she had read.

She did not look at the envelope she now held, but looked straight at

Roberts, as if to convince him of her honesty.

"This is signed Beatrice Faulkner, and it says, 'Where are the lost

jewels?' My mind sees this picture. The jewels, not lost, but safely

hidden. They are in a strong box, not a safe, more like a metal-bound

trunk. I cannot tell where this box is, but it is in a bare place, like

a store room or safety place of some sort. The vision goes."

"May we speak?" asked Natalie, eagerly.

"Not yet, please," and the Priestess smiled at her. "May I not have my

conditions complied with?"

"Keep still, Natalie," said Barry. "Let her have fair play."

"This is Mr. Stannard's question," and Orienta held another envelope in

her long fingers, "'Would it not be wiser not to attempt to solve the

mystery, but to hush up the whole matter?' My mind sees a picture. It is

vague, there is no detail, but it is bright and beautiful. There are

fair flowers and soft colours. They shift, like a kaleidoscope, but

always rosy and lovely. It means, yes, it would be better to give up

trying to solve the riddle.

"And now," Orienta spoke in a distinctly scornful voice, "there is but

one more, Mr. Roberts' envelope. In it he has written, 'Are you a

fraud?' I answer this as carefully as I do the others. My mind shows me

myself, and I see my honest attempts to do my duty and to read aright.

No, I am not a fraud. That is all."

"For shame, Mr. Roberts!" cried Joyce, angrily. "I am sorry I asked you

here to-night, and I will now ask that you go away. I am more than

interested in Orienta's work, I am enthralled, and I refuse to have it

interrupted or interfered with by your unjust suspicions and rude

behaviour! Please go away, and let us continue our experiments in

peace."

"Oh, Mrs. Stannard, please let me stay," begged the penitent Bobsy;

"I'll be good, I promise you. You see, I'm so interested in the thing, I

wrote that to test it, and Madame Orienta came through with flying

colours. If you will let me remain, I promise not to offend again, in

any particular."

Bobsy had a way with him, and Orienta herself smiled a little as she

said, "Let him stay. I'm glad to convince him."

So Bobsy staid.

Then Barry proposed that they try the same test over again, but without

signing their papers. "Thus," he said, "we will feel more free to ask

what we choose."

Orienta agreed, and again each wrote a question, and sealed it in an

envelope.

"Seal them with wax, if you wish," said the Priestess, smiling at Bobsy.

"I see there is a sealing set right there on the desk."

So Bobsy and Natalie sealed their envelopes, and stamped them with their

rings.

"I won't do that," said Joyce, "it's too silly. We all know there's no

trick in it."

"Shall I read these in the dark or in the light?" asked Orienta, as

Bobsy held the five missives toward her.

"Why not as you did before?" said Beatrice, "part of them in darkness

and part in light. I think those read in the dark even more wonderful

than in the light."

"So do I," agreed Joyce. "But we'll try both ways. Which first?"

"You may choose," said the Priestess.

"Dark, then," replied Joyce.

So again the room was made totally dark, and immediately came Orienta's

soft, velvety tones.

"'Will what I fear ever happen?'" she read slowly. Then she sighed, "I

cannot say, my child." Every one present knew she spoke to Natalie,

although the question had not been signed. "I hope not,--I think not,--but

the vision is clouded. It is better that you forget all. Forget the

past, live for a bright and happy future. The vision fades."

They had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject,

and the next one would ensue.

With scarcely a pause and without hesitation, Orienta went on:

"'What can I do to help?'" No hint was needed, for all felt sure this

was Beatrice Faulkner's question.

The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: "Nothing more

than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here

and they are appreciated."

"The rest in the light?" asked Bobsy Roberts, impatiently.

"If you choose," returned Joyce, and Roberts switched on the electrics.

Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness.

She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark.

"'Am I doing right?'" she read. For an instant the long lashes on the

cheeks of the Priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at

Joyce. "Yes, you are doing right. Continue in the procedure you have

planned."

A look of contentment passed over Joyce's face. She showed intense

relief, and oblivious to the others' curious glances she drew a long

sigh and relaxed in her chair.

Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that the questions were not

signed. She knew at once who wrote each. Next came Barry's.

Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, "'Will

the truth ever be known?'"

There was a perceptible pause before she said, "You do not want it

known, because you fear it. But your secret is safe. That, at least,

will never be known."

Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry Stannard had a secret.

Pshaw! Not necessarily because this faker said so! And yet, was she a

faker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put those sealed envelopes

into that long, inert hand. There they were still, intact, seals

unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if

they were so much blank paper. Whatever her power, it was superhuman. No

physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such

sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. No, there was no

chance for trickery. It was a supernatural gift of some sort.

His own envelope came last. He had boldly written, "Who killed Eric

Stannard?" a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude

words.

Orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envelope and her eyes closed.

"At last," she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, "at last we

come to the vital question. It matters not who wrote it, it is what each

one wanted to write. Shall I answer?"

There was silence.

Orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance around.

XII

A Vision

It was curious to note the various expressions that met the eyes of the

Priestess.

Bobsy Roberts regarded her with awe. All his scepticism was gone; he was

ready to believe anything she might say. She had stood the severest

tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come

triumphant through the experimental ordeal. Surely, if she revealed

anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. But could she do that?

Natalie and Barry both showed fear. Strive to hide it as they would, it

lurked in their staring eyes, it was evident in their restless hands,

and as if moved by the same thought, they turned and gazed at each

other.

Beatrice Faulkner looked troubled. She saw the two young people in their

distress, and she looked at the Detective furtively.

Joyce, however, was the one to whom all turned, breathlessly awaiting

her decision.

"Yes," she said, and her voice rang out with its note of determination,

"yes, Madame Orienta, tell all you know,--all you can learn by your

mystic power."

As if in obedience to a command, the graceful figure of the Mystic fell

into a languid pose. Her arms fell limply, her head drooped a very

little to one side. Her eyes were open, but seemed to be unseeing, for

her glance was fixed, as if watching a mirage.

She looked directly toward the chair where Stannard had died. Her

half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking.

She sounded as one in a trance. She was alive but not alert, like one

sleep-walking or talking in a dream.

"I see it all,--clearly. I see the artist in his favourite chair. He is

at his work,--no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work

that he has done. It is not a picture--it is a small panel. He takes up a

tool,--an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. He hesitates, and then with a

sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. It pleases him

that he has done so, and he smiles. A man enters."

There was a stir among her audience. The tension was too great. Barry

sought Natalie's hand and clasped it tightly. Roberts shot glances

quickly from one to another, but returned his gaze at once to the

speaker. Joyce and Beatrice leaned forward, fairly hanging on the words

of revelation.

"The man,--he is big and dark,--confronts the artist as he sits. The

intruder, without a word, grasps the sharp tool from the fingers of the

one who holds it, and thrusts it into the breast of his victim. He darts

across the room, turns off all light, and--it is so black,--I cannot see

him depart. But--I hear him--I hear his stealthy tread. He comes back,

past the dying man,--he hears a groan,--he pauses,--I can see nothing, but

I hear two come in at opposite doors. They stand, breathing heavily in

fear--in horror of--they know not what. As they stand, half-dazed--I hear

the man--the murderer slip past one of them, and out of the room. The

light flashes on. The room is dazzlingly bright. I see the two who first

entered. They are women. They gaze affrightedly at each other and then

at the man in the chair. Two others have appeared. They are at the other

end of the long room. It must have been one of these who flashed the

light on. They are a man,--a servant he is,--and a woman. Both are

terrorised at what they see. The two women near the chair of the dying

man accuse each other of the crime. But this is the frenzied cry of

shock and fright. They do not mean it--they scarce know what they utter.

The dying man raises his head in a final effort of life. He sees the

scene with the clearness of the dying brain. He hears the servant say,

'Who did this?' He replies, with upraised, shaking finger--'Natalie--nor

Joyce.' He means neither of these innocent women was concerned. He tries

to tell more, to tell of his assailant, but Death claims him. His voice

ceases, his heart stops beating,--he is gone. That is all. With his last

breath he tried to say, 'Neither Natalie nor Joyce,' but his failing

speech rendered the words unintelligible. The vision fades."

Orienta ceased speaking, her eyes drooped shut and she lay back in her

chair as one asleep.

The silence remained unbroken for a minute or more. The beautiful voice

still rang in their ears. They were still back in the scene they had

heard described. The vividly drawn picture was still with them, and

there was no reaction until Bobsy Roberts said, in a tone of awed

belief, "By Jove!"

Then the stunned figures moved. Beatrice looked at Joyce with a smile of

deep thankfulness, and then turned to smile at Natalie. The girl was

radiant. She had sensed acutely the whole scene, and she realised

perfectly what the revelation meant. Barry was looking at her adoringly,

and his face was full of triumphant joy.

Joyce looked still a bit dazed. Had the experiment really proved so much

more successful than she had dared to hope? She looked at Roberts. He

was scribbling fast in a notebook, lest some point of the story escape

his memory.

Orienta opened her eyes, roused her long, exquisite figure to an upright

posture, and passed her hand gently across her brow.

"Is it enough?" she asked. "Are you satisfied?"

"May we ask questions?" eagerly exclaimed Bobsy.

"Yes, but only important ones. I am very weary."

"Then please describe more fully the man who struck the blow."

Again Orienta's eyes fastened themselves on the big armchair.

"I see him clearly," she said, clasping her hands in her tense

concentration, "but his back is toward me as he bends over his victim."

"How is he dressed?"

"I cannot quite tell. His figure is vague. His clothes seem merely a

dark shadow against the light."

"Does it seem to be evening dress?"

"It may be. I cannot say, surely."

"At any rate, it is not the rough dress of a tramp or burglar?"

"No,--not that, I think."

"He is not masked?"

"No."

"You say he is dark? Pardon me, Madame, but it is my duty to get these

details."

"Yes, his hair, as I see it, is dark."

"And he has a round, smooth-shaven face?" Roberts spoke eagerly, as if

he had in mind a distinct personality.

"No," said Orienta slowly. "No, he has a long, thin face----"

"Can you see his face, then?" Bobsy fairly shot out the words.

"Not his face, but an indication of his profile----"

"Then is he clean-shaven?"

"No, he wears a beard."

"Oh. A dark beard? A heavy one?"

"Dark, yes. But not heavy."

"Pointed or full?"

"Somewhat pointed--ah, he has turned away. I cannot tell."

"Is he wearing a hat? But, no, you see his hair."

"I see no hat."

"Is there a hat on the table? On a chair?"

"I cannot tell. The vision fades."

"Let up, Roberts," said Barry. "We are sure now the man was an intruder.

Let it go at that. If you can find such a one, it won't matter whether

he had a hat or not."

"It is important," insisted Bobsy. "Now, Madame Orienta, tell us again

of his actions. Even if the vision has faded, tell from your memory what

he did. You saw him when he crossed the room toward the hall door. It

was light then?"

"Yes. He moved swiftly, straight to the electric switch, and pressed it.

Then I could see no more."

"Of course not. But you heard his steps returning, you said."

"Yes, he went stealthily, but I heard him feel his way by the furniture

and walls."

"And at the same time you heard a sound from Mr. Stannard?"

"Yes, a sort of gasp or groan."

"Right. It was this, then, that attracted the attention of Mrs. Stannard

and Miss Vernon, and they entered at about the same time?"

"So far as I can judge. They were both there when the lights

re-appeared."

"And in that brief instant the man had slipped past one of them and

escaped."

"That is as the vision revealed it."

"Only one more question. Past which woman did he go?"

"I cannot say. I merely heard a quick footstep at that end of the room."

"It couldn't have been past Miss Vernon," said Bobsy. "She was too near

the door, according to her own account. And I don't see how he could

have passed Mrs. Stannard, as there was a low light in the Billiard

Room, and she must have seen him pass."

"Both women were looking toward the source of the sound they heard.

Also, at that very moment, the wounded man gave a faint cry of 'Help!'

An instant after, the servant turned on the light. In that instant the

man disappeared, unnoticed by any one. I am not explaining these

occurrences, Mr. Roberts; I am describing them. It is for you to

interpret their meaning."

Bobsy fell into a brown study, and timidly Natalie put forth a question.

"How do you know he said, or tried to say, 'Neither Joyce nor Natalie'?"

Orienta looked at the girl with an affectionate expression.

"You are a 'sensitive' yourself, Miss Vernon. It will not be difficult

for you to understand. By my clairvoyance I read the thought in his

mind. I know he feared one or other of the two women he saw might be

suspected. The dying often have abnormally acute prescience. To ward off

any such danger, and in reply to the servant's inquiry, he strove to say

neither of you were implicated,--he raised his hand in protest,--but he

was physically unable to articulate clearly, and so his words were

misconstrued."

"You heard the words," said Natalie to Beatrice Faulkner; "does it seem

to you he meant that?"

"Yes," was the reply. "Now that I think it over I feel sure he did. At

the moment, you know, I could scarcely control my senses, and his voice

sounded so queer and unnatural, it was difficult to gather his meaning."

"I think so, too," broke in Joyce. "I know that's what he meant. Eric's

very nature was against his accusing any woman of wrong-doing. He meant

just what Madame Orienta has told us. And I am glad there can be no more

doubt about it."

"Could a man have brushed by you that moment, Mrs. Stannard?" asked

Bobsy.

"I suppose so. I came from a lighted room into one of pitch blackness. I

heard a quick breathing from the opposite side of the room, where

Natalie was. I daresay I involuntarily took a step forward, and the man

slipped past, behind me. It all happened so quickly, and I was so

frightened, I can't describe my exact sensations. But I accept Madame

Orienta's revelation as the truth, and----" Joyce's face paled a little,

and she spoke very sternly, "I positively forbid any further

investigation of the whole matter."

"Then you suspect some one?" asked Bobsy, quickly.

"Not at all," was the haughty answer, and Joyce looked like a queen

issuing commands. "I have no idea who the intruder was, nor do I want to

know. But if this story is made public, a dozen men will be found to fit

the description, and it will mean no end of trouble and injustice.

Therefore, I request, Mr. Roberts, that you let it go no further."

"I can't promise that," said Bobsy, gravely. "I am bound to report to my

chief. But if he agrees, I will stop all investigation."

"That won't do," said Joyce, her dark eyes troubled. "You must promise

what I ask."

"I think you need have no fear, Mrs. Stannard, of any injustice being

done. One moment, Madame Orienta. You saw the footman, Blake, followed

by Mrs. Faulkner, enter the room and turn on the light, just as they

testified?"

"The light was flashed on, and then I saw the servant, his hand still on

the switch. Behind him, at his very shoulder, was Mrs. Faulkner, her

face drawn with fear and horror. Naturally I turned my attention at once

to the other end of the room, and there saw, for the first time, the two

women whom I had heard enter a moment before."

"Thank you, that is all," and rising, Bobsy Roberts made brief adieus

and hurried away.

He went straight to headquarters and sought Captain Steele.

"Got Stannard's murderer," he announced excitedly.

"Again or yet?" asked his unmoved listener.

"Got it in the queerest way, too," Bobsy went on, as he fished for his

notebooks in the pocket of the overcoat he had laid off. "Do you believe

in mejums, Cap?"

"Not so's you'd notice it. Spill your yarn."

"Well, to begin at the beginning of this chapter of it, Mrs. Stannard

engaged a clairvoyant lady to see visions."

"Spooks?"

"Not exactly that, but to--well, to reconstruct the murder

scene,--mentally, you know,--and see who did the stabbing. And by Jove,

she told us!"

"Come now, Bobsy, I'll stand for a good deal from you----"

"Now, hold on, she didn't know she told----"

"What! Didn't know what she told----"

"If you could listen without butting in every minute, I'd give you the

whole story."

"I'll try," and Captain Steele folded his hands and listened without a

word while Bobsy told him every detail of the Orienta revelation.

Often he referred to his notes, and again he told vividly from memory

the exact words of the priestess.

"And you fell for that?" cried Steele, as the tale ended.

"Sure I did, and so would you if you'd been there. You can sort of sense

the difference between the professional fake mediums and this--this lady.

She was the real thing, all right. I felt just as you do, before I saw

her, but I was soon convinced. Why, man, that reading the sealed

messages was enough."

"Pooh, they have lots of ways of doing that."

"But she didn't use any of their 'ways.' I, myself, handed the bunch to

her, and immediately she read them out, and in pitch dark, too. No,

there was no chance for trickery. She read them in dark or light,

equally well. And not a seal broken or an envelope torn. Now, then!"

"No chance for a confederate?"

"Not the least. We sat in a row, and she sat facing us, fully eight feet

away. And what could a confederate do? I handed her the envelopes,--she

gave them back to me,--intact. Not one of us moved. When it was dark, her

voice proved she was in her chair, and when I flashed on the light

suddenly, there she was, without a change of posture, holding the

envelopes exactly as I had given them to her. I tell you she's the real

thing. I've read up on the trickery business, and all the books say that

while there is lots of fraud, there is also a certain amount of

telepathy or clairvoyance or whatever you call it, that's true. And

that's her sort."

"Well, who is the man? Did she tell you?"

"No, she didn't know. But I know."

"Who, then?"

"Eugene Courtenay."

"What?"

"Of course it is. I've had him in the back of my head for some time, but

I couldn't get a peg to hang a clue on. Now, I see how he could have

done it. He did do it, just as the lady said. He slipped in, stabbed his

man, turned off the light, and--slipped out again, past Mrs. Stannard."

"Why didn't she know it?"

"She did know it! Don't you see? Those two are in love. They wanted

Stannard out of the way. But I don't think there was collusion. I think

it was this way. You know, it is history that Mrs. Stannard and

Courtenay were alone in the Billiard Room. Of course he was making love

to her, and bemoaning the fact of Stannard's existence. Now, either he

went from her into the studio, and she knew it, or else, he went away,

as they say, and returned, through the Billiard Room--and she didn't know

it."

"How could she help seeing him?"

"Oh, say she was crying,--or had buried her face in a sofa cushion,--or

was sitting before the fire and he passed behind her. But admit that he

_could_ have gone through that room unknown to her,--which, of course, he

could. Well, he goes in, and, later, in the dark, he goes out the same

way. I don't know about her knowledge of any part of this performance,

but I think she knew nothing of it, or she wouldn't have engaged the

occult lady."

"She did that to clear herself."

"Yes, and Miss Vernon, too. But when the Priestess, as they call her,

spoke of a tall, dark man, with a beard, Mrs. Stannard was scared to

death and wanted it all called off."

"A tall man, with a beard?"

"Yes, a dark, pointed beard! Isn't that Courtenay?"

"Sounds like him. Did she describe him further?"

"Yes, but only when I dragged it out of her. She vowed she couldn't see

him clearly, and I pretended I wanted her to say a round, smooth-shaven

face, and little by little I wormed it out, and it was Courtenay to the

life. Then, Mrs. Stannard weakened on the whole show, which proves it."

"You say you've thought of him before?"

"Only vaguely. But you know his story. How he sat on the lawn bench and

watched the lights go off and on! Good work, that! He himself turned

them off and then escaped to the lawn, and cleverly sat there to see

what occurred, instead of going home, and thereby being suspected."

"And kept still when he found those two women were accused?"

"Sure. He knew they'd get off all right, and if he expected to marry

Mrs. Stannard, he couldn't let himself get into the game. So he made up

his simple, clever yarn, and stuck to it. Yes, sir, Courtenay's your

man!"

"Wait, what about that conversation Mrs. Stannard overheard? She says

her husband was talking to a woman."

"She made that up. Probably she had a glimmer of suspicion toward

Courtenay, and did anything she could to make it seem somebody else."

"Then she hired this visionary, and that brought about the very

revelation she didn't want!"

"But she never dreamed it would do so. She had no faith in the thing,

and thought it would merely divert suspicion to some unknown intruder.

And so it would, if I hadn't pinned the Seeress down to a careful

description. Then, the more Mrs. Stannard showed discomfiture the more I

knew I was right."

"I believe you, Bobsy. Now, how shall we go about proving it?"

"It will prove itself. It's a case of murder will out. You'll see!"

XIII

An Alibi Needed

Very discreetly Bobsy conducted his interview with Eugene Courtenay. The

detective wanted to trap his man before he could realise any danger, so

he called on him the morning after his talk with Steele.

Courtenay was not a business man. He called himself a farmer, but his

farming was of the fancy variety and was done almost entirely by expert

gardeners. His place was not far from the Folly, and when Bobsy called,

at about eleven o'clock, he was received courteously enough by the man

he desired to see.

"It's this way, Mr. Courtenay," said Bobsy, after a few preliminaries,

"in the interests of law and justice, I want you to tell me a little

more in detail the story you told at the inquest."

"There are no further details than those I related, Mr. Roberts. What

have you learned that makes you think my testimony of sudden

importance?"

Clearly, this was not a man to be easily hoodwinked. Bobsy felt his way.

"Not of sudden importance. But all testimony is important, and sometimes

by elaboration it becomes illuminative."

"Good word, illuminative," remarked Courtenay. "But I cannot help to

shed light for you, I fear. Just what do you want to know?"

Here was an opening. Bobsy accepted it as such.

"At what time did you leave the Stannard house that night?"

"I don't know, really. One doesn't note hours when not on business

matters. It must have been between eleven and half-past. That's as near

as I can come to it. Why?"

The last word was shot at him, and Bobsy almost jumped.

"It is my duty to ask," he said coolly. "At what time did you reach

home? I suppose you don't know that, either."

"I do not. But I didn't come home at once----"

"Yes, I know; you sat on a bench on the Folly lawn. Were you in evening

togs, Mr. Courtenay?"

"I was."

"Had you on a hat?"

Eugene Courtenay started. But he answered at once: "Not a hat. I wore a

cap over there. I often do when I go to a neighbour's."

"And you had it on when you sat on the bench?"

"Why, confound it, man. I don't know! I suppose I did. No, let me see. I

believe I was carrying it, and laid it on the bench beside me."

"And left it there?"

Courtenay laughed a little self-consciously. "Yes, I did. I came nearly

home before I thought of it. Then I went back and gathered it in. Why?"

Again that direct, snapped-out question.

"What was going on at the house when you went back?"

"How should I know? After events prove that the tragedy in the studio

was then being gone through with--but I had no idea of that at the time.

I glanced at the house, of course. There was a light in the studio--in

fact, lights over most of the house. I found my cap and came on home.

Why?"

"I'll answer your whys, Mr. Courtenay. Because the police have reason to

think your story is not entirely true. Because we think it was you,

yourself, who turned off the studio light."

"Do I understand, Mr. Roberts, you mean that I--let us speak plainly--that

I killed Eric Stannard?"

"Did you, Mr. Courtenay?"

"I refuse to answer such an absurd question! In the first place, I was

out on the lawn, when the light went out."

"So you say. But who corroborates that?"

"I was also out there when the light flashed on again."

"Yes, that may be true, but your first statement is not. You left Mrs.

Stannard in the Billiard Room, you went into the studio--whether in the

interim you had been out on the lawn or not, doesn't matter--you stabbed

Eric Stannard, you turned off the light, and returning through the

Billiard Room, you went back to that bench, and awaited developments."

"You must be insane!"

"Oh, no, I'm not insane. Neither were you. It was a clever dodge. You

didn't know the women would be implicated, but when they were, however

you might regret that, you couldn't confess your own guilt----"

"Why couldn't I?"

"Because," Bobsy looked squarely at him, "because you love Mrs.

Stannard----"

"Stop! Don't you dare to speak her name! You mischief-maker! You

absolute and unqualified----"

"Stop, yourself, Mr. Courtenay! These heroics harm your case--they don't

help it."

"But it's false! It isn't true! I didn't do it! I was----"

"Yes?"

"I was on that bench all the time, till I went home----"

"Did you see any one, any servant or gardener, perhaps, who can vouch

for your story?"

"No--I can't remember that I did. But, man, alive, how could I get in and

out of that room? It has been proved----"

"It has been proved that you could have entered unseen and could have

left unseen."

"But how?"

"Answer this question truthfully. What was Mrs. Stannard doing, when you

left her in the Billiard Room?"

"She was sitting on one of the leather seats that are built to the

wall."

"Was she looking at you, as you left?"

"No. She had buried her face in a pillow against which she leaned."

"Why did she do this? Was she feeling ill?"

"No."

"Then why the act?"

"I cannot say."

"You mean you will not. Was it because you had said something to her

that caused her emotion?"

"I refuse to answer, and you have no right to ask."

"Very well, don't answer. But, you must admit, that if her face was

buried in the pillow, she could not see if a man passed through the

Billiard Room to the studio."

"But no one did!"

"How do you know?"

"Because I should have seen him from the bench where I sat."

"No, you would not, because you were the man."

"You accuse me?"

"I do."

"I deny it. But I shall say no more to you. Have you a warrant for my

arrest?"

"I have not."

"Then go--and go quickly, before I tell you what I think of you!"

But Bobsy Roberts was no fool. He said, quietly, "I'd rather you would

tell me what you think of me. It may help me to get at the truth. There

are reasons why we are inquiring into your connection with this

matter--you will hear the reasons soon enough. There is peculiar but

direct evidence that you are the man who stabbed Mr. Stannard."

"Evidence? What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. But never mind that. You have nothing else to tell me?

No proof to adduce that you were just where you claim to have been when

the studio was darkened?"

"No! No proof, because none is needed. You can't have evidence--it is

impossible!"

"Then that is all, Mr. Courtenay. You needn't tell me what you think of

me. Your opinion doesn't interest me. But perhaps after you hear the

evidence I speak of, you'll sing another tune. Oh, I'm not going to tell

you about it. Ask Mrs. Stannard."

"I asked you not to mention that lady's name. Good morning, Mr.

Roberts."

"Good morning." And Bobsy went away, filled with conviction of Eugene

Courtenay's guilt.

Courtenay went at once over to see Joyce.

"I've missed you so," she said, simply, as she met him on the Terrace.

"Why haven't you been here?"

"I thought better not, darling. I can't control myself sufficiently to

hide my love for you. And I feared it might bring embarrassment on you

if I let it be seen by any one. Oh, Joyce, it seems so long to wait!

Must it be two years? I can't live through it."

"Hush, Eugene. It seems sacrilege even to speak of our love and poor

Eric dead so short a time. Be patient, dear heart. We are both young.

You couldn't love me, or respect me, if I failed in ordinary behaviour

toward a husband's memory. And Eric was good to me."

"Good to you! Losing his head over every pretty woman he met! Joyce, how

could you ever marry him?"

"He made me. Don't you know how some women succumb to cave-man wooing? I

don't understand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making carried me off

my feet, and I had promised him before I knew it."

"If I had been here at the time, it would never have happened."

"I think it would. I was fascinated by his very vehemence. Now, I know

better. I want only your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and

content me as he never could."

"You poor little darling. I wish I could give it to you now. Mayn't I

kiss you once--just once, Joyce?"

"No, Eugene. Not yet. Some day--when I can't be patient any longer. When

the hunger for your big, sweet affection becomes too intense--the craving

too uncontrollable."

She turned away from him and looked off toward the glowing richness of

the autumn foliage.

"When the robins nest again," she said, with a little pathetic smile at

the quotation. "But now, dear, sit down, I've a lot to tell you. I'm

glad you came over, I was going to send for you."

And then, without further preamble, Joyce told him the whole story of

Orienta and her revelations.

Courtenay listened, his eyes growing dark with anxiety as the story

progressed.

"Who was the man?" he asked quietly, as she finished.

"Why, I don't know. Not a tramp, of course. But, perhaps some

blackmailer. You know--Eric's life wasn't spotless."

"Listen, Joyce. The man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. He

was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. He had reason to hate Eric

Stannard. Do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?"

Joyce looked at him, and a cloud of fear came to her beautiful eyes.

"Don't, Eugene," she cried, putting up her white hand, as if to ward off

a blow. "Don't!"

"I must, Joyce. And you must listen. When I left you, did you keep your

head down on that pillow--or, did you raise it? Tell me truly, dearest."

"I--I kept it down there. I was crying a little--after what--you know--what

we had been talking about. I staid that way a long time."

"Until you heard the sounds from the studio?"

"Yes; until that."

"Then some one could have passed you--you wouldn't have heard a soft

step?"

"No, I probably shouldn't--but, Eugene, it wasn't you? Say it wasn't

you!"

"It was not. But I have to prove this, Joyce--and it will be difficult."

"Oh, does any one think it was you?"

"Yes, the police think so."

"The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why--_why_ did I ever have Madame

Orienta come here? But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene--we will

prove it."

"Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told

this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?"

"To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and

Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when

the Priestess' story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of

guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!"

"No, not worse. A man can fight injustice better than a woman. Have you

told Roberts?"

"About the pillow? No, I don't think so. But he'll find it out. That man

digs into everything."

"You invited him, yourself, to the séance?"

"Yes. I thought it wise. I thought it would implicate some stranger and

I wanted him to hear."

"Why did you think it would accuse a stranger? Look here, Joyce, you

didn't employ that woman to cook up a yarn, did you?"

"Mercy, no!" and Joyce opened her eyes full at him. "Eugene! What an

idea! Of course I didn't. Why, I believe in her as fully as--as I do in

you! I can't say more than that! She is honest and earnest in what she

tells. Whether she sees truly, is another thing, and one over which she

has no control. But all she says is in sincerity and truth."

"It may be. But she has surely woven a web around me. That is, if others

share your belief in her. Now, I'm going to work, Joyce, to find my

alibi."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to scare up somebody who saw me on that bench and will swear

to it."

"Swear falsely?" Joyce whispered the words.

"If need be. But I hope to get an honest witness. May I speak to your

outdoor servants? And the house staff, too, if necessary?"

"Of course. Find the head gardener, Mason, he'll round up the rest. Oh,

Eugene, you will find some one, surely. They are about the grounds every

night. And perhaps Barry saw you. He was out with the dogs."

"I'll find some one, dear. Don't worry."

Courtenay went away, and Joyce went into the house. She went to Beatrice

Faulkner's room, and found her there.

"May I come in?" asked Joyce, at the door.

"Always, any time. Why, what is the matter, dear?"

"Beatrice! You don't think Eugene killed Eric, do you?"

"Of course not! What nonsense!"

"Well, they suspect him of it, and he's going to make up an alibi--or

whatever you call it."

"Not make one up! Don't ever say that, Joyce. You mean, he's going to

find proof of his own testimony."

"Yes, it's all the same. But, oh, Beatrice, if he did do it--I can never

marry him----"

"Hush, Joyce! You mustn't talk like that! Don't you want to save

Eugene?"

"Of course I do, if he's innocent."

"Then believe him innocent! You wrong-minded woman, to doubt the man who

loves you, at the first breath of suspicion!"

"Then is he innocent, Beatrice? Is he?"

"Look in your heart and answer that yourself."

"I do look," said Joyce, solemnly, "but I can't read the answer."

XIV

From Seven to Seventy

"Listen, Joyce, dear. You are nervous and excited, or you never would do

Mr. Courtenay such injustice. Think back; remember how he has always

loved you--long before you married Eric. How patient and good he has

been, never showing any undue interest in you or any animosity toward

Eric. Why, then, imagine that he would do this desperate thing?"

"That's just it, Beatrice. He restrained his feelings as long as he

could, and that night--in the Billiard Room, he--he lost control--and he

said he--he c-couldn't stand it. You know he thought Eric didn't treat me

right----"

"And Eric didn't. But even if Mr. Courtenay did lose his head for a

moment, that doesn't mean he was the murderer, and you mustn't suspect

him, Joyce."

"But you know what Orienta said--about a dark man with a pointed beard.

Who else could it have been?"

"Other men have dark hair and beards. And Orienta couldn't see him

clearly, you know."

"I know. And you are a comfort, Beatrice. But I never can marry Eugene

if he has even a shadow of doubt hanging over him. I want him cleared."

"Of course you do. And as he is innocent, he will clear himself."

"Maybe not. If he can't find anybody who saw him out there on the bench,

he will be arrested, and----"

"Oh, no, he won't. Why, somebody must have seen him!"

"If any of the servants had, they would have said so."

"They weren't asked. What about Barry?"

"Oh, I think Barry was off in the other direction, down by the orchards.

But, Beatrice, maybe Mr. Wadsworth saw him. Didn't he leave you just

about that time?"

"Yes, or a few moments sooner. Shall I ask him?"

"Oh, no. He's a fine man, and if he did see Eugene, his word will stand.

Are you going to--do you care for him, Beatrice?"

"No, Joyce. He is, as you say, a fine man, and he has asked me many

times to marry him, but I do not love him in that way. I admire and

respect him, that is all."

"Poor Mr. Wadsworth. He worships the ground you walk on. Perhaps later,

when all this horror is a thing of the past, you may change your mind."

"Never, Joyce. But I'll ask Mr. Wadsworth about Eugene. You telephone

him to come over here. If I do----"

"He'll take it as encouragement. Yes, I know. I'll do it."

Joyce called him up on the telephone, and Wadsworth came over to the

Folly that evening.

"Why, yes, I think so," he said, when questioned by Beatrice. "Let me

see; when I left here, I walked a couple of times round the Italian

garden paths, hesitating as to whether I should come back for one last

appeal, or accept your refusal as final. I decided on the latter course,

and was planning to go away on a long trip, to--to make myself keep away

from you." He looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his

own. "I don't want to persist too hard, dear, but I am of a determined

nature, and I can't give you up. So, I'm going away, but I warn you I

shall yet return and ask you once more--yes, once more, Beatrice."

"That is in the future," she returned, gravely, "but now, let us see if

we can help poor Joyce."

"Poor Courtenay, as well! Now, I think I did see him, as I came along

the South lawn. I'm sure I saw some man on the bench out there, and it

was much the outline of Courtenay. And then, yes, I remember now, just

then the light went out, and I couldn't see him clearly. Of course, I

thought nothing of the light being put out. I assumed the people were

going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you

again that night. Had the lights staid on, I fancy, after all, I should

have entered the house again."

They were alone in the studio. It was but partially lighted, and

Beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment.

"Come out of here," she said; "I hate the place, it seems to be haunted

by Eric's spirit. Come into the Reception Room."

Wadsworth followed as she went through the hall, but detained her a

moment.

"What has become of your portrait painted on the staircase?" he asked.

"It's in the studio," she replied. "It isn't quite finished, you know."

"Mayn't I see it?"

"Not now. Some time."

"Stand on the stairs, the way the picture is painted."

Humouring his whim, Beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on

the balustrade, as Eric had painted her.

"Beautiful. Stannard was a wonderful genius. I want that picture, dear.

I don't care if it is unfinished. If I can't have the original--yet--will

you give me the duplicate?"

"No, oh, no!" and Beatrice looked startled. "I'd hate you to have it,

with this staircase and all----"

"I thought you loved this staircase----"

"As an architectural gem, yes. Mr. Faulkner prided himself on its

design. But now--Eric's death----"

"Oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to

the footman's queer actions, didn't you?"

"Yes; I was just on this very step when I heard that faint moan--oh,

don't remind me of it."

"I won't. I was a brute to be so thoughtless. Dear heart, can't you

leave this house? Why do you stay in a place of such sad memories?"

"I do want to go away--and I must. And yet, Joyce needs me. She leans on

me for everything. Come into this little room, and sit down."

They went into the cosy, low-ceiled Reception Room, and Beatrice

continued. "I was just thinking I could leave her, when she became

worried about Mr. Courtenay. Now, if you can convince the police that

you saw him out there, just at that critical moment when the light

disappeared, you will establish his alibi. Can you do this?"

"I'm sure I can. The more I think about it, the more I feel sure that it

was Courtenay I saw."

"Had he a hat on?"

"No, but his hand on the back of the bench held a cap. I saw this

clearly, for the light from the studio window was very strong. But as I

looked at the man, the light went out. Understand, I was not looking at

him with any curiosity or even interest. Merely he was in my line of

vision, that is all. When I could not see him because of the sudden

darkness, I thought no more of him, and I went home then."

"And you will go to the police and tell them this?"

"I certainly will, the first thing to-morrow morning. To-night, if you

prefer."

"No, wait till morning. Stay here a little longer. I feel lonely

to-night."

"Dear heart, can't you learn to look to me to cheer that loneliness?"

"Don't--you promised you wouldn't. But let's chat a bit. Tell me, do you

believe at all in spiritism?"

"Spiritualism?"

"No; spiritism. They're quite different. Spiritualism is the

old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping performance. Spiritism is the

scientific consideration of life after death."

"Of course, I believe in life after death----"

"But do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?"

"By rapping and tipping tables?"

"No, not at all. By silent communion, or by a restless haunting of

places they used to occupy? There! didn't you hear a faint sound then? A

soft rustle, as of wings?"

"No, I didn't, and neither did you. That Orienta person has you all

unnerved. I won't stand it. I insist on your leaving this house. If I

see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding

Courtenay, will you get away at once?"

"I'd be glad to, if Joyce is willing I should go. Natalie is fond of me,

too. But Barry will look after her. Yes, if Mr. Courtenay is freed of

all suspicion, I will go away at once."

Roger Wadsworth's story carried weight with the police, who were already

rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant.

And as Courtenay himself said to Captain Steele, "Your precious

detective, Roberts, forced that woman to describe me. Even granting she

had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn't say

anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he

suggested it. Then she said 'yes.' If he'd said, 'hasn't he red hair and

freckles?' she would have said 'yes,' also! It's auto-suggestion. Her

mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought

she saw. But since you've put me on the rack, I'm going into this thing

myself. For reasons of my own, I'm going to hunt down the murderer of

Eric Stannard. There's nobody on the job that has any push or

perseverance. Young Stannard doesn't want the truth known. Why, I can't

say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts.

I'm ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one

you say. Or I'll work alone. But solve the mystery I'm bound to!"

Courtenay's manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own

innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about

"protesting too much." But when Courtenay said he would be at their

bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go

in peace to pursue his own inquiries.

And he went first to Lawyer Stiles, to look into the matter of

Stannard's will.

"The first motive to consider," Courtenay said to the surprised lawyer,

"is always a money motive. Who benefits by this will, aside from the

principals?"

Stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities.

Suddenly Courtenay started in astonishment.

"Have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?" he asked.

The lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression.

"Just what do you mean?" he said.

"Ah, then you _have_ seen it! Were you going to let it pass unnoted?"

"I must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks."

"And I will do so. That will has been tampered with, and you know it!"

"Tampered with?"

"Don't repeat my words like a parrot! Yes, tampered with. The original,

written in Mr. Stannard's own hand, has been added to by some one else."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't think so, I know so. Now, why haven't you made it known? You

must have seen it?"

"Where is the fancied alteration?"

Courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he

could be dishonest or if he had been blind. He laid his finger on one

clause, the one stating Natalie Vernon's bequest, and said, "There, that

is the place. That was written seven thousand dollars, it has been

changed to read seventy thousand dollars."

Lawyer Stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. "It

is in letters and figures both," he demurred, "it would be difficult----"

"I know it is. And it was not very difficult to add _ty_ to the written

seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the

original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was

intended by the testator."

"Well?"

"Well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable

fraud like that?"

"I'm sorry you saw that, Mr. Courtenay. In explanation, I have nothing

to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that I am in the

confidence of the Stannard family, and this is their affair--not yours."

"Whew!" Courtenay gave a short whistle. "I begin to see. They know it,

and make no objection."

"Y--yes."

"Who knows it?"

"Barry Stannard."

"And Mrs. Stannard?"

"I can't say. She read the will, but made no comment."

"You're sure Barry knows?"

"I am."

"And he stands for it because Miss Vernon did it! That baby! Who'd think

her capable of such a thing?"

"Hush, Mr. Courtenay. You've no right to accuse her. You've no evidence

that she did it. In fact, I'm told Miss Vernon writes a large, dashing

hand, and this----"

"And Eric Stannard's hand is small and cramped. Yes, a clever forgery.

It looks quite a bit like his own writing. But the ink is different, the

slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been

changed!"

"Granting that. What matter, if Barry Stannard doesn't care? Moreover,

he is going to marry Miss Vernon, and the fortune will be theirs

jointly."

"But don't you see? If Natalie Vernon altered that will, she wanted that

larger sum, and--she----"

"Don't say it. At least, don't say it to me. If you want to put the

matter up to Barry, go ahead. But I decline to express an opinion or

form a conclusion."

"What does Barry say?"

"He ignores it. I called his attention to it, and he said, 'Changed

figures? Oh, I guess not. It doesn't matter, anyway; that, and more,

will be at Miss Vernon's disposal some day.' So I said no more."

Eugene Courtenay went straight to Joyce.

"Do you know anything about a changed figure in Eric's will?" he asked,

bluntly.

"No," she returned; "what do you mean?"

"Natalie Vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to

seventy thousand."

"How could she?"

"It wasn't difficult. Eric wrote the will himself. He wrote seven and

she made it seventy--the words, I mean. Then he wrote a figure seven and

three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. Mighty clever work,

but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter."

"What possessed the child?"

"Don't call her a child. The woman who could and would do that, is a

Machiavelli in petticoats. But don't you see where the knowledge of her

act leads us?"

"You mean----" Joyce could not say it.

"Of course I do. I've thought all along there was still a doubt of her."

"Oh, I haven't. Even if she did alter the will, that doesn't prove----"

"It doesn't prove--anything. But you know this will was made very

recently----"

"Of course; Natalie has only been here two months."

"I know it. Well, say, Eric made this bequest to her, soon after she

came--you know, Joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning----"

"Yes, I know it, Eugene."

"And then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why, _why_ would

she do this, except to inherit--at once?"

"Natalie! That dear little thing! Never! I did suspect her the least

mite, just at first--but I don't now."

"Barry does."

"Oh, no! He can't."

"He does. And that's why he didn't want any fuss made about her

forgery----"

"Don't call it that!"

"It _is_ that. What else can I call it?"

"But I can't believe it. Maybe--maybe somebody else did it. Barry----"

"Nonsense! Why should Barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?"

"Oh, I don't know! It's all so confusing."

"Not confusing; there's no doubt she did the forging. But it's a

terrible state of affairs. I don't want to be the one to accuse her."

"Must you?"

"Well, I'd determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on

Eric's murderer. Primarily to clear myself--for your sake. And, too, for

the sake of justice and right. I'll go now, Joyce, I must think this out

alone. Good-bye, darling. Don't worry. I'll do only what is right,

and--what you approve."

XV

Natalie in Danger

"Natalie! What _are_ you doing?"

Joyce entered Natalie's room, to find her on her knees before an open

trunk. Hats and gowns lay about the room, the wardrobe shelves were

empty, and as the girl was fairly flinging wearing apparel into the

tills, the question was superfluous.

"I'm packing," the model answered, "to go away."

"Why, what has happened? Why do you want to go?"

Natalie rose to her feet. A negligée of pale green Liberty silk fell in

lovely folds about her, her slender arms were bare, and her gold hair

hung in two long braids.

"I can't stand it any longer, Joyce," she said, her voice quivering.

"It's all so dreadful. Suspicion everywhere, and everybody looking on me

as a murderer, and----"

"Now, Natalie, dear, don't talk like that. And, anyway, you can't go. I

don't believe they'd let you----"

"Why not? I'm not under arrest, or surveillance, or whatever they call

it."

"You would be, if you tried to go away. Don't you know we are all

watched--whatever we do or wherever we go?"

"But they don't suspect _you_ any more, Joyce, and you were found just

as near Eric as I was, when--when he----"

"Hush, Natalie, you don't know what you're talking about. Why, now they

suspect Eugene."

"I know they do, but he didn't do it. He'll soon convince them of that."

"I'm not sure that he can. And--suppose he did do it----"

"Kill Eric? Joyce, you're crazy! Why would he?"

"You know, well enough----"

"That he loved you, yes, but that wouldn't make him commit crime. Why,

you wouldn't marry him if he won you in that way."

"Of course, I wouldn't. And that's what's worrying me. If he and Eric

quarrelled about me, and if--oh, I can't tell you just what I mean----"

"I know. If Eugene reproved Eric for his neglect of you, or--for his

attentions to me, it might have led to high words, and Mr. Courtenay is

a very impetuous man, and Eric never would brook a word of criticism--oh,

of course I understand, Joyce!"

"But Eugene must be cleared--he _must_ be, at any cost. Look here,

Natalie, did you know Eric had left you such a big bequest?"

Natalie flushed, and began to walk nervously up and down the room.

"Why," she said, not looking at Joyce, "he told me he'd leave me a nice

little sum, but he said he wasn't going to die till he was ninety, so I

didn't pay much attention to the matter."

"But didn't you know the sum he mentioned in his will? Had he never told

you?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because that will was altered. The sum he wrote for you was made ten

times greater."

"Was it?" Natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time.

"Yes, it was. You knew this?"

"How could I know it? I never saw the will."

"They think you did. They think you altered it."

"Who thinks so?"

"The police and Mr. Stiles. And Eugene asked me about it. I thought I'd

ask you before anybody else did."

"That was dear of you, Joyce." Natalie sat down on a couch, and taking

her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. "Joyce," she said, at

last, "why are you good to me? You think I killed Eric----"

"No, I don't, Natalie----But, oh, don't you see? I don't want to think it

was Eugene, and--I don't know which way to turn."

"You're not in such a terrible strait as I am, Joyce," and Natalie's

blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. "I don't know _what_ to

do--I've no one to ask, no one to confide in----"

"Can't you tell me?"

"You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to

admit she suspects anybody--I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was

some stranger--and, it wasn't--I mean--oh--what am I saying? Joyce, I shall

go crazy."

Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted

animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her

slippered foot tapped the rug continuously.

"You didn't love Eric, did you?" and Joyce looked at the girl, as if

seized with a new idea.

"No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can't help it. He was almost

repulsive to me. Not physically--he was handsome, and most

correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I've only posed

for a few artists, but they were all--you know--impersonal in their

relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first."

"I know it. I saw it."

"And you didn't resent it?"

"I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh,

Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty--but Eugene was

always around, you know--and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that

Eric's attention was taken up with his model."

"I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told

me----"

"What, Natalie?"

"No, I can't tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can't ward it off,

and I can't meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?"

"May I come in?" and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir.

"Yes," Joyce answered. "Come on in. This child says she is going away."

"She isn't!" and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key,

removed it and put it in his pocket.

"Oh," cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of

business. "There's a lot of things in there I want!"

"Can't have 'em," returned Barry, "unless you promise to put 'em back in

that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us."

"Barry, I _must_ go away. I've--I've good reasons."

Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little

figure and put an arm round her.

"Don't speak of going away, Natalie. Don't think of it. It would look

like confession."

"Have you heard about the will?" she asked, an awestruck note in her

voice.

"Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half

the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy

thousand makes no difference to us."

"But you don't think I--forged it--do you, Barry?"

"Of course not, darling. I don't think you ever did a wrong thing in

your life, of any sort or description--and I wouldn't care if you had."

"Wouldn't you care if I had committed--crime?"

"Oh, if you put it that way, I suppose I'd care--but I'd love you just

the same."

"_Just_ the same?"

"Just exactly, darling."

"And you don't think I changed that will?"

"I do not."

"Who did, do you think?"

"How do you know anybody did?"

"Joyce says so."

"Well, never mind about it. If I know who did it, I won't tell you--and

you needn't ask."

"It was a very strange thing for anybody to do, Barry."

"Except you----"

"Yes, except me! Oh, you _do_ think I did it!"

"Hush, sweetheart, don't talk so loud. Now, listen, Natalie. You're in a

tight place. There's no use denying it, you are. Now I want you to

promise me to do exactly as I tell you, in every instance. You trust me

to do only what is best for both of us, don't you?"

"For both of us--yes, Barry." The blue eyes were very sad, but the soft

voice did not falter.

"That's a trump, my own little trump! There are some dark hours ahead,

darling. I don't know just how things will turn. But I'm tying to head

off trouble, and I hope to succeed."

"Barry, Eugene Courtenay didn't kill Eric, did he?"

"No, Natalie, he didn't. That clairvoyant business was all poppycock."

"Then how did she read those questions, Barry? I think that was

wonderful."

"It was, Natalie. I concede you that. She couldn't have used any

trickery there--there was absolutely no chance."

"She really read them, then, by clairvoyant sight?"

"I don't see any other explanation."

"Nor do I. Then, why wasn't her vision of the--the scene in the studio,

the truth?"

"I don't say it wasn't. I don't say but what somebody did slip past

Joyce and get into the room that way. But it wasn't Courtenay."

"I don't think it was, either."

"Of course you don't. Now, my own little girl, remember, you've promised

me----"

"To love, honour and obey you----"

"You darling!" and Natalie's speech was interrupted by an impulsive

kiss. "You blessed angel! But you mustn't say such things, they unnerve

me--and I've a hard row to hoe, my girl."

"Can't I help?"

"Only by doing the things you just promised to do. I want you to, of

course; it was only the suggestion in the phrase you used that drove me

crazy! Some day, sweetheart, you shall promise before witnesses; but

just now, swear to me alone, that you will obey my least dictate in

this--this trouble."

"I will, Barry," and, solemnly, Natalie lifted her scarlet, curved lips

for the kiss that sealed the compact.

"Mr. Roberts is here," said Joyce, looking in at the door; "he wants to

see Natalie."

"Oh, I can't see him!" and Natalie clung tremblingly to Barry, "what

shall I do?"

"Do just as I tell you, dearest. See him, of course. And----"

"Then I'll have to dress. Go on down, Barry, and talk to him till I

come."

Natalie seemed to turn brave all in a moment at Barry's words. Stannard

went downstairs, and Joyce helped the girl to slip into a house-gown.

"A pretty one," she stipulated. "I want him to like me."

"As if any one could help doing that," and Joyce selected a little grey

velvet, with lots of soft lace falling away from the round-cut bodice.

"There," she said, as Natalie hastily twisted up her hair and thrust a

couple of shell pins in it, "you look a dream! a demure little dream.

Natalie, be careful, won't you?"

The girl gave Joyce a long look, and said softly, "Yes--for his sake."

Then she went slowly downstairs.

Bobsy Roberts was talking with Mrs. Faulkner as Natalie entered. He

jumped up, and greeted the lovely girl with an impulsive, "So sorry to

trouble you, but I must ask you a question or two, and I promise to cut

it short."

"What is it?" and Natalie gave him one of her confiding smiles.

Bobsy hesitated. How could he ask a fairy like that, a rude, blunt

question. But it had to be done, and he said, "It's--it's about Mr.

Stannard's will. Did you ever see it?"

Clearly, Natalie was surprised. It seemed to be not the query she had

looked for. But she was calm. After the slightest pause, she said

slowly, very slowly, as if choosing her words, "No, Mr. Roberts, I have

never seen Mr. Stannard's will. Why should I see it?"

"You know he left you a large sum of money?"

"Of course I know that. Mr. Stiles informed me."

"Did you not know of it before Mr. Stiles told you?"

Natalie glanced at Barry, who smiled at her.

"Yes; that is, I knew Mr. Stannard had left me a bequest, but I did not

know how much. Nor did I care!" Natalie lost her self-control. "Do you

suppose I wanted that money? I did not, and I do not! I refuse to take

it!"

"My dear child," said Beatrice Faulkner, rising and going to sit beside

her, "don't say such things. The money is honestly yours----"

"Not so fast, Mrs. Faulkner," said Roberts, amazed at Natalie's excited

words; "we cannot feel sure the money honestly belongs to Miss Vernon

until we know who altered Mr. Stannard's will. Did you?"

He turned quickly to Natalie with his question, as if anxious to get the

miserable business over.

"Certainly not," she replied, with disdain in every line of her face.

"In the first place, Mr. Bobsy--I mean, Mr. Roberts----"