The light laugh that greeted her slip of the tongue served to break the

tension of the moment. "Forgive me," she said, and her dimpling smile of

embarrassment would have turned the head of an anchorite. "You see, I've

heard you called that, and, though I didn't mean to be familiar, I--I got

sort of mixed up."

"All right, Miss Vernon, it doesn't matter at all. One Robert's as good

as the other."

"It's funny to have two names alike, isn't it?" and Natalie's voice

shook a little.

"Yes," and then with an effort, Bobsy returned to the attack. "You know

nothing of the change in the will, then, Miss Vernon?"

"I certainly don't. Did somebody change the text?"

"Yes. It's a mysterious affair. But if you know nothing about it, we

must ferret it out as best we can."

He spoke lightly, but his eyes never left Natalie's face. In fact,

Roberts was by no means asking her because he attached any importance to

her spoken answer, but because he hoped by her expression or by some

inadvertent slip, to learn the truth, even though she tried to conceal

it.

"Mr. Roberts," she said, suddenly, "if I wish to go away from this

house, is there any reason I should not do so?"

"I'd rather you would ask somebody else that, Miss Vernon."

"Whom shall I ask?"

"Captain Steele, or----"

"I am answered. You mean I would not be allowed to go."

"I think it would be better for you to remain where you are. There may

be developments shortly, that will call for your presence, though they

may not affect you seriously. Please don't plan to go away just now,

but, also, don't think my advice more indicative than it is meant to

be."

Roberts went off, and the four people he left behind him sat in a

constrained silence.

At last, Beatrice spoke. "We must all band together to save Natalie,"

she said, very seriously. "There is no use deceiving ourselves; Natalie

is in danger. We know and love her, so we can't connect her in our minds

with any wrong-doing, but to outsiders the case looks different. Let us,

then, face conditions that exist, and plan how we can best help her."

"There's only one way," said Joyce, "and that is to find the real

murderer. I wish I had never let that Orienta mix herself into the

matter. It's her talk that turned suspicion toward Eugene. And we all

know he's innocent. But when we try to find out who is the criminal,

Eugene's name comes up."

"I'm not sorry we had the clairvoyant," said Beatrice, thoughtfully. "As

you say, we all know Mr. Courtenay is innocent, but if there was an

intruder, Orienta explained how he could have entered. You wouldn't have

heard any one pass you in the Billiard Room that night, would you,

Joyce?"

"No, I'm sure not; I was--I was crying--and I gave no thought to anything

but my own troubles."

"Then somebody may have slipped by you--of course, not Mr. Courtenay, but

somebody----"

"I wish that woman had seen the intruder's face," said Natalie,

suddenly. "You know, I believe in clairvoyance--I'm psychic myself--I

wonder--oh, I wonder if I could find out anything--in that way!"

"What are you talking about?" said Barry, impatiently. "Don't you mix

yourself up in those witchcraft things----"

"'Tisn't witchcraft. And, anyway, I've a notion to try it. Don't you

think I might, Mrs. Faulkner?"

"Might what, dear?"

"Find out something about the mysteries that are growing deeper and more

numerous all the time?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," began Beatrice, with a helpless look, but

Barry said, sternly, "I forbid it," and turning on his heel, he left the

room.

XVI

Confession and Arrest

That evening Barry Stannard was not at home, and Natalie declared her

intention of trying to learn something by psychic or clairvoyant

revelation. The three women sat in the Billiard Room, and were for the

thousandth time discussing the tense situation.

"Why, if you want to try it, Natalie, go ahead," said Joyce, wearily.

"It certainly can't do any harm. Barry only objects because he thinks it

will get you into a nervous state----"

"Nonsense! It makes me more nervous to be forbidden to do what I wish.

Come on, let's go in the studio, and try it, at any rate."

"I'd rather not," said Beatrice Faulkner. "In a way, Barry has asked me

to keep you from this sort of thing, and I feel a certain

responsibility----"

"I understand," said Natalie; "and you needn't take any part. Just sit

by and look on."

"No, I'd rather not If you don't mind, I'll go to my room. I've letters

to write, and I'm sure you'll get along better without a disturbing

element."

"I agree with Beatrice," Joyce said, after she had gone. "If you can do

anything at all, you can do it better with only approving minds present.

What are you going to do, anyway? I mean, how are you going to attempt

it?"

"I'm not sure, but I think I can go into a trance, like Orienta did----"

"She didn't go into a trance."

"Not exactly. But she had a sort of trancelike condition come over her.

Well, come on in the studio, and I'll see."

The two went into the big room, and Natalie sat down in a small chair,

directly facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had died. She held in

her hand the scratched and defaced etched picture of herself.

"You sit beside me, Joyce. I somehow feel if you hold my hand it will

help. Now I'll concentrate on the etching, and perhaps there will be a

manifestation of some sort from Eric, or I may have a vision--of the

truth."

Interested, but not very hopeful of success, Joyce sat beside the girl,

and they concentrated their thoughts on the empty chair in front of them

and the man who used to use it.

For ten minutes they sat in silence. Natalie quivered and occasional

shudderings shook her slender frame, but there was no trance or vision.

And then, just as Joyce was about to exclaim that she could bear it no

longer, her nerves were giving way, they heard a sound that was exactly

the same as the sighing groan that had reached their ears when Eric was

dying. Startled, they gazed wildly at each other, then back to the great

armchair. Was his spirit still hovering about the place it had last been

in the flesh? Again they waited, and again they heard that ghastly

sound. Faint, almost inaudible, but unmistakably the voice of the dying

man. It seemed to say "Help!" but so low was the tone they could scarce

be sure. And then the light went out and they were in utter darkness.

Natalie gasped out a faint scream, and Joyce gripped her hand, with a

whispered, "Hush! Don't scream! The servants will come in. I'll make a

light."

She rose and tremblingly made her way across the room to the main

switch. It was turned off, and with a twist, she flashed on the light.

Quickly she stepped out into the hall. There was no one there but Blake,

and as the door had been closed, he had noticed nothing. He said nobody

had passed through the hall.

Upstairs Joyce ran, conscious only of a desire to find some one who

would admit having turned off the light. She ran to Beatrice Faulkner's

room and entered without knocking.

"What is it?" said Mrs. Faulkner, looking up from the letter she was

writing, "Oh, Joyce, what has happened?"

"Somebody turned off the studio lights! Beatrice, who could have done

it?"

"Turned off the lights! What do you mean?"

"Yes, Natalie and I sat there, Natalie thought she would go into a

trance, you know----"

"That foolish girl! Did she?"

"No. But we heard--oh, I can't tell you now! Come with me back there,

do!"

Rising hastily from her desk, Beatrice followed Joyce downstairs and

into the studio. There they found Natalie standing by a table in the

middle of the room, looking with a staring gaze at a large leather case

that was on the table.

"The jewels!" cried Joyce. "Eric's jewels! Where did you find them,

Natalie?"

"Right here on this table. I haven't touched them."

"What do you mean?" and Beatrice looked curiously at the girl. "How did

they get there?"

"I don't know," said Natalie, dully. She seemed as one bereft of her

senses. "When Joyce turned on the lights----"

"Who turned them off?" put in Beatrice, unable to hold back the

question.

"Eric did," said Natalie, her eyes wide with awed wonder. "He--that is,

his spirit, was here--we heard him sigh--and he turned the lights off and

then put the jewels on the table----"

"Oh, Natalie, what nonsense! It couldn't have been Eric's spirit that

brought that box in here!"

"Then who did?"

Beatrice looked at the girl, and said, "Did you do it, Natalie? Did you

know where they were all the time?"

"No, I didn't do it. Neither did Joyce. We sat right there by Eric's

chair--and Eric was present--we heard him, didn't we, Joyce?"

"We did, Beatrice, we surely did. I'd know that voice among a thousand.

It was the same groan--the same cry for help that he uttered that--that

awful night. Can it be that he came back at Natalie's wish?"

"It's too incredible," returned Beatrice. "I can't believe it. Joyce, it

must have been one of the servants, who turned off the light and put the

box in here. One who had stolen it."

"No, Blake saw nobody."

"Was he in the hall?"

"Yes, just where he was that other night. Oh, it's too weird. I don't

know what to think!"

"Maybe some one came in from outside----"

"No, we were as silent as death itself. We would have heard a window or

door open. There was no sound whatever, was there, Natalie?"

"No. Spirits make no sound."

The girl was still in a half-dazed state. Almost in a trance she was,

even now, or, rather, she appeared so.

"I can't stand it," she said. "I feel giddy. I'll go to my room."

She went away, and the two other women stood, looking at each other.

"It must have been Natalie," said Joyce, reluctantly. "You see, she did

know where the jewels were and got them out of some hiding-place when I

ran up to your room."

"But how could she turn off the lights?"

"I don't know, unless she has an accomplice among the servants.

Sometimes I think Blake----"

"No, Joyce, don't implicate Blake. I feel sure he is entirely innocent.

Did you hear that voice clearly?"

"Not clearly, but unmistakably. As I say, it was so still that every

sound seemed exaggerated. But I heard Eric's voice as truly as I stand

here. Explain it, Beatrice."

"How can I? Except to say that there must have been some human agency. I

don't believe for a minute that Eric's ghost returned the jewels."

"But Natalie says he has haunted this studio ever since he died. She

says he will continue to do so, until his murderer is found and

punished."

"I have heard of such things, but I can't believe it in this case."

"What will Barry say? He was so imperative that Natalie should not try

the trance business."

"I know it. But I can't see that she has done any real harm. The jewels

are here--isn't it marvellous, Joyce? How could they have been brought in

without your knowing it?"

"Oh, as to that, I'm sure Natalie produced them after I left the room. I

wish now I'd stayed here. My one thought was to get somebody else to

corroborate the mysterious happenings."

"You're sure the jewels were not here on the table when you went out of

the room?"

"I can't say positively. They might have been. You see, I never thought

of looking for them. I looked about the room to see if any person were

present, and I looked thoroughly, too. But I didn't look on the table."

"Nobody could have come in at the Billiard Room door?"

"No, we sat right there, you know. The case is just the same as on the

night of the murder. That's why Natalie insists that Eric's spirit

turned off the lights and put the jewels on the table."

"Are the jewels all there? Are any missing?"

"I've not looked them over. At a first glance, they seem to be all

right."

"It must be that some one stole them, and just now returned them.

There's no other possible explanation, Joyce. It throws suspicion back

to Mr. Truxton or----"

"Or Eugene Courtenay, you were going to say! Now, he didn't do it,

Beatrice--I know he didn't."

Weary and afraid, full of nameless horrors and uncertainties, Joyce

locked the jewels in her dressing-room safe, and went to bed.

She and Beatrice both felt they could stand no more that night, and

notifying the police of the finding of the jewels must wait until the

next day.

And next day, when Bobsy Roberts came and heard the strange story he was

probably the most bewildered man on the force.

"Tell it all over again," he said, after hearing the tale from Joyce.

Patiently she repeated the details.

"Where is Miss Vernon?" he asked abruptly.

"You can't see her to-day," returned Joyce, "the poor child is

prostrated."

"What did she hope to gain by her trance performance?" asked Roberts,

mulling over Joyce's story.

"She hoped to get some sort of manifestation that would tell her who was

the murderer. She never thought of having the jewels restored."

"Now, Mrs. Stannard, there's no use trying to dodge the issue. We've

been pretty suspicious of Miss Vernon from the first. This last matter

settles it, to my mind. You know that unsent letter found in Mr.

Stannard's desk was without doubt meant for Miss Vernon. You know it

said that she knew where the jewels were hidden. Now, she has proved

that she did know, and she produced them in this hocus-pocus way, to

hide her theft."

"No, no, Mr. Roberts, I cannot believe it! Natalie is not bad enough for

all that maneuvering; nor would she, I'm sure, be capable of it. Again,

granting you're right in suspecting her of making up last evening's

events, how could she imitate Mr. Stannard's voice----"

"Oh, that was hypnotism. Miss Vernon is psychic, and, too, she evidently

possesses the power of hypnotising at will. She made you believe you

heard those sounds. She made you believe the lights went out----"

"Oh, I know the light went out! I couldn't be mistaken as to that!"

"No, but I mean she went and turned them out while you thought she still

sat by your side. Weren't your eyes closed?"

"No, they were wide open. She did not leave her seat. The lights were

turned off by a hand other than hers, whether mortal or spirit, I cannot

say."

"Well, the whole affair was of her invention and carrying out. She is

responsible for your husband's death, Mrs. Stannard. There is no doubt

whatever of Miss Vernon's guilt."

"Just take that back, Roberts," and Barry Stannard came into the

Reception Room where the speakers were sitting. "Miss Vernon is as

innocent as an angel in this business. I'm ready to confess. I killed my

father, and I own up to it, rather than have Natalie suspected. If you

had been any sort of a detective you would have known from the first

that I did it. But you had your head set in one direction and nothing

could change you. You know perfectly well I had motive and opportunity.

It was not premeditated, I did it on the spur of sudden indignation."

"Barry," cried Joyce, "what are you saying? You didn't kill Eric!"

"Yes, I did. I thought it might blow over, and remain an unsolved

mystery. But if Natalie is to be suspected of my crime, I would be less

than a man to keep still. Take me along, Roberts, I give myself up."

Bobsy Roberts stared at him. "My plan worked," he said, slowly. "I

thought it was you, really, all along, but I thought, too, the only way

to get a confession from you, was to seem to suspect Miss Vernon. As you

say, no man could sit still and see a woman bearing the blame that

belongs to him. You came in through the Billiard Room?"

"Yes," said Barry. "Mrs. Stannard didn't see or hear me pass her. I went

on through to the studio. I accused my father of persecuting Miss

Vernon, and he turned on me in a furious rage. We are both impetuous, we

said little, but those few low words roused all my worst nature, and,

snatching up the etching needle, I stabbed him, scarce knowing what I

did. It was all over in a moment, and I had but one thought, how to

escape from that room. I flew across and turned off the lights as a

precautionary measure, and then----"

"Then how did you get out?" asked Bobsy, breathless with interest.

"I was behind the hall door, when Blake opened it, and after he turned

on the light, I slipped behind him and Mrs. Faulkner out into the hall.

They were so bewildered at the sudden flash of light--and--what it

revealed, that they didn't see me at all."

"Barry!" exclaimed Joyce, "I would have seen you if you had done that."

"No, you had eyes for nothing but Eric's wounded body. You couldn't have

torn your gaze from that if you had wanted to."

"What did you do after leaving the room?" asked Roberts.

"I went out and walked about the lawn. My head was spinning round from

excitement and shock at my own deed."

"You stayed near the house?"

"Yes, Halpin came out and found me. He told me what had happened and I

went right back into the studio."

"You have kept this secret so long. Why?"

"Surely you can understand. I love Miss Vernon. I want to marry her. Can

I ask her to marry a murderer?"

"You mean if she knows it?"

"I mean if she knows it. I wanted to keep the secret forever, I hoped to

do so. When she was suspected last week, I felt sure she would be

cleared. Then when the will was seen to be changed----"

"One moment. Did you change the will?"

"I did."

"What for?"

"Because of what has just now happened. If I had to confess, of course,

I could never marry Miss Vernon. And in that case, I wanted her to be

provided for."

"That will cannot stand."

"I don't care anything about that. I've confessed now, my life is

practically ended. I can will my own fortune to Miss Vernon."

"And the jewels? Did you return those last night? And the emeralds to

Mrs. Stannard last week?"

"No," said Barry, slowly. "I don't know anything about the jewels.

Perhaps there was a robber, after all. Say a jewel fancier----"

"Or say a little girl who was fond of jewelry."

"No," and Barry shook his head, "Miss Vernon knew nothing of the

jewels."

"But the letter to her----"

"That letter wasn't to her, it was to some woman my father knew and

feared. He never would have given the emeralds to Natalie. The idea is

preposterous."

"That must be found out. Then the rigamarole the clairvoyant told was

true, about a man coming into the studio----"

"Yes, it was all true. I was the man."

Barry's voice was infinitely sad and despairing. Joyce looked at him

pityingly. His white face was drawn and his eyes were full of grief.

"I think, Mr. Stannard, if all you've told me is true, I must ask you to

go with me to Headquarters."

"I am ready," said Barry, simply, and the two men went out.

XVII

Alan Ford

Joyce went up to Natalie's room and found the girl sitting up in bed

trying to eat some of the dainty breakfast a maid had just brought her.

A cap of lace and tiny rosebuds confined the gold hair, and a breakfast

jacket of pale blue brocade was round her shoulders.

"Joyce," she said, staring at her with big blue eyes, "where did those

jewels come from?"

"I don't know, Natalie. It's the most mysterious thing I ever heard of.

But listen, dear, I've something to tell you. Barry has confessed----"

"What!" Natalie almost shrieked the word. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Barry has confessed that he killed his father. You

suspected him all the time, didn't you?"

"Did you?"

"Oh, I couldn't--and yet who else could it have been? I did think of

Barry at first, and then I decided it couldn't be."

"And then you suspected me?"

"Oh, Natalie, how can I say? I did and I didn't. I had no notion which

way to turn. But now, even though he says so, I can't believe it was

Barry."

"Barry! Of course it wasn't Barry!"

"But he confessed, Natalie."

"Of course he confessed. He couldn't help it!" As she spoke, Natalie was

getting out of bed, and seating herself at her dressing table began to

do up her hair. "If you don't mind going, Joyce, I want to dress. Run

along now, I'll be down very soon."

"What are you going to do?" Joyce looked at the girl uncertainly, for

she was brushing her hair with unwonted vigour. Her eyes were

tear-filled, but her face showed a brave, determined expression, and she

hurried her toilet as if important matters impended.

"Go now, Joyce," and rising, Natalie pushed her gently toward the door.

Some minutes later, Natalie came downstairs, in a trim out-of-door

costume. Her smart little hat was veiled, and she had a motor coat over

her arm.

"May I take the little electric, Joyce, and drive it myself?"

"Why, yes, of course. Where are you going?"

"First, to see Mr. Roberts. And if I'm not home for some hours, don't be

alarmed. I may go to--well, I may take a long drive. But I'll be back to

dinner."

In a moment Joyce saw the little electric coupé whirling down the drive.

Straight to Headquarters Natalie went, and found Bobsy Roberts.

"Barry Stannard didn't kill his father," she said, without preamble.

"You had no right to arrest him."

"But he confessed the crime, Miss Vernon."

"Don't you know why he did that?" The lovely eyes fell before Bobsy's

surprised glance.

"No, why? If he is not the criminal?"

"Of course he isn't. He said all that to--to save me."

Bobsy looked sharply at her. "Is that so? And how am I to know that

you're not telling me this to save him?"

"You can't know! That's just it. You've not wit enough to know what is

the truth and what isn't."

"Thank you for the implied compliment."

"Don't be sarcastic. This isn't the time for it. Please help me, Mr.

Roberts."

It would have been a far less impressionable man than the detective who

could have refused the pleading glance of those pansy-blue eyes.

"How can I help you, Miss Vernon?"

"This way. Tell me of some detective, some really great one, who can

unravel this tangle. I didn't kill Mr. Stannard. Barry didn't, either.

But he says he did, to save me. Now, I want some one who can find the

real criminal and so clear both Barry and myself."

"And you expect me to recommend somebody?"

"Oh, I do, Mr. Roberts, I do. I know you're big enough and honest enough

to admit that you are at the end of your rope, and if you know of any

one--I don't care how much he costs, I must have him--I _must_! Tell me,

won't you?"

"Yes, I'll tell you, because I can't refuse you, but also because I know

he will only verify our conclusions. You must know, Miss Vernon, we've

had our eye on young Stannard all the time."

"Oh, I thought you were sure the criminal must be Mrs. Stannard or

myself."

"We did think that at first--you see, we have to think what the evidence

shows."

"Well, never mind that now. Who is this man you have in mind?"

"Alan Ford. He's not one of the story-book wizards, but he's a big light

in the detective field, and he can find out if any one can."

"Where is he?"

Bobsy gave her the New York address of the detective, and Natalie rose

to go. Then, acting on a sudden impulse, "Come with me," she said.

"To New York?" cried the amazed Bobsy.

"Yes. It's only a couple of hours' run, and I don't want to go alone."

"Why, I'm glad to go, if I can arrange it."

"Do arrange it. I want you so much."

Now, when a little flower-faced girl looks pleadingly out of heavenly

colored eyes, and her red mouth quivers with fear of being refused, few

men have the power to say no. Anyway, Bobsy hadn't, and he managed to

"arrange" it, and in a few moments they were on their way.

"I thought you'd want to see Stannard," he said.

"No, I'd rather not, until I see if I can get the great Mr. Ford."

The little car ate up the miles, and soon they were in the crowded

streets of the city.

Alan Ford was in his office, and received them with his characteristic

quiet dignity.

The tall, big man looked taller than ever as he stood beside the petite

model, his grey eyes looking down into her eager blue ones.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, kindly, and smiled at her because he

couldn't help it. The winsome face made everybody smile from sheer

gladness of looking at it.

"Can you take a case, Mr. Ford? An important murder case?"

"The Stannard case?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to say yes, but I am just starting on a Western trip, and I

shall be gone at least a month."

Great crystal tears formed in Natalie's eyes and one rolled down her

cheek. She couldn't possibly help this, the teardrops were beyond her

control. But they stood her in good stead, for Alan Ford couldn't bear

to see a woman cry. It unnerved him as no danger or terror could do.

"Don't, please," he said, impulsively.

"But I'm so disappointed! You see Barry Stannard has confessed----"

"What! Young Stannard confessed! Then what do you want of me?"

"Because Barry didn't do it. He confessed to save me."

"And did you do it?" The question was in the tone of a casual every-day

inquiry, but few people would have replied anything but the truth with

Alan Ford's gaze upon them.

"No, I didn't. You _must_ come up there and find out who did do it. Oh,

can't you manage somehow?"

The coaxing face was brightened by a sudden hope, and Alan Ford couldn't

bring himself to dash that hope from the lovely beseeching girl.

"It makes a difference, now that they've arrested Stannard," he said,

slowly.

"Oh, of course it does! Arrested him wrongfully, too. You see, he had to

say he did it, or I would have been arrested."

"Tell me the main facts," said Ford to Bobsy. And in straightforward

terms, Bobsy told the great detective all that the force had been able

to accomplish.

"It would seem," said Alan Ford, speaking with deliberation, "that the

criminal must be one of the four people most nearly connected with the

dead man. His wife, Miss Vernon here, Barry, the son, or Mr. Courtenay,

the lover."

"I don't like for you to use that term," said Natalie, gently. "For Mr.

Courtenay and Mrs. Stannard could not be called lovers during Mr.

Stannard's life."

"Good for you, for standing up for her. Well, I will postpone my Western

trip for a few days at least."

"He's coming," said Natalie, briefly, as in the late afternoon she

arrived at The Folly.

"Who is?" asked Joyce, "and where have you been?"

Joyce and Beatrice were having tea in the Reception Room, for by common

consent all the household avoided the Studio.

The servants shuddered as they were obliged to pass it or go through it,

and Natalie declared it was haunted.

"I've been to New York," the girl replied, as she flung off her motor

coat, and threw herself into a big armchair. "Give me some tea, please,

and I'll tell you all about it. I've engaged Alan Ford."

"Who is he?" asked Beatrice, fixing a cup of tea as Natalie liked it.

"He's a great, big, splendid detective--I mean big in his profession--and

he's also the biggest man I ever saw, physically."

"Well, I am glad!" exclaimed Joyce. "I think Mr. Roberts has done all he

could, but I don't think he has much real cleverness. Do you, Beatrice?"

"No. And yet, we oughtn't to judge him too harshly. He's had a hard time

of it, for every new bit of evidence he gets, or thinks he gets, seems

to point to some one of the family here."

"I know it," agreed Natalie, "but Alan Ford will find the real murderer

and then we'll all be freed of suspicion."

"What's that, Natalie? Alan Ford!" And into the room strode Barry

Stannard.

Natalie's face shone with welcome. "How did you get here?" she cried; "I

thought you were arrested!"

"Even a murder suspect can get bail if he has money enough," said Barry,

"and there were other reasons. They wouldn't swallow my confession

whole. But never mind that now; tell me, did you say Alan Ford is

coming?"

"I did, Barry, dear. I went and got him. And just in time, too, for he

was going West at once. But he's staying over for us, and he's coming

out here to-morrow morning. Isn't it fine!"

"Splendid! You're a trump, Natalie. You know, girl, don't you, why I

confessed?"

"Of course I do. I was sure you couldn't make the police believe you,

and then I knew it would swing back to me. So I had to take desperate

measures, and I did."

"Barry," said Joyce, "your attempts to get suspicion turned your way, or

any way, are too transparent. You scratched up the window frame to make

it appear a burglar had entered there, and nobody believed it for a

minute."

"I know it, I'm no good as a deceiver. But, oh, Natalie, don't think I

suspected you, but I knew others would, and did, and I was frantic. And

I vowed I did it, in an effort to distract their attention from you. But

your going yourself for Ford, clears you in every one's eyes, and now

he'll find the man. It was some man who came in--it has to be. There is

no other explanation--positively none."

"It wasn't Eugene!" whispered Joyce, her face drawn with new

apprehension.

"Of course it wasn't," said Beatrice, soothingly. "Don't worry over

that, Joyce, dear. Mr. Wadsworth has exculpated Mr. Courtenay."

"But nothing seems sure," Joyce said, with a sad shake of her head.

"Well, it will be sure, once Alan Ford gets here," declared Barry. "I

can hardly wait to see him."

Alan Ford arrived the next morning. When he entered the Reception Room,

his tall, commanding presence seemed to fill the whole room. With

perfect courtesy, he greeted Joyce first, and then the others, and

finally seated himself, facing the group.

Though not to be called handsome, his face was fine and scholarly, and

his iron grey hair made him look older than his fifty years. His manner

was quiet, but alert, as if no hint or lightest word could escape his

attention.

"Let us waste no time," he began, "for my business engagements are

pressing, and what I do here must be done as quickly as possible. I can

promise you nothing, for the accounts I have read of this case make it

seem to me that your local workers have done all that could be expected

of them. The whole affair is mysterious, but sometimes a new point of

view or the opinions of a different mind may lead to something of

importance."

"You know the main details, then?" asked Barry.

"The main details as told in the papers, yes. Also, I've seen Mr.

Roberts this morning, and I've discussed matters with him and with

Captain Steele. But never mind those sources of information. I want the

stories of each one of you here. And, if you please, I want them

separately, and in each instance, alone. Otherwise, I cannot take the

case."

"Why, of course, Mr. Ford," said Joyce, "we will agree to anything you

stipulate. Please direct us, and we will obey."

"Then first, I will talk with Mr. Stannard, and later with the ladies.

Also, I must ask that the interviews be in the Studio, the room where

the crime took place. This is not only because it is more appropriate,

but I can think better in a large room. This little low-ceiled box of a

room doesn't give me space to think!"

Ford's winsome smile took all hint of rudeness from the words, and as he

rose, his great height and proportionate bulk seemed to bear out his

statement, and the assumption that his mind was of wide scope and

far-reaching limits, made it seem plausible that he felt stifled in a

small or low room.

"But you haven't yet been in the studio," said Natalie. "How do you know

it is big and high?"

"It was so described in the newspaper accounts. That is why I took an

interest in the case. Also, I am willing to admit, I paused for a glance

in at the studio door, as I came into the house, and before I entered

this room."

"A queer man," thought Natalie. "Why should a great detective talk about

such foolish details as large or small rooms? Why should he take an

interest in a case because of them?"

The others had similar thoughts, but no comment was made on the

visitor's peculiarities, save that Beatrice Faulkner seemed to feel

obliged to defend her husband's architectural ideas.

"The rooms are carefully proportioned," she said, pleasantly, but with a

touch of pride in the fact. "The architect who designed them knew just

what measurements were most effective from a technical and artistic

point of view."

"The rooms are all right," said Mr. Ford, smiling kindly at the speaker,

"the trouble is with my own foolish vagaries."

Then led by Barry, they all went into the studio.

Alan Ford looked around him, with the most intense admiration expressed

on his fine face.

"Magnificent!" he said. "Mrs. Faulkner, your late husband was indeed a

genius. I have never seen a more perfectly proportioned room, or one

more appropriately and effectively decorated. The windows are marvels

and the furniture is in every respect fitting."

"Oh," said Joyce, "Mr. Stannard furnished the room. It was not built for

a studio."

"It is, then, the joint product of two geniuses. I know of Mr.

Stannard's reputation."

For a few moments Alan Ford seem to forget the errand on which he had

come. He was, it was plain to be seen, deeply impressed with the

beautiful apartment, and his dark, deep-set grey eyes roved about from

pictures to statues, from furniture to decorations with admiring and

approving gaze.

"Have you a picture of Mr. Stannard?" he said at last.

"Yes," and Joyce took a photograph from a small chest full of portraits.

"This is a photograph of a painting done by himself. It was made about

four years ago, but he changed little since."

Ford took the card and studied it. He saw a noble head and brow, fine

features, and a general air of self-appreciation that was, however, not

to be called conceit. The mouth had a few weak lines about its corners,

but on the whole it was the presentment of a man of genius.

"Have you a photograph of the subject in life?" he asked; "not taken

from a painting."

"Yes, but not a recent one," replied Joyce. "Except for some little

snapshots," and she put a half-dozen small pictures in the hands of the

detective.

"Better yet," Ford said, and he carefully scrutinized the papers.

But all the pictures of Eric Stannard gave the same impression of power,

self-confidence and dominance.

XVIII

Questions and Answers

Still studying the face of the artist, Alan Ford indicated his desire to

begin the successive interviews with the members of the household. All

but Barry left the room, and the young man sat down near the absorbed

detective.

"Your father was a handsome man," Ford said, as he laid aside the

pictures.

"Yes," agreed Barry. "I wish I might have been more nearly his type."

"Physically, you mean?"

"Yes, and mentally, too. I admit my father's moral weakness, yet he was

not a bad man, as men go. His artistic temperament was responsible for

his being blamed far more than was just or right."

"That is probably true," said Ford, seriously. "To a man of that

sensitiveness to beauty many things seemed right that were not. Now, Mr.

Stannard, will you please tell me everything about the actual facts as

you know them, regarding the hour or half hour in which the crime was

committed? Don't shade or colour your story to shield Miss Vernon, for

such a bias will only prejudice my judgment against her. Tell me exactly

the events as they followed one another to your positive knowledge, and

nothing more."

"Very well, Mr. Ford, I will do just as you ask. But let me say this

first; there are three suspects----"

"Excuse me, there are four suspects."

"If you count Mr. Courtenay, yes. But the three in the house, my

stepmother, Miss Vernon and myself, have been definitely suspected and,

probably, are still. So I want to say, that if one of us must remain

under suspicion, let it be me. It is impossible that a woman did this

deed. So investigate along the line of Courtenay or myself, but as I

feel quite sure you can get no real evidence against him, use me for a

scapegoat, while you are finding the real criminal."

"Then you are not the criminal, Mr. Stannard?"

"If I were, would I be apt to tell you?"

"You couldn't help telling me. Not in words, but in manner, in glance,

in intonation, in a dozen ways, over which you have no control."

"Have I told you so?"

"You have not. I know positively you did not kill your father. But, go

on, please, with your recital."

"Well, after dinner, Miss Vernon and I sat on the terrace----" Barry

paused. "By Jove," he broke out, "how can I tell you the straight truth?

It sounds exactly as if Natalie did it!"

Alan Ford almost smiled at the boy's impetuous exclamation, but merely

prompted him, "Yes. Go right on, remember the truth will help Miss

Vernon more than any falsehood possibly could. Have you never heard of

seemingly incriminatory evidence of one leading straight to another?"

"All right, then. We sat there a long time, and then we talked

about--about getting married. I was bothered about it, for Dad had vowed

if I married Natalie, he'd cut me out of his will."

"That's why you altered the will in Miss Vernon's favour?"

"I didn't alter that will! This is man to man, now, Mr. Ford. I'm

telling you the truth. I didn't change that will, and Miss Vernon

didn't, either. I don't know who did."

"We'll find that out. It won't be a great surprise to learn the truth

about that."

"How do you know it won't? Do you know who did the forgery?"

"I think so. Or perhaps there wasn't any forgery. But go on, my dear

boy, with your story. I told you, you know, I've not much time to give

you."

"All right. We talked about getting married, and I got awful mad and I

said if Father didn't stop his nonsense with her, I'd kidnap her and run

away. And Natalie knew that if we did that, Dad would cut us both out of

his will,--and she isn't a bit mercenary, it wasn't that."

"What was it, then?"

"Why, only that we're--why, hang it all, decent people don't do those

things."

"Decent people don't commit murder, either," said Ford, very gravely.

"No, I know that. Well, Natalie begged me not to quarrel with

father,--said she could manage him herself. And I thought she meant by

being sweet to him, and all that, and I got mad at her, and--I walked off

and left her there."

"Without a word?"

"No. I told her I was going to give the dogs a run. I was going to, too,

but as I walked away, I fell a-thinking, and I just strolled round the

place alone."

"Whom did you see?"

"Nobody at all. Maybe Courtenay or Mr. Wadsworth or some of those people

passed me, I don't know. I was just thinking about Natalie, and then

Halpin came running out and told me to come in the house, my father was

ill."

"And you went right in?"

"Yes, and when I saw what had happened, I felt afraid Natalie had killed

him--and I ran out and tried to make the window frame look as if a

burglar had broken in. I suppose it was foolish."

"It certainly was. But I don't blame you. It was natural to try to

shield the girl you loved from possible suspicion."

"Possible suspicion! If you had seen the situation! There were the two

women, both shivering with fear and terror, and there was the dead or

dying man between them! Why, Mr. Ford, it wasn't suspicion, it was

certainty that one or the other had stabbed him!"

"And why have you changed your mind since?"

"Partly because of that clairvoyant person. I don't believe in those

things, but--well--do you?"

"I do not. But I can see how she would turn suspicion away from the two

women in question. Who sent for the clairvoyant?"

"Mrs. Stannard did, but, first, the Priestess, as she likes to be

called, wrote and asked for a séance."

"She did! How did she know she was wanted?"

"She didn't know. Said she read about the case, and got interested."

"Ah, a professional medium."

"She said not. Said she only offers to help in cases that appeal

especially to her."

"H'm. Well, then she turned all your thoughts toward Mr. Courtenay, I am

told."

"But she didn't intend to. I mean, she described a man who entered the

room, and who stabbed my father, but it was Bobsy Roberts' questions

that made anybody think of Eugene Courtenay."

"How?"

"Oh, he kept saying, Bobsy did, 'Has he a pointed beard?' and 'is he

tall and dark?' and such leading hints. The woman said 'Yes' every time,

but I don't believe she knew what she was talking about."

"And her mysterious reading of those sealed papers? You see, I know all

the main facts, I just want your opinions."

"Well, you've got me there! That woman _had_ to read those by

supernatural power, because there's no other explanation. I know a bit

about legerdemain and parlour magic and there was no opportunity

whatever for any trickery. We wrote the things, sealed them, Bobsy

Roberts collected them and handed them to her. Then in the same instant

he switched off the light, and it wasn't half a minute before she was

reading them aloud to us."

"In the dark?"

"Absolutely dark. And she hadn't moved from her chair, for her voice

came from the place she was sitting."

"Ventriloquism?"

"Oh, no. Not a chance. Anyway, where could she go to have a light? The

studio doors were all closed, and--why, of course, she didn't leave her

chair, for when Bobsy switched on the light, suddenly, there she sat,

eyes closed, hands quiet, composed and unruffled. No, sir, there's no

explanation for that reading business but honest-to-goodness second

sight! And, she gave us back our envelopes intact, seals unbroken."

"Well, but, Mr. Stannard, if she had power to do all that, and I don't

doubt your word in the least particular, isn't it strange that she

couldn't see exactly who that murderer was?"

"Suppose it was some one she didn't know?"

"But oughtn't her powers of second sight, if she has such, reveal to her

the identity of the man? She didn't know what was in your envelopes, but

she told you. Why didn't her supernatural powers inform her the man's

name?"

"I don't know, Mr. Ford. I'm only telling you what I saw and heard."

"That's all I want." And after a short further conversation, Alan Ford

dismissed Barry and asked Mrs. Stannard to come to him next.

"It will be hard for you, I know," he said gently, as he placed a chair

for her, "but I want you to tell me just what occurred at the time of

Mr. Stannard's death. Tell only your own part, only what you, yourself,

did or saw."

"You suspect I killed my husband?" said Joyce, in a choking whisper.

"It will depend on your story, what I suspect. Do not be afraid and do

not distrust me, Mrs. Stannard. I want to help you, in any case.

Whatever the truth, I can help you, and I want to assure you of that."

The infinite gentleness of his tone, the kind light in his eyes and the

utter sympathy evident in his whole manner reassured Joyce, and in a low

voice she began.

"I have told it so many times, I know it by heart. I was in the Billiard

Room with Mr. Courtenay. I will not explain or defend the fact that I

was there alone with him, but merely state that I was. He left me, and

as I was heartsick over my own private and personal affairs, I buried my

head in a sofa-cushion and cried. Not a real crying spell of sobs and

tears, but an emotion which I endeavoured to restrain or control that I

might meet others without causing comment. As I bowed my head there, I

am positive I heard my husband talking to some woman."

"Miss Vernon?"

"I thought so at first, now I am not sure it was she."

"Mrs. Faulkner?"

"Oh, no. She was in the Drawing Room at the other end of the house. No,

it must have been either my imagination or some woman who had somehow

entered and who afterward disappeared."

"Go on."

"I heard him say, or I thought I did, that she could have the emeralds,

but he refused to marry her."

"Yes," a little impatiently. "I know about that. Tell me what happened."

"Then I heard a strange, gasping sound, and I rushed in----"

"Was the room light then?"

"No, dark. The light went out that instant or a moment before. I pushed

in, and I heard a sound opposite--on the other side of the room. At

first, I thought it was my husband, but it was a quick, frightened

breathing, and then the light flashed on and I saw it was Miss Vernon,

huddled against the wall--no, against a small table, and looking scared

to death. Do you wonder that I thought she had done something wrong? For

just then I caught sight of my husband, stabbed, dying--oh, I knew in

that first glance that he had been murdered. Then, I saw Blake and Mrs.

Faulkner at the other end of the room. They were shocked and frightened,

too, but I paid no attention to them, I looked right back to Eric. And

he--well, the footman did ask him who did it--and he raised his hand and

said 'Neither Natalie nor Joyce.'"

"Are you sure that's what he said?"

"I am sure now. At the time he said it, he spoke so thickly I could

scarcely understand him, and I thought he said 'Natalie, not Joyce.' But

we had a clairvoyant here, and she said he said 'nor' and then I

realized at once that that was what he did say!"

"Meaning, of course, that you two women were innocent, and that some

other hand had struck the blow?"

"Yes, that was what he meant."

"And, do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that he would have said that to

shield you both, even if one had been guilty?"

Joyce Stannard turned white. "I--I never thought of that," she stammered.

"Perhaps he would."

"But you feel sure, at this moment, that it was not Miss Vernon who

killed your husband?"

Joyce looked utterly miserable. Her eyes were frightened like those of a

hunted animal. But she said, bravely, "I feel sure of that, Mr. Ford.

Miss Vernon is not one who could do such a thing."

"She doesn't seem to be. Will you go now, Mrs. Stannard, and please send

Miss Vernon in here?"

Joyce went slowly out of the studio, and in a moment Natalie Vernon came

in.

"Am I afraid of you?" she asked, as she sat facing Alan Ford. "Need I

be?"

Her questions were not prompted by coquetry, that was evident. Her tone

was serious, and she looked at the detective wistfully.

"No, Miss Vernon," he answered, seriously, "you have no reason to be

afraid of me, but I will tell you frankly, you have great reason to fear

the consequences if you tell me anything but the exact truth. Pardon me,

if that seems a rude speech, but great issues are at stake and

prevarication on your part to the slightest degree would baffle all my

plans and hopes."

"I will tell the truth," Natalie sighed, "so far as I know it. But

sometimes it's very hard to be sure of what is true."

"Yes, I know it. Now, Miss Vernon, just one word about the time and

scene of the crime. When you came into the studio, because you

heard--what did you hear?"

Alan Ford's manner was calculated to set the nervous girl at her ease,

and his kindliness made her calm and un-self-conscious.

"I heard Eric moan."

"Did you know at once it was Mr. Stannard?"

"Oh, yes. It sounded like him, and I suppose he was in there."

"What did you think ailed him?"

"I don't believe I thought of that. I just heard the curious gasping

sound, as of somebody choking, and I ran in. I didn't think,--I only

wondered what was the trouble."

"And when you entered the room was it light or dark?"

"Honestly, I don't know, Mr. Ford. I've been so quizzed and questioned

about it, that I can't seem to remember clearly."

"But the lights went out?"

"Yes, just as I entered, or a minute before."

"Well, then, what was the first thing you saw?"

"Must I tell that?"

"Yes, and truly."

"Then, the first thing I saw, as the light flashed on,--and it rather

blinded me at first, you know. You see, I had been sitting on the

Terrace, which was almost dark, then I entered the dark room, and so

when the light came suddenly, it dazzled me, and I naturally looked

straight ahead of me. I saw Mrs. Stannard, behind her husband, and near

the Billiard Room door."

"As if she had just come in from that room?"

"I think so,--now. I didn't think so then. I thought she had killed him,

and had sort of stepped back, you know----"

"Why did you change your mind?"

"Oh, because of Madame Orienta. Haven't you heard about her? She cleared

up the mystery as far as Joyce,--Mrs. Stannard and I are concerned."

"Yes, I've heard all about her. You believe in her supernatural powers?"

"Oh, yes. Only I don't use that word. I call them psychic powers."

"But it was supernatural to read the sealed messages as she did?"

"Well, I suppose it was. I suppose clairvoyance is supernatural, but we

psychics prefer other terms. You know I'm a psychic."

"Ah, is that so? And you can read sealed messages in the dark?"

"No, indeed, I can't. I wish I could. But perhaps I shall be able to

some day. I can--Mr. Ford, you believe me, don't you?"

Natalie looked at him, and a slight flush came to her pale cheek as she

saw his slightly quizzical expression.

"Miss Vernon, I believe all you've said, so far. I want to continue my

confidence in your statements, so please be very careful not to

exaggerate or over-colour the least mite. Now, just to what extent do

you _know_ you're a psychic? Not imagine or hope or think, but _know_."

"Well, I only know that I've heard the voice of Mr. Stannard's spirit

since his death, as clearly as I heard his mortal voice that night he

died."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am sure, Mr. Ford."

"Tell me the exact circumstances."

XIX

Ford's Day

"Mrs. Stannard and I were alone, here in the studio----"

"Where was Mr. Stannard?"

"I don't know. He wasn't in the house."

"Was Mrs. Faulkner?"

"Yes, but she wouldn't stay here with us. She doesn't approve of any of

these psychic investigations, but she doesn't say much against them, out

of respect to Mrs. Stannard's and my wishes."

"Go on."

Natalie told the story of hearing faint groans, as of a dying man, and

of the sudden extinguishing of the lights.

"One moment, Miss Vernon. When the lights went out, the room was quite

still, was it not?"

"Deathly silent, Mr. Ford. Joyce and I were breathless, listening for

further sounds of any sort."

"And, tell me, did you hear the click of the switch as the light went

out?"

"Yes, I did. I heard it distinctly."

"And did that mean nothing to you?"

"Why, what could it mean?"

"It meant, Miss Vernon, that the light was switched off by a

mortal,--flesh and blood hand. Had it been supernaturally extinguished

there would have been no sound."

"I heard it,--I'm sure I heard it. But I think the spirit of Mr. Stannard

haunts the whole room, and it was he who turned the light off."

"By means of a material switch?"

Natalie looked a little uncertain. Varying expressions passed over her

face as she thought it out. Then she said, "Don't spirits ever use

material means?"

"Not to my individual knowledge," returned Alan Ford gravely. "I fear,

Miss Vernon, your belief in the spiritual influences at work in this

affair is about to be rudely shattered. Now, did you hear any other

sound,--a click or thud,--after the light went out?"

"No. You see, Joyce,--Mrs. Stannard jumped right up and ran across the

room and turned on the light."

"Turned it on? It had been really turned off, then?"

"Oh, yes. And she turned it on. Then she opened the door and Blake was

in the hall, where he belonged. He had seen no one and had heard

nothing."

"I must have a chat with Blake. And Mrs. Faulkner, she knew nothing of

it all?"

"Not till Mrs. Stannard told her. She ran at once to Mrs. Faulkner's

room----"

"Where is that room?"

"At the other end of the house, on the third floor. And there she found

Mrs. Faulkner writing letters. And Mrs. Stannard told her and they came

down stairs together. Well, and after Mrs. Stannard left the room, of

course, I looked around, and there was the case of jewels on the table."

"Where did they come from? How did they get there?"

"The spirit of Mr. Stannard placed them there," said Natalie, solemnly.

"You may scoff, Mr. Ford, you may suspect Blake of being mixed up in it,

but you're all wrong. The studio doors were locked----"

"While you and Mrs. Stannard were in there?"

"Yes, I locked them myself. All three. There are but three, you know.

See, the one to the front hall, the outside one to the Terrace and the

one to the Billiard Room. I locked them, and the windows were fastened

too. Nobody mortal could have come into that room."

"So it would seem. Now, who else has these leanings toward spirit forces

beside you? Who sent for the clairvoyant lady?"

"Nobody. That is, she wrote herself to Mrs. Stannard, asking if she

might come."

"You liked her? You believed in her?"

"In Orienta? Oh, yes. She is not an ordinary person,--I mean she is

refined, educated, cultured,--as correct in every way as we are

ourselves. She's not a professional medium, you know."

"I know. And did Mr. Barry Stannard want her to come?"

"No; he strongly opposed it."

"And Mrs. Faulkner?"

"She deferred to Mrs. Stannard's wishes. But she had no faith in her. Of

course, after Orienta read the sealed letters, Mrs. Faulkner had to

believe in that, she couldn't well help it."

"No. Now, Miss Vernon, when you heard the groan or sigh as if the spirit

of Mr. Stannard were expressing itself, where did the sound come from?"

"It seemed to come from that chair,--the chair he died in. Joyce and I

sat facing it----"

"Your backs to the hall door, then?"

"Yes, but nobody could open that door, it was locked. Mrs. Stannard

unlocked it when she ran out of the room."

"You're sure of this?"

"Positive. We've gone over the scene a dozen times or more."

"That seems to let Blake out, doesn't it? Well, that's all for the

present, Miss Vernon, and thank you for your courteous attention. Now,

there's no one to interview but the servants."

"Mrs. Faulkner? She expects you to talk to her, I think."

"What could she tell me? She wasn't in this part of the house at the

spiritual séance, and as to the moment of the crime, she tells no more

than Blake. However, I'll see her for a brief interview. It's always

well to get all the accounts possible."

Natalie left the studio, and in a few moments Beatrice Faulkner came in.

"Just a question or two, Mrs. Faulkner," said Ford, "I know you people

are all nearly distraught with these strange and sudden developments.

But, tell me, what do you think of Miss Vernon's story of the spirit

manifestations in this room?"

"I think it was all the girl's imagination, Mr. Ford. She is not only of

an exaggerated artistic temperament, but excessively nervous and

susceptible to hallucinations."

"She is all that, I think. Now, please tell me, very honestly and very

carefully, exactly how Mrs. Stannard looked and acted when she ran up to

your room to tell you of the strange occurrence in the studio."

"She was terribly excited, Mr. Ford, and she could scarcely speak. She

stumbled up the stairs----"

"Why, did you see her?"

"No, I heard her. I was at my writing desk, and the house was still.

Then she flew into my room, without knocking----"

"Is it her custom to knock?"

"Oh, yes, she always does. And she begged me to go down stairs with her,

and I did. The rest you know?"

"Yes, and a strange tale it is. How do you suppose the jewels came to be

on that table?"

"I cannot say," Beatrice looked sad. "There seems to be only one

explanation. That whoever had them or knew where they were, placed them

there."

"And how did the bearer of the box get into the locked room?"

"I can't imagine. The only thing I can think of is that Natalie didn't

lock the door as thoroughly as she thinks she did."

"Mrs. Faulkner, tell me this. I assure you I will not use your

information unless absolutely necessary. Do you suspect the footman

Blake of any connivance--or of any wrong doing in the whole matter?"

Beatrice Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, "No, Mr. Ford, I do not. I

think Blake a thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant."

"And who is the criminal?"

"That I cannot say. I am, as you know, merely a visitor, who chanced to

be here at this unfortunate time. I have hesitated to express my

opinions lest I do harm to the innocent or retard the quest of the

guilty. I can only answer your questions in so far as they are not

leading up to suspicion of any of my friends."

"That is the right attitude, Mrs. Faulkner. I thought there was no

necessity for troubling you at all, but one or two minor points I prefer

to ask of you rather than Mrs. Stannard. Do you know the identity of

'Goldenheart'?"

"I imagine her to be one of Mr. Stannard's early inamoratas. He had

many, and, moreover, I should not be surprised to learn that he called

more than one by that name. You know there was a small gift found in his

desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. It

has occurred to me that the Goldenheart of that matter, and the one to

whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person."

"That may well be. You have a logical mind, Mrs. Faulkner. I say this to

you, because I want your help. If I should tell you that I do not

suspect Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon or Barry Stannard, would you then

be willing to assist me in my investigation?"

Beatrice Faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in

a low tone, "Mr. Courtenay?"

"Hush! Don't mention names. Let us close this conversation right here,

and I will tell you at some other time what I want you to do for me."

Beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, Alan Ford

remained alone in the studio for an hour or more.

Then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined

the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with

no suggestion of a detective.

In the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of Eric

Stannard's papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at

this work.

At tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked

of the visit of Orienta and her wonderful performance. Over and over it

was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion Alan Ford grew more

and more interested.

"Tell me of her costume," he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard

about every other bit of possible interest.

"It was beautiful!" exclaimed Natalie. "A long, full robe of a sort of

sage green----"

"What material?" asked Ford, and Barry looked at him in surprise. What

kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture

of a costume?

"Why, it was silk, I think,--yes, heavy silk, wasn't it, Joyce?"

"That, or a silk poplin. It was not a modern, modish gown at all; it was

like a draped shawl."

"Drapery hanging from the shoulders?"

"Yes," Natalie answered, her mind so intent on giving Ford the right

idea, that she didn't think of the queerness of the question.

"Double skirt?"

"Yes--or, that is, a skirt, and then an over drapery in full long folds.

Oh, it was lovely!"

"Are you apt with your pencil, Miss Vernon? Could you draw a rough

sketch of that gown?"

"I can't but Mrs. Faulkner can. She's good at sketching draperies.

Here's a paper pad, Beatrice. Will you draw it for Mr. Ford?"

"Certainly," and taking the paper, Beatrice rapidly sketched an

indication of Orienta, in her flowing robe.

"That's just right," said Natalie, "but the folds were fuller, I think."

"Never mind," said Ford, "this will do. I only wanted to get a mental

picture of how she looked," and tearing the picture into strips he

tossed them into a waste basket.

The talk drifted to the house and its architecture.

"The whole house is a gem," said Alan Ford, enthusiastically, "but the

staircase is a marvel. Nowhere in this country have I seen its equal.

Your husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner?"

"For years. He took great pride in building this house, as he intended

it to be a masterpiece."

"Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of it? I should like to see

them. Architecture is one of my hobbies."

"No, I haven't the plans, Mr. Ford."

"Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with the title deeds. Have you

them, Mrs. Stannard?"

"No, we never had them. I never thought about them."

"Doubtless they are among Mr. Stannard's belongings. They must have been

given to him. It doesn't matter. I oughtn't to take time to look at

them, anyway. But one thing I do want to see, and that is the picture of

Mrs. Faulkner that Mr. Stannard was engaged on at the time of his death.

I'm told it is an example of his best work. May I have a glimpse of it?"

Beatrice Faulkner looked a little flattered at this request, but she

said only, "Certainly, Mr. Ford. It is in the studio."

They all went in to see it, and Barry arranged the portrait on an easel

and adjusted a light for it.

"It is indeed splendid," said Ford, in genuine admiration. The portrait

was excellent and lifelike, but more than that it was a work of art.

Beatrice, in a gown of deep ruby velvet, with the great staircase for a

background, was at her very best. Her face, always handsome, was imbued

with a fine spiritual grace, and she looked the embodiment of happiness.

The whole conception was, perhaps, a little idealised, but it was a

magnificent portrait, and a stunning picture.

"I'm so glad you have it, Beatrice," said Joyce, softly. "You've been so

good and dear, and have done so much for us all ever since Eric's death,

I'm happy for you to have this remembrance of him."

"I'm glad, too," and Beatrice looked at the reflection of herself

through misty eyes.

Bobsy Roberts came in while they were looking at the portrait, and he,

too, was charmed with its beauty.

"That staircase makes a wonderful setting. I'm a fancier of staircases,

and I think this one beats any I ever saw."

"A fancier of staircases, what do you mean?" asked Natalie.

"Yes, I've studied architecture, more or less, but the stairs have

always especially interested me. I've just run across an old book,

called 'Staircases and Steps,' and it's most interesting."

"I agree with you," said Alan Ford. "And the staircase here is a gem.

That's why I wanted to see the plans of the house."

"Mayn't we see them?" asked Bobsy, turning to Joyce.

"Why, I haven't them, Mr. Roberts. Perhaps they're among my husband's

belongings, but I've never seen them."

"You see," observed Ford, stepping out into the hall, "it's the

wonderful proportion of one part to another that makes the beauty of it.

The stair-well, clear to the roof, the arcaded hall, the noble

high-ceiled studio and this little low-ceiled Reception Room, fitted in

just here, make up a splendid whole. Did not your late husband feel

this?" Ford added, turning to Beatrice.

"Yes," she replied, briefly, and then Bobsy tore himself away from the

fascinating subject of architecture to ask Alan Ford if he had made any

progress in his investigations.

"I have," replied Ford. "I have found out a lot of things that seem to

me indicative. But it all hinges on whether there are spiritual

influences at work or not. It seems to me, if the spirit of Mr. Stannard

could return to earth and manifest itself in any way, it would prove----"

"Prove what?" asked Mrs. Faulkner, as the detective paused.

"Well, I may be foolish, but it would seem to me to prove that he wanted

us to stop these investigations and let the matter remain a mystery."

"You really think that!" exclaimed Bobsy, as his estimation of Alan

Ford's genius for detective work received a sudden setback.

"I think I agree with Mr. Ford," said Beatrice, thoughtfully. "If Eric

wanted us to continue our inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave."

"Oh, Mr. Ford," and Natalie gave a little gasp, "do you really think,

then, it was Mr. Stannard's spirit that I heard in the studio? Do you

think I am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real manifestation?"

"Those things are hard to tell, Miss Vernon. But I am going to ask the

privilege of spending to-night alone in the studio. Then if any

demonstration occurs, I shall, as I told you, think there is reason to

believe----"

Ford's pause was eloquent of deep feeling. Truly the man was in earnest,

whether he was right or not.

"May I not stay there with you?" asked Roberts, a little diffidently.

"No, please. I want to be alone. I shall lock myself in, and I must ask

not to be disturbed in any way."

"I wish I could stay with you," and Natalie sighed. "But I suppose you

wouldn't want me to."

"No, please," said Ford, gently. "I must be alone."

XX

On the Staircase

At Ford's request, the evening was spent without reference to the matter

that was uppermost in every mind. At dinner the detective was merely a

pleasant and entertaining guest. Afterward, in the Drawing Room he

proved himself a good talker and a good listener, and the conversation,

on all sorts of topics, was casual and interesting.

It was nearly midnight when Ford bade them good night, and went to the

studio to hold his vigil. The others followed him in, Joyce asking if he

would like any refreshment served during the night.

"No," he replied. "It will not be so very long until daylight. And, too,

perhaps nothing will happen, and I may fall asleep. Don't worry about

me, Mrs. Stannard, I shall not be at all uncomfortable. See, I shall sit

just where Miss Vernon sat the other night. Right here, facing the chair

in which Mr. Stannard died. Thus, I have my back to the hall door, and

the North window, but I shall make sure that all are securely locked,

and then if any manifestation occurs, I shall have every reason to be

sure it is of supernatural origin."

"And that would make you give up the case?" asked Beatrice,

incredulously.

"I think so," returned Ford. "I should probably leave here to-morrow."

"Well, of all queer detectives!" said Barry Stannard, as they went from

the room and heard the click of the key as it was turned in the door

behind them.

True to his word, Alan Ford examined with minutest care every door and

window. He made sure no lock or catch was left unfastened, and then, the

lights burning brightly, he took his seat just where he had said he

would, facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had met his fate. Also,

he faced the two doors that led respectively to the Billiard Room and

the Terrace. This left more than half the room behind him and out of his

line of vision. But the detective paid no attention to that part of the

studio, and rested his contemplative gaze on the great armchair which

had helped to stage the tragedy.

The hours went by. Alan Ford scarcely moved from the easy, relaxed

position he had taken at first. He closed his eyes for the most of the

time, now and then slowly opening them for a moment.

His left hand, lying on his knee, clasped some small object.

It was shortly after three o'clock in the morning, when there was the

sound of a click and the lights went out.

The studio was in absolute darkness.

Ford rose quickly and crossed the room to the light switch by the hall

door. He knew the position of the furniture, and felt his way by the

chairs. As he did so, he heard a long, gasping sigh, and a faint cry of

"Help!"

By this time he had reached the switch and turned it on. The sudden

flash of light showed no one in the room save himself, but not pausing

to look about, he unlocked the hall door, passed quickly through and ran

up the first steps of the stairs.

On he went to the second great square landing, and there he paused. He

did not stand still, but stepped about on the landing, making

exclamations to himself, and breathing heavily. He leaned against the

baluster, tapping on the newel post with his fingers. Then, he sat down

on the lowest step of the third or upper division of the flight. He sat,

tapping his foot against the stair, he even whistled a little under his

breath. He seemed anxious not to be silent.

There was a low light in all the halls, and occasionally Ford leaned his

head over the baluster and commanded a view of the hall below.

Half an hour passed, and then Joyce Stannard appeared from the hall

above. She wore a boudoir gown and slippers, and her weary eyes

betokened a sleepless night.

She started with surprise at sight of Alan Ford on the stairs. But he

made a motion requesting her to be silent, and taking a bit of paper

from his pocket he wrote:

"Say no word. Go back to the hall above and remain there, but out of

sight of this spot, until I summon you. Overhear all you can, but on no

account let yourself be seen."

Joyce read the strange message, and going back up the few steps she had

descended, she sat on a hall window seat, concealed by a light curtain.

Then Alan Ford, with a short, sad sigh, stood up and approached the

panelled wall of the staircase. Down the flights the panels of course

slanted, but on the landing they were in level row.

Placing his lips to the wall itself, Ford said in a clear low whisper,

"Will you come out?"

From behind the wall he heard an agonised moan.

"It would be better," he said, gently. "Do come."

Another moment passed, and then, a panel of the wainscot slid open and

Beatrice Faulkner stepped forth onto the landing.

"You know all?" she said, and her great despairing eyes looked into

those of the detective.

"Almost all," he returned, and his glance at her was infinitely sad.

"You killed Stannard?"

"Yes," she said, and swayed as if she would fall to the floor.

Ford assisted her to stand and then gently aided her to a seat on the

stair where he had sat a moment since.

Beatrice sank to the step and Ford closed the panel she had left open.

He did not look into the place to which the panel gave entrance, for he

knew what it was. It was the space above the Reception Room. He had seen

when he entered the house that since the Reception Room and the studio

were next each other and yet there was five or six feet difference in

the height of their respective ceilings, that space must be a sort of

loft or waste room. It showed from none of the sides. Both hall and

studio were high ceiled. The staircase well reached to the roof. There

was no explanation of the discrepancy but a waste space the size of the

Reception Room and about six feet in height.

This space, of course, abutted on the studio, the hall, the stairs, and,

on the other side, the outer or Terrace wall.

In the studio the balcony ran along the wall at about the height of the

stair landing on the other side. Ford guessed at once that ingress to

that waste space must be had from the studio or the stair landing or

both. He now was sure that panels from both opened into it.

As he closed the panel, he noted that there was no secret or concealed

fastening. Merely an ordinary flush spring catch, inconspicuous but not

hidden.

Ford turned to the woman on the stairs. He sat down beside her. "Tell me

about it," he said, and his voice was so gentle, his face so sad, that

Beatrice turned to him as to a friend.

"There is little to tell," she said, wearily. "It is the story of a

great love, a love too big and strong to be conquered by a weak-willed

woman. I tried--oh, I tried----"

"Don't give way, Mrs. Faulkner, just tell me the main facts. You knew

Mr. Stannard years ago?"

"I was his first love. We were schoolmates. I always loved him--more than

loved him. I worshipped, adored him. He loved me,--but he was always

fickle. He loved every woman he saw. Then,--he married--his first wife, I

mean, and I thought I should die. But never mind the past. I married,

and I tried to forget Eric. My husband built this beautiful home, but he

had financial troubles and couldn't keep it. Eric Stannard bought it,

and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married my friend Joyce. I tried

to be reconciled, but the demon of jealousy tore my very heart out. I

gave over this house to them and went away. A portrait of myself was to

be part of the purchase price, and--even though I knew it would be acute

torment to see Eric happy here with Joyce, I came to stay a month and

have the picture painted. As I feared, the necessarily intimate

association between the artist and myself quickened my never-dying love

for him, until I was almost frantic. I could have stood it, though, had

it been only his wife. But when he fell desperately in love with the

model, I resented it for Joyce and myself both. But I had no thought of

killing him,--don't think that!"

"It was done on a sudden impulse, then." Ford was watching her closely.

He knew that her enforced calm might give way at any instant and he

strove to speak quietly and lead her gently on to a confession.

Moreover, he trusted that Joyce was listening, as he had asked her to

do. Thus the confession would be witnessed.

"It was this way," and Beatrice looked piteously into his kind eyes.

"Mr. Wadsworth asked me that night to marry him. We were in the Drawing

Room, as you know. I wouldn't say yes, for I still had a faint hope of

winning Eric. It was absurd for me to think it, but I was desperate.

After Mr. Wadsworth left me, I sat a moment in the Drawing Room, and

then I resolved to go to Eric, by the secret passage, of which only he

and I knew, and beg him to put Joyce away and take me. I say this

without shame, for I was--and am, still, so madly in love with him, that

I had no shame regarding it, and would have suffered any ignominy or

humiliation to win him. I went through that small space; it is not

really secret, but no one has ever noticed it, and I went through to the

studio, and stepping in the room, on the little balcony, I saw Eric

below me, gazing at the etching of Natalie with an adoring look. He bent

down and kissed the picture, and then I descended the stairs and spoke

to him. I told him that Natalie loved Barry and hated him. I urged him

to divorce Joyce and let her marry Eugene Courtenay and I begged him to

marry me. He laughed at me! I shall never forget that laugh! But that

wasn't why I killed him. It was because he turned again to that picture

of Natalie and into his face came a look that I had never seen there. A

look of love such as I had never been able to call forth on his face, a

worshipping passion that transcended all love I had ever dreamed of. And

that he felt for a little girl who hated him. Jealousy maddened me, and

snatching up an etching tool I marred the wax beyond recognition. He

turned on me, his face livid with rage. The contrast,--the look of love

he had for the girl, the look of venomous hate he gave me, bereft me of

my senses. No, I do not mean I did not know what I was doing,--I did

know. I fully meant at that moment to kill him, and then to kill myself,

that we might at least die together. I should not have thought of

killing him if I hadn't chanced to have that tool in my hand. Nor should

I have wanted to kill him but for his scorn of me and his love for her.

The two together drove me wild, and I stabbed him in a moment of fierce

passion that was love, not hate. Then, as I was about to draw forth the

needle and stab myself, I saw that he was not dead. He looked at me, and

I couldn't say it was with hatred. I think--I honestly think--that he

gloried in my deed,--you cannot understand,--it is a strange idea, but I

think he realised at last the depth of my love and appreciated it.

Anyway, I read that in his face, and I couldn't bring myself to leave a

world that still held him. I didn't dare remove the needle, lest it

bring about his death,--I didn't dare remain and be found there with him.

My mind fairly flew. I thought so fast and so clearly, I concluded to

escape by the panel and return quickly through the hall and thus coming

upon him, apparently innocently, save his life."

"You crossed the room," Ford prompted, for the speaker's strength was

failing.

"Yes, I crossed the room, as deliberately as if nothing had happened. I

turned off the light, that I might make good my escape. I flew through

the panelled space, and in a few seconds I was out at this end, here on

this landing and down the stairs. I saw at once that Blake had heard

something, but whether it was a sound from Eric, or the noise of my

departure I did not then know. I spoke to the man,--and the rest you

know."

"You were surprised when the light was turned on to see the two women

there?"

"I was dumfounded. I couldn't think at first what it would mean to me--or

to them. I had no thought of allowing them to be suspected of the crime,

but circumstances were too strong for me. They were found there, near

the dying man,--I had, to all appearances come in from the other end of

the room,--naturally they were suspected. And then reaction had come; no

longer was I keyed up by that torment of jealousy, that spur of scorned

love. I had time to think,--even when all were wondering and questioning,

I had time to think. And I concluded I would never confess unless I was

obliged to do so, to save some one else. I decided to devote every

energy and use every effort to divert suspicion from all in the

household. It was I who really arranged for----"

"For the clairvoyant," said Ford, as Beatrice paused from sheer weakness

of breath.

"Yes, you understand that?"

"You hired her, instructed her to write to Mrs. Stannard, and you told

her what to say."

"Yes, I wanted her to make it appear that the murderer was a man who had

entered through the Billiard Room. I meant for the man's identity to be

absolutely unknown. But they managed to fasten it on Mr. Courtenay and

my plan failed utterly."

"And then?"

"Then I had about decided to tell the truth. When they arrested Barry, I

quite decided. And then you came. I knew that was my death knell. But

when you said if the spirit manifestation appeared in the studio

to-night--that was a trap, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, it was a trap. I knew whoever had been playing

'spirit' by the use of the panelled space, would do it again to-night at

my words, and I felt sure it would be you. I am sorry----"

"I believe you are, Mr. Ford. I know from your whole attitude you are

sorry for me. Otherwise, I could not have told you all this as I have

done. You are more like a father confessor than a detective. It helps a

little to know you are sorry for me----"

"How did Orienta read the papers? The pocket-light method?"

"Yes. She is very clever; I've known her for years. She is not a medium

at all. I persuaded her that to do as I asked would save innocent people

from being suspected. Of course, she didn't know I was guilty."

"And you were 'Goldenheart'?"

"Yes. It was Eric's old pet name for me. He wrote that letter to me,

giving me the emeralds if I would cease asking for his love. He said I

knew where the jewels were, because he always kept them in the panelled

space,--that's what we called it,--and Joyce did overhear him saying to me

in the studio practically what he had written in the letter. Had she not

been so wrapped up in her own heart trouble, she would have heard it

clearly. Of course, too, that little golden heart that was bought and

never presented was meant for me."

"You told Orienta to say that Mr. Stannard said 'Neither Natalie _nor_

Joyce.'?"

"Yes, for I really think that was what he did mean to say. He wouldn't

implicate me, even with his dying breath, but he tried to clear them. He

was a wonderful man, Mr. Ford. Not a good man, perhaps, but a brave one.

He would have defended any or all of us, but he had no chance. My love

for him has been the mainspring of my whole life. Instead of forgetting

him, I grew more madly in love with him year by year. I had no business

to come here, and let him paint me. Those hours when I posed for him

were the happiest I have ever known. That's why the portrait is of a

happy woman. I hoped against hope that I could yet win him back. But I

couldn't--I can only follow him."

The quietness of Beatrice's voice had lulled any suspicions Ford might

have had of her intent, and when she drew from the folds of her bodice

an etching needle, exactly like the one that had killed Eric, and drove

it into her own breast, Ford wheeled suddenly and grasped her hand,--but

too late. The deed was done.

At his exclamation, Joyce ran down from the hall above, where she had

been listening to Beatrice's story. She sank down beside the wounded

woman and took the drooping figure in her arms.

"Forgive----" moaned Beatrice. "Joyce,--forgive,--I--I loved him so."

"Yes,--yes," soothed Joyce, scarce knowing what she said. "What can we

do, Mr. Ford? Oh, what can we do?"

"Nothing, I fear. Call help. Shall I ring?" Ford hastened to the nearest

bell he could notice and rang it. Immediately people began to gather,

servants, family,--and all sorts of contradictory orders were given. But

with his finger on the pulse of the dying woman the detective tried to

learn yet more facts. "The will," he asked, bending above her. "Who

changed it?"

"Eric himself," Beatrice answered, "that's why--oh, Eric!" Her faced

beamed with a strange radiance, and then sinking back in Joyce's arms,

Beatrice Faulkner breathed her last.

The next day Alan Ford declared he must hasten away as his engagements

were pressing.

"But tell us more of your work," implored Bobsy Roberts, "give us a few

moments more."

"And tell us about that clairvoyant woman," said Barry. "If she was a

fake, how did she read those papers in the dark?"

"I realised, before I came up here at all," said Ford, "that there had

to be some secret means of entrance to the studio. I see now, it was

never meant to be secret. The architect made the Reception Room ceiling

lower than the studio ceiling, because it was a smaller room and he

observed due proportions. This left a space there, but it was not

concealed or hidden. The catches on both doors are merely small ones and

inconspicuous but not concealed. Mr. Faulkner left all the house plans

in that loft and Eric Stannard knew of it. He chose to conceal his

jewels there as being a convenient place. Only he and Mrs. Faulkner knew

of the space, but that was merely a chance happening. He, in no sense,

kept it a secret. When I read the accounts in New York papers I felt the

case must hinge on another entrance of some sort. When I reached here I

saw at once that there was a discrepancy in the heights of those two

ceilings, and I worked from that. I was sure the spirit manifestations

were made possible by human means working through that concealed space,

and I found I was right. I assumed it was probably Mrs. Faulkner who

played the spirit as she refused to show the plans of the house, and my

theories, based on those plans, left her free to do all she did do,

without being discovered. I found she could have placed the jewels on

the table that night and returned to her room through the little loft,

and be seated at her desk, writing, when Mrs. Stannard reached her room.

She said she heard Mrs. Stannard coming up stairs, but as the door was

shut and the stairs thickly carpeted, this was unlikely. So I assume she

was expecting her. All facts pointed to the guilt of Mrs. Faulkner, but

they were by no means obvious. So, when I said if spirits came to the

studio last night I should drop the case to-day, I meant because it

would be solved. But Mrs. Faulkner thought I would give it up as

unsolvable, so she played 'spirit' again. I had in my hand a tiny mirror

of the sort that shows what is passing at one's back. I heard, as I sat

there, the soft opening of the panel in the studio balcony, and I knew

she was coming down the little stair. I heard her click off the light,

and just as she did so, I caught a glimpse of her in my mirror. So I

went out at the hall door, snapping on the light as I passed, and went

up on the grand staircase, knowing I would head her off, and have her

practically penned in there. Mrs. Stannard found me waiting there, and I

arranged for her to witness the confession that I knew must come. I did

not foresee that Mrs. Faulkner would take her own life, but perhaps it

is as well. There was no happiness or peace for her in this world, it

was better she should expiate her own sin. Poor soul, she was a victim

of a love that proved too great for her human nature to strive against.

As to the will, I felt sure Mr. Stannard had made that change himself.

It looked like his writing, and I felt sure neither Miss Vernon nor Mr.

Barry Stannard would have done it."

"And you picked out the truth from the maze of probabilities and

suspicion and false evidence----" Bobsy looked at the great detective in

an awed way.

"I gained most of my information and formed most of my conclusions from

my talks with each one separately. I am a fairly good judge of

character, and I saw at once neither Mrs. Stannard nor Miss Vernon was

guilty. They were both uncertain and indefinite in their testimony. They

scarcely knew even the sequence of events at the time of the tragedy; if

they had been telling untruths, they would have been positive in their

statements. Also, I saw at once Barry Stannard and Miss Vernon more than

half feared each other guilty and each was ready for any sacrifice or

effort to save the other. This let them both out, for neither could be

guilty and suspect some one else! Mr. Courtenay had practically no real

evidence against him, so it came back to Mrs. Faulkner. I talked to her

enough to strengthen my suspicion in that direction and then tested her

by the night in the studio. She proved herself the source of the

'spiritual' manifestations, and showed how she did it. That left only

the matter of getting her confession. I feel deep pity for the poor

woman; she led a sad, miserable existence because of a mistaken love.

Also, I must admit that she was of a different stamp from the people

here. Mrs. Faulkner was capable of strong passion that did not stop at

crime. I judge the rest of you would not be, and I do not think I am

mistaken in that."

Alan Ford looked around at the pure sweet face of Natalie, the noble

countenance of Joyce, and the brave boyish frankness that shone in

Barry's glance and sighed as he thought of the smouldering fires in the

deep eyes of the woman who was conquered by her own evil passion.

"But tell us about the sealed reading," insisted Bobsy, as Ford rose to

go.

"Oh, yes," cried Natalie, "how was that done?"

"One of the tricks of the trade," said Ford. "You know there are dozens

of ways to read sealed writings."

"Yes, but what way did she use?"

"This way. You know, I insisted on a full description of her dress. When

I found it was of full pattern and made of an opaque material, I

understood. You see, if a message is written with ink, and if the paper

is slipped, unfolded, into a moderately thin envelope, the writing can

be read with ease in the dark by holding an electric pocket flashlight

behind the envelope. Orienta, the room being darkened, drew the loose

folds of her gown over her head, and thus shielded, took a little

flashlight from her pocket, read them all, by its aid, then returning

the light to her pocket, remembered the questions and spoke them out,

both with and without a light. The second time, I believe, she read the

first ones in the dark and the others in the light. There were no

signatures, but she had learned each one's hand-writing from the first

lot. The thing is simple, and is the most mystifying of all sealed paper

readings."

"Will it always work?" asked Roberts, greatly interested.

"In total darkness, yes. Go into a dark closet and try it. Of course,

Orienta's drapery served to aid her and also to conceal the light from

her audience."

"And all the answers she made up,--or Beatrice had told her," said

Natalie, thoughtfully.

"Yes," said Ford. "And now I must go. I shall hope to meet you all again

some day, and if I can tell you anything more you care to learn about

these make-believe wizards, I shall be glad to do so."

He went away, and Barry and Natalie went off by themselves, to rejoice

in the fact that all veils of suspicion were lifted from them and that

they had long years ahead to help one another to forget the past and

make a radiant, happy future.

Joyce had a quiet knowledge that some time in the coming years she, too,

would again know happiness, and all united in a sad pity for the

beautiful but misguided woman whose hand wrought the tragedy of

Faulkner's Folly.