She gasped. "Do you mean to say that's _all_ you have left?"

"Everything. But my rent is paid for a month in advance."

"Have you any debts?"

"Naturally. Two hundred dollars or so, that's all."

She came up to him and worked her finger into his buttonhole. "Francis

Granthope," she said solemnly, "are you really--ruined?" Her eyes

danced.

"Oh, I've got enough junk in my chamber to pay that off, I expect, but

it won't leave me exactly affluent."

She burst into a delicious chime of laughter. "Why, it's positively

melodramatic, isn't it? I never happened to know any one who was

actually bankrupt before. Of course it must happen, sometimes, but

somehow I thought people could always raise some money, even if they had

to scrimp. How exciting it is--aren't you nervous about it? Why, I'd

be frightened to death! And yet it seems terribly amusing!"

He laughed with her. "I can't seem to take it very seriously, while

you're with me, at any rate. To tell the truth, I haven't begun to think

about it yet. Of course my fees have always been in cash, and

consequently there's nothing coming in. And I've always spent every

cent I made, and a little more. But I've been broke before, and it

doesn't alarm me, except that, of course, I can't depend upon living by

my wits in quite the same way as I would have, if I hadn't chucked that

sort of thing. If I didn't care how I did it, I suppose I could make a

hundred or so a week easily enough."

She listened and grew more serious. "Of course that's all over. But

you've got to have money! Let's see what I have with me." She took her

purse from her bag and emptied it upon the desk. Several ten- and

twenty-dollar gold pieces rolled out.

Granthope shook his head sharply. "No, don't do that, please! I can't

take anything, even as a loan, you know. I can't spend a cent I haven't

honestly earned--I never shall again, if I have to starve, which I don't

intend to do, either. You must know that."

"But from me--isn't that different?"

"Not even from you!"

"Of course you mustn't. I see. It's better not to, yet somehow I could

have forgiven you if you had let me help a little at first. I don't

exactly see how you're going to live. Why, it's awful, when you come to

think of it, isn't it? It really is serious. What a goose I've been!

I'm afraid I shall worry about you now. Well, you'll have to have lunch

with _me_ to-day, anyway. That's only fair, if I invite you."

"On the contrary, I'm going to invite you to share my humble meal."

"All right; let's be reckless then, if you _must_ be proud and show off.

It will be fun. I never economized in my life, but now I'm going to

show you how. Hand over all your wealth, please."

She counted it out upon the desk, a five dollar piece, six silver

dollars and two halves and a few nickels. "Now," she said, "how long

can we make this last--a week?"

"I've lived for three weeks on that much, often, and paid for my room."

"Something's bound to happen within ten days, I'm sure. If you see

nothing ahead at the end of a week, I'll put you on half-rations, and

till then I'll allow you a dollar a day. Shall I keep it for you?"

He was delighted to have a treasurer.

"Now we'll take fifty cents and go to some nice dairy place and sit on a

stool."

But, as he insisted upon a place where they could talk in quiet, they

went, instead, to a shady little restaurant around the corner, and there

they seriously discussed his prospects.

He did so whimsically. It was really absurd that he, in full health,

six feet high and a hundred and seventy pounds in weight, at

twenty-eight, could do nothing, so far as he knew, to support himself

honestly. He had been a parasite upon the vanity of fools. After much

casting about for ideas, she sent for an _Examiner_ and began to search

through the "Help Wanted; Male" column.

The Barber's College she rejected first, although he pointed out the

advantageous fact that it offered "wages while learning." Canvassing

for books or watches they both agreed was not interesting enough.

Boot-black--he raised his eyebrows in consideration, she shook her head

energetically; it was too conspicuous, with these open-air sidewalk

stands. She turned up her nose, also, at the idea of his distributing

circulars. The Marine Corps tempted him next--but no, she couldn't

think of sparing him for three years, not to speak of a girl in every

port. She asked him what a job-press feeder was; he didn't know, but he

was sure he couldn't do it--it would be all he could do to feed himself.

Profiler--if he could make as good a profile as Clytie's now, he might

get that job. But it appeared to be something connected with a

machine-shop. He looked at his white hands and smiled. Weavers,

warpers and winders--equally mysterious and impossible. The rest of the

wants were for mechanics and tradesmen. Clytie dropped the paper,

disappointed.

He declined to let the matter disturb him, as yet. He had no fear of the

future, and the present was too charming not to be enjoyed to the full.

"What I've always wanted to do," he said, "is to study medicine. If I

could get money enough ahead to put myself through a medical school, I

wouldn't mind beginning even at my age. I think I'm fitted for that,

for I've cultivated my powers of observation and I know a good deal

about human nature, and I've read everything I could lay my hands on.

Some day I shall try that."

"Very well, Doctor Granthope, I shall make up my mind to being a

doctor's wife, and being rung up at all hours, and being alone half the

time."

"I wasn't aware that I had proposed yet," he answered jocosely.

"Why, people don't propose, now, do they? Not real people. What a

Bromide you are!" she laughed joyously.

"I'll have to disprove that. Let's spend the rest of the afternoon out

of doors and get acquainted! Then when I have a good chance I'll ask if

you'll be my wife. Do you realize how little we know of one another?

It's ridiculous. Why, you may have a middle name for all I know! You

may eat sugar on canteloupe or vinegar on your oysters; you may be an

extraordinary mimic; you may have escaped sudden death; you may have

been engaged when you were seventeen; you may sulk; you may mispronounce

my favorite words! How do I know but you like magenta and Germans and

canary birds, and wear Jaegers; and object to profanity and nicknames,

and say 'well-read' and read the _Philistine_!"

"Good Lord, deliver us! That's a devil's liturgy!" In denial of his

categories she held him out her palm. "Oh, you should know me by that

right hand! You're supposed to be a trained observer of symptoms and

stigmata. _You're_ the one who needs investigation! Do you realize

what a risk I am running? Why, I haven't yet heard you speak to a dog,

or answer a beggar, or seen you eat a banana, or watch a vaudeville

show--and all four are necessary before I really know you."

She bent her head in mock humility and looked up at him from beneath her

golden lashes. "You needn't be afraid, Francis; if you tell me what

your rules are, I'll obey them. If you _really_ want me to wear

magenta, I shall be terribly fond of it, and I shall only think I've

been stupid all my life to loathe it, and be so glad to learn. But I

hope you don't!"

"If you'll allow me five cents for dessert," he said as seriously, "I'll

order bananas, at the risk of losing you for ever."

They had begun now to revel in the piquancy of the situation. Their

meetings had, up to this time, seemed fatal in their dramatic sequence,

fraught with meaning, working steadily up to the climax in the studio.

There had been few scenes between them, but those scenes had been

cumulative in feeling. They had played their parts like actors in a play

of destiny, a play whose plot had been closely knit and esthetically

economical in incident and dialogue, each act developing logically the

previous situation. Now that the tension was released, and the reaction

had come after an histrionic catastrophe, each looked at the other with

new eyes, seeking the living person under the tragic mask.

In this delightful pursuit they came upon such fantastic surprises, such

rare coincidences, such lovely similarities of whim and taste and

prejudice, and, above all, such a rare harmony in their points of view

on life, that their talk was as exciting as if they had just met for the

first time. The talk ran on, back and forth, lively with continual

revelation. It came out, not in dominating trends of thought, or

principled opinions, but in many charming lesser exemplifications of

their mutual fastidiousness. She reached for a plate, and his hand was

outstretched to give it to her at precisely the same instant--their

fingers touched, and their eyes spoke in delighted surprise. He

discovered that she, like himself, took no sugar in her coffee, and on

that consanguinity of taste an imaginative structure arose, to be

destroyed with equal delight when he found that she was resisting a

temptation to use cream. She quoted spontaneously a line from Stevenson

that, for no reason whatever, he had always loved: "For to my mind one

thing is as good as another in this world, and a shoe of a horse will

do." She knew his language, he fulfilled her test. Such were their

tiny psychological romances at table.

They had reversed the usual order of progression in their friendship, or

rather Fate had reversed it for them. Had they become betrothed in the

ancient manner without previous knowledge of one another, their position

could have been no more alluring and delicate, for, strangers physically

and, to an extent, mentally, their intimacy of spirit was as certain and

irrevocable as a blood relationship. They played with a series of

little embarrassments.

To-day they had changed their characteristic parts; he was timid, as he

had never been timid with women. She was bold, as she had never been

bold with men. The primitive woman had come to life in her. They were,

however, both of that caste which can notice, analyze and discuss the

subtleties of such a condition while still enjoying it to the full. It

delighted them to glean the nuances and overtones of that harmony. It

was a new experience to Granthope to be with one who understood and was

sensitive to the secondary and tertiary thrills of delight without

having become hyper-refined out of vibration with the primal note of

passion. That sharing of the wonderful first fruits with her, mentally

as well as physically and spiritually, kept his appetite for her whetted

to a keen edge. He could not get enough of her from sight or hearing,

and each touch of her hand became a perilously exciting event, a little

voyage of poetic adventure.

They were both learning swiftly the art of loving, but, though one goes

far in the first sensational lessons, one can not go all the way, no

matter how reckless is the attempt. Passion has to be adjusted to

tenderness, and affection to experience, or there is discord. For her,

perhaps, that love held more of faery, more freshness and delicious

abandon, more mystery, for her nerves had never been dulled by contact;

but for him there were newer and truer wonders as well. He had taken

another degree in sentiment, and the initiation was as marvelous for

him, an apprentice, as for her, a neophyte. And, in that sacred, secret

lodge, when the time came, she would jump in a single intuitive moment

to his level and surpass him.

Already she was tuned to the emotional pitch; she would notice every

false move, every mistake in his devotion, as well as if she had been

with him past-master in the rites of love. She could already teach him,

and already she began to hold him back sensitively, to linger over every

transient mood of feeling, every minor phase which women, in that stage

between wooing and winning, so care to taste to the last sweet drop.

Every reflex, every echo, she would bid him answer to, indefinitely

prolonging, now that she was sure of him, the fineness of the reward of

her moment, delaying the definite end. He had taught her the rapture of

a caress--she would teach him the excitement of a smile, a tone, a

gesture.

They lingered long at the table and then went forth into the sun. The

cable-car carried them, still bantering, to the gate of the Presidio,

and they set out rollicking across the golf-links. The open downs

stretched in front of them in long, sweeping lines, like the ground

swells of the sea, skirted to the north by groves of cypress and

eucalyptus trees. Beyond, to the west, the ground grew sandy as it

approached the ocean, and from that direction a sea-breeze sailed, salt

and strong. Behind them was Lone Mountain, with its huge cross on top,

and from there in a scattering quadrant a multitude of little houses,

the outskirts of the city, skirmished towards the park. The turf was

hard and smooth as a carpet, burned, here and there, in patches of

black, but elsewhere of a pastel green, colored by the hardier weeds

that had sustained the drought and fought their way through the matted,

sunburned stalks of dry grass.

Dipping down through a wide, sandy hollow, tangled with fuzzy

undergrowth, they climbed up again, making for a shoulder of the hill

where the road curved sharply round the summit. They were alone in the

world, now; no one was in sight, at least, and the glory of this free

space of earth and air brought them as near to one another as if they

had regained childhood. Clytie's hat was off, and her hair wantoned

over her forehead and neck. She gave him her joyous laughter

unrestrained, and he listened as to a song, and attempted by every wile

he knew to provoke it again and again. If she had been high-priestess

before, now she was pixie, and he was, at first, almost as afraid of her

in this new guise. He explored a new world with her, as Adam did with

Eve. As Adam did with Eve, he marveled at her.

It came to him, as they walked, that what had kept them apart, mentally,

was an odd lack of humor. He saw how his whole life had been a pose

towards himself as well as towards the world, repressing what now, the

costume and custom gone, would come forth bubbling without care. He had

kept a straight face so long! What mirth he had felt, in presence of

his dupes, had been strained fine, escaping in the corner of a smile,

while he fashioned his glib phrases. It had been a preacher's sobriety,

the sedateness of priest-craft, aging him prematurely. She held him her

hands now down the years, back to decent, cleanly fun. To his surprise

he found that he could give full vent to it. He could laugh aloud, and

need not study effects and poses; he need not impress her. His wit was

clumsy; it even approached silliness, in its first runaway impulse, but

he at least lost his self-consciousness. He followed her merriment, and

they discovered nonsense together.

So, jollying, they tramped up to the road and came suddenly upon the

sea, flaming, peacock blue, at the foot of the cliff which fell almost

vertically at their feet. Across the dancing waves, from a coast like

Norway's, Point Bonita arose, guarding the Golden Gate. At the end of a

semicircular cove to their left a ragged cliff jutted into the channel;

behind its promontory the hills rolled back.

She gave a cry of joy and happiness and sat down on the verge of the

bluff to feast upon the view. He dropped beside her and took her hand.

An automobile whirred past them and she did not flinch. There he

underwent a revulsion of feeling.

[Illustration: He dropped beside her and took her hand]

"How can you love me?" he said bitterly. "What good am I? I have no

capacity, no prospects, no purpose, even! I am a mere negative, and if

I loved you I should free you from the incubus."

"Do you recall reading the palm of a girl whose lover in the Philippines

refused to write to her?" she asked. "It happened about the time I

first knew you, I think."

He nodded, watching a tug towing a bark out through the Gate, and she

told him what she had heard of Fleurette's story that morning. It was

no slight relief to him to think that he had helped some one, though his

assistance had been based upon deceit.

"Don't you see?" she said. "Don't you understand how women love? It

makes no difference how poor or how dishonored a man may be, if she

loves him her happiness must be with him."

"Oh, a physical deformity is easy enough to forget. But how about a

moral one? You'll be the wife of an outcast."

"If you refused to accept my love, if you left me, now, you would be

inflicting a far greater pain than any gossip could ever give me."

"The mere problem of living appals me," he went on gloomily. "I would

never think twice of it, if I were alone. But you know what a coward

marriage makes of one."

She laughed in his face. "I'll be your first patient, Doctor Granthope,

and I'll pay you well!"

"If there was some way of getting that money of Madam Grant's. I've

never even thought of trying to claim it, but perhaps I might go up to

Stockton and inquire about it. Of course, there's no fear of being

accused of stealing it, now. But even if I had it, I don't know whether

or not it would be right to use it myself."

"You might at least borrow it for a while, but for my own part I'm

convinced that it's yours. There's no reason why the bank should have

the use of it for nothing. I wish we could clear up that matter of

Madam Grant."

They set out again, she with a buoyant tread, willowy and strong. It

was not till her muscles relaxed that her characteristic, dreamy languor

was apparent, and this trait was slowly disappearing under the influence

of the new interest in her life. It was as if she had found, now, what

she, in her former quiescent moods, had been watching and waiting for,

and Granthope's presence stimulated her with energy. She was almost

coquettish with him at times, now, the mood alternating with a noble

frankness, the boldness of a gambler who has cast all hardily upon a

single stroke. She was not afraid of being seen with him. She gave him

herself in every word and glance. A casual observer could have read her

fondness for him.

They went along the road, skirting the water, past the battery

emplacements and disappearing guns, over a low hill toward the Fort.

From this side the Bay opened to them, and beyond lay line on line of

mountains, growing hazier in the distance, to the north and east. They

had regained their spirits with this exercise, and talked again freely

as boy and girl. He noticed with amusement and delight how she edged,

unconsciously, nearer and nearer him. If he crossed the road, she came

to him, without perceiving the regularity of it, as the armature comes

to the magnet. She nearly forced him into the wall, or off the walk, in

her unthinking pursuit of him, so strongly he attracted her. She

blushed furiously when he spoke of it--it was so droll that he could not

help mentioning it--but that comment did not cure her. She was over by

his side, rubbing elbows as unaffectedly the next instant. How could

she help it, when he kept his eyes on her as he did? she said. So,

along the shore by the Life Saving Station, up to the parade ground and

the barracks, then by a climb up the steep, narrow, tree-grown path to

the corner gate of the reservation they sported.

That was the first of a series of outings they had together that week.

The Golden Gate Park, Sutro's forest and the beach were each explored in

turn, and while still within the limits of the city they tasted of

country, mountain and shore, and let the days fly by. Clytie brought

the luncheon, and they ate it, picnic fashion, under the blue sky. She

kept strict account of his finances, and as his small capital dwindled

they came back to his plans for the future. He met her, one day, with

news.

"I think I shall have to go to work, after all," he said. "I've got a

position."

She congratulated him, not without a shade of sorrow that their holidays

were to end.

"It's too much like my old work to be very proud of, but it's a step up.

It's founded on vanity, but this time I shall exploit my own instead of

others'. I'm going on the stage. I've found my name is worth

something."

She was a little disappointed and he was not surprised. "Oh, I'll soon

become unbearable, I suppose. Most of the time I don't spend in front of

the make-up glass looking at myself, I'll spend being looked at, trying

to propitiate an audience. It's a school of egoism. But at least my

pose will be honest. I saw the stage manager of the _Alcazar_, and I'm

going to begin to rehearse next Monday."

He spoke banteringly, but she felt the truth of his jests. Still, it

would provide for the present. It would make him more than ever

notorious--but it was better than idleness.

The next day at ten o'clock she appeared at the studio to spend the day

with him. It was Wednesday, and they were anxious to make the most of

what time remained.

Except for his bed, table and bureau, his chamber was empty now, all his

effects having been sold at auction. The sum received barely sufficed

to pay off his debts. The studio, too, was bare, and placards hung

outside both doors indicating that the premises were to let. The little

office, however, was left as usual, except for the casts of hands, put

away in the closet, and in this room they stayed by the open fire.

He was looking over his card catalogue as she entered. He had conceived

the plan of writing a book on palmistry along new lines, in which he

might embody his observations and theories. His aim was to attempt to

correlate chirography, chiromancy, phrenology, physiognomy and all those

sciences and pseudo-sciences which seek to interpret character through

specialized individual characteristics, and to trace the evidences from

one to another, showing how each element or indication would recur in

every manifestation of a person's individuality, and how one symptom

might be inferred and corroborated by another. It would take time and

trouble, but he could spend his leisure upon it. The plan was tentative

and hypothetical, but so suggestive that he was becoming interested in

proving its verification. Clytie was enthusiastic about the book and

desirous of helping him. He was becoming less afraid of her, and more

sure of himself, after their days together, and he greeted her boldly

enough, now. Yet there was still a fascinating novelty in his

possession of her that made his familiarity seem like recklessness. Not

for her, however. Once having given him her lips she could never refuse

them again, nor could she longer think the action strange.

She took off her coat and hat, tucked in an errant curl or two over her

ears and seated herself luxuriously in the arm-chair. As she had played

with him, so now she worked with him, arranging his notes, dictating for

him to write, or stopping to discuss the subject. She was too adorable

in all this assumption of importance and seriousness for him not to

interrupt her occupation more than once, for which diversion of her

attention he was sent back promptly to his desk. The business kept them

so employed for two hours, when she opened her package, brought forth

their luncheon and brewed a pot of tea on the hearth.

"Francis," she said, after that was over, "do you know we are actually

becoming acquainted? Isn't it too bad!"

"Don't you enjoy the process?"

"Decidedly I do. That's why I regret that it must soon be over."

"I doubt if we'll ever finish--if we do, it will be still more

delightful to know you. And this process brings us toward that

beautiful consummation."

"Yes, but this part is so pleasant. I hate to see it go. I want to

roll it over on my tongue. Now, every word you say is a revelation and

a surprise--a surprise that I have been anticipating all my life, if

you'll pardon the bull. It's like unwrapping a mummy--I get excitedly

nearer and nearer my ideal of you."

"But there's no satisfaction in opening doors if one can't go in."

"Ah, there's the immortal difference between a man and a woman! Most

men want a marvel, patent and notorious. They want to come to the end

of the rainbow and find the pot of gold; that's all, whether that means

a kiss or a marriage. Women enjoy every step of the journey. Men think

of nothing but fulfilment, women of achievement. Men care only for the

black art of the Indian fakir who makes a grain of wheat grow to full

maturity in a few minutes. Women appreciate the wonder of the natural

development of that same little seed in the warm bosom of the earth,

with its slow evolution of sprout and stalk and leaf and blossom--the

glory of every step on the way!"

"But, can't you see that progress in affection needn't be a limited

journey to a finite end, even the end of the flower, but, no matter how

fast one travels, if one is really in love, the goal is always

infinitely distant? There are enough things to be understood and

enjoyed."

"Oh, I'm sure enough that I'll never get enough of you, and never know

enough about you!"

"That's almost too true to be funny. You'll never know even who I am,

I'm afraid. Think what a risk you run, my dear!"

"Oh, I know who you are well enough. You're the son of Casanova and

Little Dorrit."

He grew reflective. "Isn't it strange," he said, "that you, with all

your wonderful intuitions, shouldn't be able, somehow, to solve that

riddle? Do you think I am Madam Grant's son? Sometimes that seems to

be the inevitable conclusion."

"I can't quite think you are, Francis. Everything you have told me

about her has brought her very near to me, somehow, and I feel as if I

knew her, but you don't affect me in the same way. I think you're a

changeling, myself! It is strange that I can't quite 'get' you now,

though, not nearly as well as I used to. My power seems to have waned

ever since--"

"Since what?"

"Since that first kiss! You see, I've exchanged that elusive power for

something tangible." She put him away with a gesture. "No, not now! I

want to be serious! And oh, here's what I found in my father's

scrap-book. It seemed to have been cut from a very old paper. Somehow

it seems to point to her. I want to know what you think about it."

She had copied it out and read it to him:

"Miss Felicia Gerard, who spoke immediately after Mrs. Woodhull's

address, is one of that lady's most devoted adherents and helpers,

having been connected with the cause for nearly a year. Although only

twenty years of age, Miss Gerard has brought into action talents of no

mean order. She was graduated at Vassar College, and is endowed both

physically and mentally with the rarest and most lovable qualities. She

was first presented to Mrs. Woodhull in Toledo, where the remarkable

clairvoyant powers shared by the two women drew them naturally together.

Miss Gerard is a regular contributor to _Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly_

where her spirited articles have attracted wide notice and flattering

praise."

"That must be Mamsy," he said.

"I'm sure of it. I shall ask my father as soon as I get the

opportunity."

For the rest of the afternoon they talked as if they were never to meet

again. Once or twice there came a knock, and the door was tried, but

Granthope did not answer, and they were left alone in peace. She rose

to go at six, and, as she was to be busy all the next day, the parting

was long delayed. They were, indeed, getting rapidly acquainted.

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE REENTRANT ANGLE*

Blanchard Cayley strolled into the Mercantile Library, one afternoon,

and, nodding to the clerk at the desk, walked to an alcove in the corner

of the main hall. He stopped at a shelf and sat down on a stool. He had

done this several afternoons a week for years, going through the library

as a business man takes account of stock, examining every book in order.

Of some he read only the titles, glancing perhaps also at the date of

the edition; of some he looked over the table of contents. Others he

read, nibbling here and there. A few he took home. He had, by this

time, almost exhausted the list. He read, not like a bookworm, with

relish and zest, nor like a student desirous of a mastery of his

subject; he read, as he did everything, even to his love-making,

deliberately, accurately, with an elaborate scientific method that was,

in its intricacy, something of a game, whose rules he alone knew. He

had, indeed, specialized, taking up such subjects as jade, Japanese

poetry, Esperanto, higher space, Bahiism, and devil-worship, and in such

subjects he had what is termed "lore," but his main object was the

conquest of the whole library in itself.

This afternoon he did not read long. Looking over the top of his book,

as was his custom from time to time, to discover what women were

present, he caught sight of Clytie Payson in the alcove containing the

government reports. He replaced his volume and went over to her.

She was in high spirits, and welcomed him cordially, as if she had but

just come from something interesting and stimulating; another man's

smile seemed still to linger with her.

"Why, how d'you do, Blanchard?" she said. "I haven't seen you here for

a long time. What has happened? Have you finished the library yet?"

"Oh, no, not quite. I've still a few more shelves to do, but I've been

studying psychology on the side."

She looked at him with an indulgence that was new to him. "In

petticoats, I presume, then?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I've been studying a man," he said.

"What are you doing?"

She overlooked the purport of his question and answered lightly, "Oh,

only looking up some statistics for father. I've been coming here quite

often, lately, but I'm almost finished, now. Is there anything in the

world duller than a statistic? I always think of the man who went for

information to a statistician at Washington and was asked, 'What d'you

want to prove?'"

"How is your father getting on with the book?"

Clytie grew a little more serious. "Why, father's queer lately. I

can't understand him at all. He's taken up with some spiritualists, and

I'm rather worried about it."

"He's talked to me about them. But I should hardly think you'd be

surprised at it. You're as much interested in palmistry as he is in the

spooks, aren't you?"

Clytie flashed a glance at him. "Didn't you know that Mr. Granthope had

given up palmistry?"

Cayley smiled and smoothed his pointed beard. "Oh, yes. I've heard

considerable about it. Nobody seems to understand it but me. Very

clever of him, I think."

"What d'you mean?" Clytie was instantly upon the defense.

"I like his system. It's subtle."

"His system?"

"Yes. You don't mean to say you still think he's sincere, do you?"

"I don't think it's necessary to discuss Mr. Granthope," said Clytie

carelessly. "Of course I do believe he's sincere, or I wouldn't call

myself a friend of his. He has given up a good paying business because

he was sick of that way of earning a living."

"And also in order to make more money by quitting."

"How?"

"By marrying you."

She winced. "Blanchard," she said, "if you weren't an old friend, I

couldn't forgive you that. But because you are, I can't permit you to

think it."

"It was because we are old friends that I permitted myself to speak so

plainly. You'll count it, I suppose, merely as jealousy. But I hate to

see you taken in so easily."

Clytie looked up at him calmly, folding her hands in her lap. "Now,

Blanchard, please tell me exactly what you mean, without any more

insinuations."

"Why, Granthope has been for two months trying to marry you. He's after

your money."

"Thank you for the implied compliment," she retorted dryly.

"Oh, well, you know perfectly well what _I_ think of you, Cly. I was

thinking of what I know of him, not what I know of you. He's made a

deliberate attempt to get you, and this reform business is only a part

of the game."

She smiled and turned away, as if she were so sure of Granthope that it

was hardly worth her while even to defend him.

"It's not pleasant to say it," he went on; "but you spoke of being

distrustful of these mediums your father knows, and my point is that

Granthope's tarred with the same brush. He has worked with them and

plotted with them."

She was as yet unruffled; the spell of her happiness was still upon her,

and she answered mildly. "I can hardly blame you for thinking that,

perhaps. I suppose I might myself, if I didn't know him so well. But I

do happen to know something about his life, and I'm sure you're

mistaken. He's told me a good deal, and I have my own intuitions

besides."

Cayley was as serene. "Do your intuitions tell you, for instance, that

he has a definite understanding with these mediums--in regard to you?"

"No, they do not!" she answered calmly, looking him fair in the face.

"It's true, nevertheless." Cayley, with sharp eyes, noted her flush.

Her eyes were well schooled, but her quivering mouth betrayed her

trouble.

She took up her book as if to dismiss the subject.

Cayley watched her with impassive eyes. "You may be his friend, as you

say, but there are a lot of things about Granthope that you don't know

yet."

"No doubt," she replied without looking up.

"And there are things which you ought to know."

She looked at him now, to say: "Do you fancy that you are helping your

own chances any by attacking him?"

"Will it help his chances any if you find that he has given away

particular facts that he's discovered about you and your father?"

She had begun to be aroused, now, and she showed fight. "I don't

believe it!"

Still unperturbed, he went on in his mechanically precise way. "I've

made it my business to find out about Granthope, Cly. It shouldn't

surprise you--you know I'm in earnest about wanting you. I'm as

earnest, too, in wanting to protect you. I don't propose to hold my

tongue when I find that you're trusting in a man that's knifing you

behind your back."

Her voice rang with pride and scorn as she rose, saying, "I don't care

to discuss the matter further, Blanchard."

"Not when I say that I have seen notes in Granthope's own handwriting

that were given to a medium as a part of a deliberate scheme? These

notes were on definite things he had learned, I'm sure, from his

conversations with you. Some of them are personal matters that I'm sure

you wouldn't at all care to have made public. You could easily prove it

if you saw them."

She had lost courage again, and hesitated, staring at him.

Then she said, freezing, "Let me see them, then. If you're determined

to have a scene, you may as well follow the rules of melodrama."

"I can't show them, because this medium wouldn't let them out of his

possession. But I can get him to let you see them, if you like."

"You say they are about things we--that I talked about?"

"Yes."

"Things--about--_me_?"

"Yes. I forget all of them. I had only a moment's glance."

For some moments she stood silent. Then she spoke swiftly. "I don't

believe it. He couldn't do such a thing!"

"My dear Cly, you must remember that one's whole mental evolution is

merely the history of the conflict between reason and instinct, and

reason is bound to win in the end. That's the way we develop. The fact

is, he _could_ do it and _did_ do it. He's a charlatan and he has used

a charlatan's methods. I said he was clever. This giving up his studio

was merely a kind of gambit. But he made a mistake when he tried to use

a lot of cheap fakirs to help him out with you."

"Oh!" She clenched her fists. "Don't! I won't stand it!" Her head

dropped as if she were weary. Her eyes burned.

"Oh, there's good in everybody, the copy-books say," he returned. "But

the fact is, Cly, he isn't in your class, and never was. You should

have seen that!"

She looked at him without seeing him, her eyes caught meaninglessly by

the garnet in his tie, clinging to it, as if it were the only real thing

in the world. Her lips parted, the color was leaving her cheeks, she

looked as frail as a ghost. Suddenly she threw off her reverie, and

placing her hand on his arm, said, "Let me see them--the

notes--Blanchard. There must be some horrid mistake. I want to clear

it up immediately."

"Very well, I'll take you now, if you like. It isn't far."

She followed him out of the library as if hypnotized. They spoke little

on the way. Cayley tried his best to arouse her, but finally gave it up

as impossible. He watched her, preserving his usual phlegmatic calm.

She walked with head erect, her chin forward, with her long, graceful

gait, beside him, but never seemed two human beings further apart in

spirit.

Flora Flint opened the door to Vixley's flat. She acted quite as if she

belonged there and invited them in cordially, with an up-and-down

scrutiny of Clytie as they passed in. Then she disappeared down the

long, tunnel-like hall. Cayley took Clytie into the office where,

refusing a chair, she stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the door.

Vixley entered, currying his beard with his long fingers. "Well, Mr.

Cayley," he said, "what can we do for you? Like a sitting?"

"Professor, you recall telling me something about some memoranda

Granthope gave you, don't you?"

"I been thinkin' about that, Mr. Cayley, and I don't know as I ought to

have said anything. I'm rather inclined to regret it."

"You _have_ said something, and I've brought this lady down to show the

memoranda to her," said Cayley.

"H'm!" Vixley looked her over. "It ain't exactly customary to show

things like that, you know."

"We've had all that out before. I'm here to see those cards."

Vixley drew up a rocking-chair for Clytie, and seated himself on the

edge of the revolving chair in front of his desk, putting the tips of

his long fingers together. "Francis Granthope is a bright young man,"

he said, "a very bright young man. Very painstaking, and very thorough.

I won't say he ain't a _leetle_ bit unscrupulous, however. A man who

ain't got no psychic influence behind him has got to do some pretty good

guessin'. Now you go to work and take me, with my control, Theodore

Parker, and his band o' spirits, I don't need to bother much. I can get

all I want out of the other plane. I ain't sayin' nothin' against

Granthope, except maybe that he uses methods, sometimes, that ain't

_exactly_ legitimate, such as what I was tellin' you about."

"How did he happen to give you these notes?" Clytie asked.

"Why, I s'pose he expected me to give him an equivalent in return. I

will say I have helped him out, at times, feelin' rather predisposed

toward him, and him bein' a likely chap. But Lord, _I_ don't need his

help! And so I told him. In this case I didn't feel called upon to

give away none of my client's affairs. Naturally he got a little huffy

about it, and he's acted so that I'm inclined to resent it. I can't

bear anything like ingratitude."

He opened his desk and took from a pigeonhole two cards. He handed them

to Clytie.

"I was tellin' Mr. Cayley, here, I knew about Granthope and his methods.

It'll show you what a poor business this palm-readin' reely is. Lord,

they ain't nothin' in it at all! If anybody wants to know anything

about the future the only way to do is to establish communications with

the spirit-plane through the well-known and well-tried methods of

spiritualism."

Clytie was not listening. Her eyes were upon the cards. She looked and

looked, reading and re-reading, her face set in tense lines, the notes

in Granthope's fine, closely written hand. There it was, as he had set

it down:

Oliver Payson, b. Oct. 2nd, 1842. b. d. present from dau., bound copy

of 'Montaigne' 1900. Tattoo mark anchor on right arm, near shoulder.

Writing a book. Economics (?) Knew Mad. Grant (?) Wife visited Mad. G.

x. v. p.

Clytie Payson. Engaged to Blanchard Cayley (?) Mole, left cheek. Ring

with "Clytie" inside. Turquoises. Claims psychic power. Clairv. Goes

to Merc. Lib. afternoons at 3. Buried doll under sun-dial in garden.

As she came to the last line she dropped the card from her fingers. She

had become a woman of ice.

Vixley picked up the card and smiled, showing his yellow teeth. "Kind

of a give-away, ain't it? _I_ call his work lumpy."

"I hope you're convinced now," Cayley added.

She turned her head slowly, deliberately, to the Professor. "When did

Mr. Granthope give you this card?"

"Oh, I dunno, exactly, he's gave me so much, one time or another. About

two weeks ago, I should judge. Why?"

"I'm very much obliged to you." Her voice came as if from an immense

distance. Then she nodded to Cayley, who rose.

"Nothin' more I could do, is they? Wouldn't you like to try a sittin',

Miss?" Vixley asked with urbanity.

"Thank you, no." Clytie walked out slowly, without another look at him,

like a somnambulist. Vixley hastened to escort her to the front door,

and opened it.

Cayley gave him a look. It was returned. Vixley bowed. Clytie went

out.

"Are you going over to North Beach?" Cayley inquired. "I'll walk up to

the car with you."

"I'll go alone, I think."

"Oh, very well--but--"

"Good afternoon. You'll have to excuse me, Blanchard."

"All right. Good day."

She strode off, leaving him there.

She walked all the way home, and walked fast, her head held high,

looking straight ahead of her. She took the steep hills with hardly a

slackening of her speed, breasting the upward inclines energetically,

leaning forward with grace. Up Nob Hill and down she went, along the

saddle, up Russian Hill and over, without her customary pause to enjoy

the glorious outlooks. Under her arm she still carried the book from

the library which she had forgotten to put down when first Blanchard

Cayley spoke to her. She held it automatically, apparently not knowing

that it was there. With it she gripped her glove; her right hand was

still bare, clenching her skirt.

She turned into her street at last, and climbed the wooden steps, into

the garden. As she went up the path, her eyes lighted upon the

sun-dial. She stopped and looked at it for a moment fixedly. Then into

the house, up-stairs to her room, to throw herself upon the bed...

The wind had risen and blew gustily about the house. Her shutter banged

at intervals. The noise kept up till she rose, opened the window and

fastened back the blind, and went back to her bed. There she lay,

staring, with her eyes wide open...

Her father did not come home that evening. At half-past seven she got

up again, washed her face, arranged her hair, and went down-stairs to

eat dinner alone. Afterward she stepped out into the garden. The wind

billowed her skirts, fretted her hair into a swirl of tawny brown,

cooled her cheeks. For an hour she walked up and down in the dark. The

harbor was thick with mist. The siren on Lime Point sobbed across the

Gate intermittently ...

Later, she went into the library and sat down with a book beside the

fire. For a half-hour she did not turn a page, but remained quiescent,

gazing at the flames...

At ten she went up to her workroom, lighted the gas, and took out her

tools. For two hours she sewed leaves on her frame, working as if

automatically. Her gaze was intent; one would have said that she was

completely absorbed in her task. Slowly the sheets piled, one on

another, each stitched to the back with deft strokes. Finally the whole

volume was completed. She bound up the loose threads and put the book

away. Then she heated her irons, got out her gold-leaf and spent an

hour tooling a calf cover, pressing in roses and circles and stipples

while her lips were sternly set. She arose, then, and looked out into

the night...

She undressed at last and went to bed. Long after midnight there was a

sound below of her father coming in. His footsteps went to and fro for

a time, then they came up-stairs. His door was closed softly. There

was no sound, now, but the ticking of her little clock, and,

occasionally, the far-away echo of a steamer's whistle, and the dreary

note of the siren. She tossed uneasily. The clock struck one, two,

three, four. Then the wind began to sing round the corner of the house

as the gale rose. The noise was soothingly monotonous, hypnotic,

anesthetic...

At breakfast she was cool, serene, quiet, showing no traces of her

emotion. She talked with her father, laughed with him, as usual, flying

from one topic to another, never serious. As he got up to go, she

remarked:

"Father, I think I'll go up to Sacramento to visit Mrs. Maxwell at

Lonely a few days. I've put it off so long, and she's been after me

again to come. She's up there all alone."

"All right, Cly. I saw her down-town, day before yesterday, and she

told me she was going to ask you."

Clytie frowned. "You did? Why didn't you tell me?" She looked at him

for a moment curiously. He seemed to wish to evade her question. Then

she asked, with emphasis, "Did you ask her to invite me?"

Mr. Payson hesitated. "Why, I told her that you would probably

accept--"

She bit her lip, still frowning. "I understand. On account of Mr.

Granthope, I presume?"

"Well, I thought it would be just as well for you to take a little

vacation."

Clytie said nothing. Mr. Payson lingered, ill at ease in the face of

her implications. At last he looked at her over his spectacles and said

petulantly: "I've been surprised at you, Cly, really. I have been

considerably worried, as well. I'm afraid you've compromised yourself

seriously by having been seen so much with Granthope. I haven't spoken

of it, before, because I had already said all I could to you. You knew

very well what my wishes were in the matter and it seems you've seen fit

to disregard them."

Clytie still kept silent, listening to him calmly. He had worked

himself up by his own words to an irascible pitch, but her

non-resistance balked his temper, and it oozed away, as he continued.

"I hope this trip will give you a chance to think it well over, Cly, and

I have no doubt that you'll come to see it as I do."

"Oh, I'll think it over," she replied listlessly.

Mr. Payson, having won his point in getting her out of town, shook his

head without replying, and prepared to leave the room.

But Clytie continued. "At least, I am sure he was sincere in warning

you against those mediums you are going to, father."

He turned to her, his irritability rekindled by her remark. "That's

exactly what I most dislike about the man," he exclaimed. "If he hadn't

attempted to prejudice me against them I might believe in his own change

of heart, or whatever it was. But he went back on the very people with

whom he's been associated for years. Isn't that suspicious?"

"Didn't he do that to save you from their tricks?" Her voice was low

and evidently troubled; she seemed to be attempting to convince herself,

rather than her father.

"I notice he didn't explain how they managed to give me my tests," Mr.

Payson retorted, shaking his head emphatically. "He seemed to consider

me the most simple and credulous person in the world. His statements,

at least those he dared to make, were all general ones, and they implied

that I was not old enough, or else, perhaps, too old to sift the

evidence for myself. They were positively insulting. These mediums

have given me proof enough to convince any one. They've told me things

that couldn't possibly have been found out by any tricks. Take that

about your giving me a copy of _Montaigne_ for my birthday, for

instance. How could they have found that out? You hadn't told any one

about it, had you?"

"No," said Clytie faintly.

"There you are, then!" Mr. Payson wagged his head solemnly. "What did

I tell you?"

"What else did they say?" Clytie asked anxiously.

"Plenty of things. Things I myself didn't know the truth about till I

investigated. Things about my personal affairs, about my past life--oh,

so much that I can't help feeling that there's something in this

business that we don't understand. Oh!"--he paused for a moment,

looking at her--"there was one thing I wanted to ask you about--I forgot

to speak of it. It sounded like nonsense, at the time--you know that

even spirits are sometimes frivolous and inconsequent--and there were so

many other more important communications at the time that it slipped my

mind. Vixley's control said something once about a doll that was buried

underneath--"

"Oh, I forgot to ring up Mrs. Maxwell," Clytie interrupted, springing

up. "I _must_ tell her I'm coming. If I don't do it right away now I

may not catch her--it takes so long to get a long distance connection."

She went up to him and putting her arms round his neck, kissed him.

"Don't wait, father, if you're in a hurry. Good-by!"

She walked to the door.

"Well, then, I'll go along down-town," he said. "Be sure and write when

you get up there."

She left him hurriedly and ran up-stairs.

At ten she was at the ferry, waiting for the boat which connected with

the Sacramento train. There was a crowd going, coming and waiting in

the long arcade outside. As she approached the ticket office a man was

at the window. He was tall, dark-haired, distinguished. At sight of

him, Clytie withdrew out of sight, and let him finish his business and

leave. Then she approached, bought her ticket, and, watching sharply,

dodging behind groups here and there, she succeeded in passing the

ticket collector and losing herself in the assembly in the waiting-room

without being observed. She wormed her way forward near the gate, and

with the first rush of passengers, after the gate was raised, hurried on

to the boat and went, immediately into the ladies' room.

On the other side she acted as cautiously. She remained till almost the

last passenger had left the boat, then walked swiftly through the

train-shed to her car. For an hour, as the train sped on, she scarcely

looked to the right or the left.

The train slowed up at Stockton, and stopped. Clytie looked carelessly

out of the window. Just as the train started again, Granthope appeared

on the platform. He went up to a cab-driver and began talking. Clytie,

flushing deeply, watched him so intensely that at last, as if attracted

by some mental telepathy, he looked round and caught sight of her. His

hat came off to her immediately. He gave a quick glance at the now

rapidly moving train, as if intending to board it, then he gave it up as

impossible. Clytie's eyes lost him, and she was carried on. It was a

long time before the color faded from her cheeks.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*TIT FOR TAT*

Professor Vixley had prepared his campaign with Mr. Payson with the

scientific delight of an engineer. His cunning was not too low to

prevent his love of the sport for the sport's sake, and his elaborations

and by-plays were undertaken with relish and enthusiasm. The pleasure

was vastly heightened for him by the character of his dupe. Mr. Payson

was a figure in the community, a man of weight and influence. He had an

established position and an assured wealth. Heavy and slow, mentally, he

had the dignified respectability that is usually associated with

business success.

In the mental manipulation of such a personage Vixley felt a sense of

power as enjoyable as the pecuniary reward. The dwarf, socially, led

the giant.

He had his charge, by this time, well in hand. The old gentleman's

ponderous mentality had been managed like an ocean steamship lying at

the dock. One by one the lines of doubt and distrust and prejudice had

been released. It was now time to fire his intellectual boilers. By

means of their tricks, eavesdropping methods and clever guess-work, and

with Cayley's help, they had fed him fuel for the imagination until now

he was roused to a dynamic, enthusiastic belief in spiritualism, or that

version of it which best suited their ends. Captain and pilot were

aboard and in command. It remained but to ring up the engines, turn

over the wheel and get under way for the voyage. Many another such

argosy had been fitted out and had sailed forth from their brains, to

return laden with treasure. There was hazard of collision or shipwreck,

but the only obstacle now in view was Granthope, and Vixley felt sure

that he could be blown out of the way with the explosion of a few

scandals.

Mr. Payson's mind had an inertia which, once successfully overcome, was

transformed to momentum. He was as credulous, as responsive, as

influenced by the specious logic of the medium as if he had never been a

skeptic. Vixley's next move was to realize financially on Payson's

vanity and literary aspirations.

The ensuing series of communications from "Felicia," automatically

transcribed by Vixley, developed the fact Mr. Payson's book would meet

with disastrous competition from an unknown author who was working upon

the same subject in Chicago. Such a publication would, in the eyes of

any publisher, materially affect the value of a San Francisco book.

Something must be done to prevent the rival work from being printed.

The first step necessary, Vixley asserted, was to send a man to Chicago

and investigate the case and report upon it. This preliminary

reconnaissance cost a considerable sum. Payson did not see the

emissary, for Vixley had warned him of the possibility of blackmail.

"Felicia" now informed the sitter that the aid of the spirit world could

be invoked to forestall the competing writer's efforts.

There was a band of spirits on the "third sphere," it seemed, who,

though usually maleficent, could be placated. These "Diakkas" could,

and possibly would, exert certain magnetic or psychic powers so as to

prevent competition. It was difficult, however, to win over spirits so

fantastic as these, even when one had established communication with

them--itself an intricate and dangerous process. The only safe way, Mr.

Payson was assured, was to create an atmosphere pleasing to them, one

which absorbed antagonistic vibrations, and facilitated communication by

intensifying the sitter's aura and rendering their acceptance of earthly

conditions easy. And so forth, through an elaborate exposition.

The thing was accomplished by means of charging the room with the

perfume of ambergris. Ambergris, however, was expensive. Mr. Payson

had to pay fifty dollars an ounce for his; moreover, a fresh supply was

necessary for each seance as the material quickly absorbed the

deleterious psycho-physical elements of the atmosphere, and became inert

to vibration. Professor Vixley divided this revenue with Madam Spoll,

but he could not divide his pleasure in his artful fiction. Madam Spoll

was only a woman; the artistic niceties of the harlequinade were lost on

her.

This could not, however, go on for ever, nor were the two conspirators

content to do business in so small a way. Both were convinced that the

only chance for a large and permanent income lay in the production of

Payson's and Felicia's child, and they set about the plan by which this

should become remunerative.

Ringa was settled upon for the impersonation. He was simple, easily

taught and led; he was willing. He would be as easily managed when the

time came for a division of the profits of the enterprise. And so, one

day, Madam Spoll waddled out to Turk Street to complete the

negotiations.

Professor Vixley was bending over a small machine with horizontal arms

in the form of a cross, decorated with mirrors, when she rang; before

opening the door he covered the instrument with a black cloth and put it

on his roll-top desk by the type-writer.

Madam Spoll came in smiling, unruffled as if her face had been freshly

ironed out.

"I been walking lately, to reduce my flesh, but, Lord, I get such an

appetite I eat more'n enough to balance," she panted, as she lowered

herself carefully upon the quilted couch and crushed back into a sofa

pillow, whereon was painted a fencing girl with a heart on her plastron.

She loosened her beaded cape, and breathed heavily in relief.

"Well, I managed to get here, after all! What d'you think? Mrs. Riley

has been to me for a private setting. Do you recall her, Vixley? She's

that woman who was tried for murdering her husband some years back and

was acquitted; or rather the jury was hung. Anyways, _she_ wasn't. But

I believe she done it. She's as nervous as a cat, and can't look you in

the face to save her soul. It seems that she knew Madam Grant in the

old days, and used to get readings off her. I don't know but we could

use her, someway."

"Has she got any money?" said the slate-writer.

"She keeps a boarding-house, I believe. It wouldn't be much, but 'every

little helps,' as the old lady said when she spit into the harbor. I

might work her for five a week, I s'pose, but now I think of it,

Masterson's doctoring her."

"Then they won't be much meat left on her bones!" Vixley grinned. "But

I ain't botherin' with landladies till we finish with Payson. Did you

see him yesterday?"

"I did, and he said he'd give a thousand dollars if we'd find the boy.

I shouldn't wonder if he'd pay more if we work it right, not to speak of

what we get from Ringa when he's fixed."

"Lord! A thousand dollars for Ringa! Wouldn't that make you seasick?"

Vixley cackled, slapping his claw-like hand on his knee. "I say,

Gertie, we ought to get a couple of good crockery teeth put in his jaw

first, or the old man will want to return him for shop-worn. Ringa as

Mr. Max Payson, Esquire! Gee whizz! I want to be there when the old

gent falls on his neck and kills the fatted calf!"

"I've known a heap of worse boys than Max Ringa to have for a son,"

Madam Spoll said, a little irritated. "You go to work and wash him and

dress him up in a Prince Albert and I don't know why he won't do as well

as anybody."

"Oh, he'll do--he'll do elegant! He'll do Payson, anyways, and that's

all we want."

"Oh, I'm going to teach him to jump through the hoop all right. He'll

be doing the papa's darling act so natural you'll think he'd always

slep' in a bed!" She chuckled now till she shook like a jelly-fish.

"He's just crazy about it. Says he'll come down and take me to ride in

his automobile car. Why, Payson will be good for all sorts of money if

Ringa works him right. He ought to get an allowance of two or three

hundred a month if the old man's got any proper feelings as a father."

"It's more'n likely he'll pay Ringa to stay away," Vixley remarked

cynically. "I've seen these here fond parents before. I don't seem to

see Ringa doin' society somehow. He'd be tryin' to blow the foam off

his champagne and chewin' tobacco in the ball-room the first thing. But

he'll do for a starter. If worse comes to worst we can hold the old man

up to keep the story dark--and then there's the weeklies, they wouldn't

mind gettin' hold of it."

"Say!" Madam Spoll suddenly exclaimed, "what's become of Fancy Gray, now

that Frank has thrown her down?"

"Why, ain't you heard? She's took up with this fellow Cayley."

"No!" Madam Spoll's eyes were opened wide at the bit of gossip.

"What's he up to with her, anyway?"

"Why, I expect he's trying to use her someway, so's to queer Frank's

game with Miss Payson. Fancy knows all about Frank, if she can be

induced to tell. If Cayley can show Frank up, he stands a better show to

catch Miss Payson himself. At least, that's the way I figure it. I

ain't got no idea that Cayley cares a rap for Fancy, but he's smooth,

and as long as he can use her he'll keep her jollied along."

The Madam had been thinking hard. "Fancy ought to be pretty sore on

Frank," she offered.

"I don't blame her. He's treated her bad."

"And there's no doubt about her being stuck on Cayley?"

"It certainly looks like it; she's with him all the time."

"Well, then, what's the matter with getting Cayley to work her so she

can help us out with Payson? I believe we could use her good. She's a

saucy chit, and she makes me tired with her fly-up-the-creek impudence;

but all the same, she's clever, and if Cayley could only induce her to

go into it, I can see lots of ways she could help."

Vixley thought over the matter for a few minutes in silence. "All

right, Gertie, I'll speak to him about it. I guess he'll do it; he'll be

afraid not to. We got him pretty well tied up, now."

"You can promise him that Felicia will recommend that he marries the

girl. That'll be an inducement."

"I'm afraid the Payson girl has got something to say about that herself,

from all I hear."

"Well, at any rate, we've queered Frank Granthope, and that's what

Cayley wanted most."

"I guess so; at least, that's what I make out from what he says. He's

pretty close-mouthed."

"Well, if he ain't close-mouthed about Payson, he can tend to his own

affairs alone, for all I care. Has he gave you any more dope?"

"Has he! Why, he's been a-ringin' of me up every day, tippin' me off to

everything the old man's up to!"

"You ain't let on anything about this child business to Cayley, have

you?"

"D'you think I want to queer the whole game? Of course not. Why, Cayley

would be scared that the daughter wouldn't get any of the money if he

knew they was another heir. All the same, we got to be careful of

Cayley, for he certainly has helped considerable. The old man wouldn't

be where we got him now if Cayley hadn't shown up. What d'you think he

told me this mornin'? Payson's been round to a lot of printers, gettin'

estimates on the book, so's he can publish it hisself! Ain't that a

gall? He never asked my advice about it! I'm going to give him a dig

about that."

"Oh, well, let's get down to business, I ain't got any too much time,"

Madam Spoll interrupted. "About the materializing, now. We got to have

a private seance, of course?"

Vixley rose, clasped his hands behind his back, and lifted himself up

and down on his toes as he gazed at her. "I been a-thinkin' it over,

Gert, and I come to the conclusion that it ain't best. Payson ain't

prepared for it yet, and we got to go easy. He ain't actually convinced

of physical mediumship yet, as it is. I think we better spring it on him

at a public. Flora can pack the room with believers and cappers, and

then, after Payson's seen a lot of other folks recognizin' spirits and

gettin' messages, why, he'll be more inclined to swallow his test. I've

made a study of him, and that's my opinion."

"Has Flora got plenty of help?"

"She wants one more girl to play spirit, for she's just lost a dandy she

had--she was arrested for shopliftin', I believe. We can fix her up,

though. There's your Miss French, for one."

"I don't trust her much, but she'll do on a pinch. But Perry we must

have. It's better to use our own people. Who's Flora's cabinet

control?"

"Little Starlight. Flora does her with a telescope rod. Oh, Flora's

slick! She's a cracker jack of a ventriloquist--she's got at least six

good voices!"

"How does she work, now? From the front seats?"

"No, mostly through the foldin' doors. As soon as the room is dark and

the singin' has commenced she has the door rolled back the wrong way

about a foot, and her players come in that way. They don't show against

the black cloth, and they's no danger at all, for if anybody wants to

examine the cabinet they ain't no panels nor nothing to be exposed.

Flora's just got up a grand disappearance act, she tells me. She wears a

white petticoat and her overskirt is lined with white. When she comes

out of the cabinet her skirt is lifted up and wrapped round her head

inside-out, as natural as life. Then she gradually lowers it and the

whole form slowly disappears down to the ground like a snow-man meltin'

in the sun. No, sir, you can't beat that girl, not in this town!"

"Vixley, I don't see no end to this graft. Why, after we've

materialized we can etherealize, can't we?"

"Yes, and then we'll develop him till he don't know where he's at."

"And spirit-pictures, too. Felicia'll take a grand photograph!"

"You bet. I'm going to try them big cloth ones that you spray with

prussiate o' potash. You can get blue, yeller, and brown fine. I been

workin' on it already."

A ring at the front door-bell interrupted her colloquy. Vixley tiptoed

to the window and peeped out; then he turned with a scowl.

"It's Doc Masterson. What the devil does _he_ want, anyway?"

"No good, I'll bet," she replied.

"I got to let him in, I s'pose. It won't do to send him away, the old

snake-in-the-grass. He's too smooth!"

"Oh, I ain't afraid of him. I wan't born yesterday," was her

contemptuous reply.

"All the same, you be careful what you say to him, Gert," Vixley

cautioned, as he went out into the hall.

He reappeared with the doctor. Madam Spoll smiled sweetly.

Doctor Masterson greeted her with a sour expression, and shook hands

limply. He sat down deliberately, and, pulling out a soiled silk

handkerchief, wiped his creased forehead and his bald pate. Then he

cleaned his iron-bowed spectacles, blinking his red eyes as he breathed

on the lenses.

Vixley, from the organ bench, watched him shrewdly, and offered him a

cigar.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke," said the doctor peevishly.

"Since when?" Vixley asked in surprise.

"Since you give me that last 'Flor de Chinatown,' or whatever it was.

When I want to smoke rag carpets again I'll try another." He showed his

black teeth in a vicious grin.

Vixley tittered. "What's wrong, Doc? Looks like you had a grouch.

Been takin' too much of Hasandoka's medicine lately? You didn't come

round here to look a gift-horse in the mouth, did you?"

The doctor cleared his throat and pulled down his plaid waistcoat. "No,

I didn't. But I didn't come round for to give you any hot air, neither!

I'm glad I struck Madam Spoll here, for what I got to say may interest

her, too."

"Spit it out and get rid of it, then," said Vixley; "don't mind us."

"The fact is," said Masterson, "you ain't neither of you treated me

square. I fully expected to be in on this Payson game, from what you

led me to believe, and you not only let me out with only a month's work,

but you've shut me off from the main graft."

Madam Spoll fired up. "We never told you we was going to whack up with

you, at all! Seems to me you got considerable nerve to try and butt in!

Who's running this thing, anyway? You got all that's coming to you. We

ain't never took him into partnership, Vixley, have we?"

"I ain't seen no contrack to that effect. You ain't got no call to

complain, Doc; they ain't enough in it for three. Payson ain't loosened

up enough for us to retire on it, yet."

Masterson's thin lips drew back like a hound's, to show his fangs. His

Adam's apple rose and fell above his celluloid collar, as he swallowed

his irritation. "_Oh_, very well," he said quickly. "Of course, if you

want to freeze me out, you can. But I don't call it a square deal. I

was the one what got him going, wan't I? Didn't I do my part all right?

I understand you're going to materialize him and develop him, and the

Lord knows what-all. I don't see why you can't find room for me,

somewhere."

"You ought to be thankful for what you got out of it!" Madam Spoll

exclaimed. "Lord, we didn't have to take you on at all! They's plenty

of others we could have used. You're three hundred ahead of the game as

it stands, and that's more than you've ever made in six months, before.

Don't be a hog!"

"That's a nice thing for _you_ to say," he sneered. "When I get up to

two hundred pounds I'll begin to worry about _that_."

Vixley interfered craftily. "We'll think it over and let you know, Doc;

we may be able to use you, perhaps, but we can't tell yet a while--not

till we see how this thing turns out."

Madam Spoll broke in again, shaking her fat finger at him. "Don't you

believe it, Masterson! Me and Vixley can work this thing alone, and you

better keep your nose out of our business! If you come here looking for

trouble, you can find it, fast enough!"

Vixley winked at her, but she was too angry to notice it. Masterson

rose stiffly and faced her, his thumbs caught in the armholes of his

plaid waistcoat. "All right," he said. "I ain't going to get down on to

my knees to _you_. But the next time I'm asked for a good clairvoyant,

it won't be you. I only ask what's fair, and I didn't come here for to

be insulted."

"Oh, get on to yourself!" Vixley said, taking him by the arm. "Nobody

ain't insulted you. You can't blame us if we want to do this our own

way, can you?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and took a few steps toward the door.

"You may think better of it when you talk it over," he hinted darkly.

"You may see my side of it. Good afternoon, Madam Spoll, I won't take

no more of your valuable time." He walked out.

"You was a fool, Gert," said Vixley, after the door slammed. "It won't

do to let him get down on us. He knows too much."

"Pooh!" she flouted, bridling. "I ain't afraid of Masterson, nor

anybody like him. He ain't got enough blood in his neck to do anything.

He just came round here like a pan-handler to see if we wouldn't give

him a poke-out. I'll see him further!"

"I ain't so sure," Vixley replied, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "My

rule is, don't make no enemies if you can help it. But of course we got

to cut him out."

Madam Spoll subsided and changed the subject. "Have you got that

developing machine yet?" she asked, her eyes, roving about the room.

He walked to the desk and carried the machine to the small table in

front of her. Taking off the cloth he disclosed the revolving mirrors

actuated by clockwork. It was much like the instrument first used by

Braid in his experiments with mesmerism. He wound the spring and set

the mirrors in motion. They whirled madly in their circle, casting

flashes of light.

"That's the way it works--you just stare at it hard. I guess that will

hold Payson a while. He's got the scientific bug enough to like this

sort of thing."

Madam Spoll put her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand,

gazing, fascinated, at the flash of the revolving mirrors. As the

machine began to whir, the canary in the cage by the window began

warbling in an ecstasy of song. Vixley swore at the bird, and then, as

it refused to stop, took down the cage and walked to the door with it.

"I guess that'll bring Felicia, all right, won't it?" he said as he went

out of the room, leaving Madam Spoll transfixed, lulled and charmed by

the flying mirrors.

He was gone longer than he intended; it was seven or eight minutes

before he returned, whistling through his teeth. He turned into the

front room and stopped in astonishment.

Madam Spoll was standing beside the machine, which had now run down.

Her eyes stared blankly at the desk, one hand clutched her breast, the

other was raised, as if to put something away from her. Her little

low-crowned Derby hat had fallen partly off and hung on one side of her

head. She stared, without speaking, her face set with an expression of

terror.

"For Heaven's sake, Gert, what's the matter?" he cried.

She turned her eyes slowly toward him, shuddered, sighed, and her hands

fell together. Then her face lighted up in a frenzy. "My God, Vixley,

I got it! I got it! After all these years!"

"Got what, you crazy fool? The jimjams?"

"I got materializing--I got a spirit! She was right over there by the

desk--a woman with white hair, it was, and she give me a message!"

"Rats!" Vixley was contemptuous. He took her hand and gave her a

little shake. "Is _that_ all? I guess you was hypnotized, Gert, that's

all. That's what I got this jigger for, only I never thought _you'd_ be

one to go off half-cock like that!"

"Vixley," she said emphatically, "don't you be a fool! I see a spirit

for the first time in my life, and you can't make me believe I didn't.

And I know who it was, now. It was Felicia Grant, as I'm a sinner, and

she came to warn me about Payson. Oh, you can laugh; I s'pose I would

if I was you, but this was the real thing, sure!"

She reseated herself on the sofa and put her hands to her eyes. Vixley

sat on the arm of the Morris chair and laughed loudly. "Well, well!" he

exclaimed, "if that ain't a good one! Spirit, was it? Well, I guess if

it'll work on Gertie Spoll it'll work on Payson, all right. Oh, Lord!"

She shook both hands wildly, almost hysterical with excitement, the

tears flowing. "My God! We can't go on with Payson now. I don't dare

to. I'm frightened."

"Oh, you just got an attack of nerves, that's all. You'll get over it

and laugh at it. You keep still and cool off."

She wagged her head solemnly, unconscious of her hanging hat. "See

here, Vixley, you know me! I'm too old a bird to be fooled with

fakes--I've done too much of that myself. I've always claimed that I

had clairvoyance, but I lied. I never got that nor clairaudience, no

matter how I tried for it, and I've had to fake. I've had a gift o'

guessing, perhaps, but that's all. But I swear to God, I got

materializing just now. I've scoffed at it all my life, but I believe

it now. I see her just as soon as you left, standing right over there

by the desk, she was, and she turned to me and she says, 'If you persist

you will come to harm. Take my advice and don't you do it!' and then

she faded away. What d'you s'pose it means?"

"It means you need a drink," he said, and, walking to the desk, he took

out a whisky bottle and poured out a stiff dose. "Them's the spirits

that'll help you most. You put this down and see how you feel!"

She put it away with an impatient gesture. "Oh, you don't believe it,"

she cried, "but I see her just as plain as I see you this minute, and I

heard her, too. What'll I do, Vixley? I can't give up my business, can

I? I got to live."

"What's the matter with you? I don't see as they's anything to worry

about, granted it was a spirit, which it wasn't one, o' course."

"She said, 'If you persist you will come to harm!' What else could that

mean but Payson? Let's call it all off, before anything happens."

"Bosh! It ain't likely it meant Payson any more than it did anything

else. Why, the thing is as simple as a rattle. Spirits be damned! You

leave that to the suckers--with money."

Although his incredulity and sneers prevented her from actually

withdrawing from the projected seance, she was by no means restored to

calmness. She gave but a reluctant, distracted attention to his plans,

and talked little herself. She went home oppressed by the sinister

suggestions of her vision, muttering her dread for the future.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE MATERIALIZING SEANCE*

FLORA FLINT'S Marvelous Spirit Messages and Grand Materializing

Test Seance To-night. 50c. 5203 Van Ness Ave. Come, Skeptics.

Dougal pointed to this notice in the _Call_ one night at Fulda's. There

were six at table; he and Mabel and Elsie, Maxim, Starr and Benton.

Benton took up the paper, with a gleam in his eyes, as one who smelled

the battle from afar. Starr was for going, most enthusiastically for

it; he wanted another chance of seeing Benton in action. Maxim was

always to be depended upon; he never refused to go with the others.

Elsie smiled and did not commit herself to an opinion. She was a

fatalist. If things went well, she smiled. If they went wrong, she was

equally, perhaps even a little more, amused, and smiled as

enigmatically. Mabel giggled hysterically; her eyes shone; she held up

two fingers, the sign of acquiescence. No project was too mad for her

to accept and welcome; the madder it was, the more enthusiastic she

grew. In her the spirit of adventure still breathed. She was one to

whom things always happened, for she never refused Fate's invitations.

Fate, having invited her, usually saw her through the affair with

gallantry. She always escaped unscathed, preserving all the freshness

of her enthusiasm and ingenuousness. No one credited her with a

history.

Their plan had been talked over and perfected for some time. Mindful of

Fancy's warning, it had been decided to enter the place in two groups

and find seats near together, being careful to hold no communication

with each other.

Dougal was captain of the proposed exposure. He carried an electric

torch and was to choose the proper moment for attack. When he flashed

the light upon the spirit form and rushed forward to seize the actor,

Maxim was to follow at his heels and help, while Starr and Benton

"interfered" for him as in a foot-ball game. The girls were to take

care of themselves and watch everything that went on so as to report the

affair.

There was no adjournment to Champoreau's that night, for it was

necessary to be at Flora Flint's early and attempt to get front seats.

Half-past seven found them at the house on Van Ness Avenue, where they

divided, Mabel going in with Dougal and Maxim, Elsie with Starr and

Benton.

They went up a narrow staircase covered with yellow oil-cloth and

encountered, at the top, a long, pale, tow-headed youth with two front

teeth missing. He was slouching in the hall, by a little table, as if

attempting to hide the tallness and awkwardness of his figure.

Collecting the entrance fees without a word, he pointed to a door and

the seats inside.

The room was square, and had two windows upon the street; it was lighted

dimly from a chandelier in the center, and was crowded with chairs

arranged on each side of a central aisle. There were already a score of

visitors, and prominent in the second row was Mr. Payson, solemnly calm,

impassive, his hands upon the top of his cane. Vixley sat in front and

was conversing over the back of his chair with Lulu Ellis. Dougal and

his companions found seats on the end of the fourth row; the others had

to go farther back.

Hung about were the usual mottoes, worked in colored yarn on perforated

cardboard, and, in addition, a notice warning visitors against disorder.

It was evident that the materializing business was not unattended with

risks. The air was stuffy and smelt of kerosene oil. A curtain of

black cambric was stretched across one corner of the room, between the

folding doors and the mantelpiece, opposite the windows. The hangings

parted in the center, and were now draped up to each side, revealing the

interior of the "cabinet."

Professor Vixley rose to announce that any one wishing to examine the

cabinet might do so, but nobody seemed to think the investigation worth

while. He then went on with an audible conversation with the plump Miss

Ellis. He described, first, the wonderful willingness of Little

Starlight, who was frequently sent by Flora with astral messages to her

mother in Alaska. Lulu played up to him. She saw spirits in the room

already--an old man was standing by the door, looking for some one.

Another spirit was sitting down beside that young lady in green. Vixley

regretted that he couldn't "get" materializing himself, though he had

tried all his life. He had occasionally "got" clairvoyance, but it

couldn't be depended upon. Clairaudience, of course, was easier. It

could be developed in any one who had patience. With his revolving

mirrors he could guarantee it in a month. He handed one of his business

cards to a woman in black who seemed interested.

Flora Flint, pretty, dressed all in black, came in and joined the

conversation. She complained of being tired and headachey, she had

worked so hard that day. She stroked her forehead and rubbed her hands,

but her eyes were busy with her audience.

She hoped that Stella wouldn't come to-night; Stella always "took it out

of her." That was always the way with spirits who had lately "passed

out," and who were not yet reconciled to their condition. Stella

insisted upon coming back all the time to communicate with her

mother--she was not only hindering her own "progression" but worrying

her mother by so doing. Stella, moreover, had not yet learned the Laws

of Being on the spirit-plane, and had not accustomed herself to the

principles of control. Why, it was sometimes positive agony to be taken

possession of by Stella. She came in with a bounce like, and it racked

the medium all over; and she didn't know how to withdraw her force

gradually and easily the way older spirits did. If Wampum, Flora's

Indian control, weren't always ready to assist her it would be something

terrible. Indians had special power over physical conditions. They

were Children of Nature, nearer to earth conditions than others. They

had more magnetism, and knew the secrets of natural medicine. Being

simple creatures, they were more easily summoned from the spirit

sphere--they hadn't "progressed" so far, and they were apt to be still

actuated by the motives and desires of the flesh-plane. Oh, yes, they

were often coarse and vulgar, but they meant well, indeed they did.

Wampum was a great help.

As Flora Flint talked, her eyes ran over the room, looking carefully at

her audience. Some she bowed to smilingly; on others her glance rested

with more deliberation. She came back again and again to Dougal and

Maxim, and to Starr and Benton, in the rear of the room. She whispered

to Vixley, after this scrutiny, and he went out to hold a colloquy with

Ringa in the hall. Soon after, Mr. Spoll came in and took a seat

between the two groups of Pintos. He sat rigidly erect, his thin, bony

face impassive, with only his wild eyes moving.

The Pintos listened with delight to Flora's jargon. Starr, placing his

note-book under his hat, on his knees, made copious notes. Maxim was

most impressed, almost persuaded by the seriousness of the dialogue.

Mabel was all ready to believe at the first promise of a marvel. Elsie

smiled, Benton yawned, Dougal hugged his electric torch fondly inside

his coat.

Madam Spoll soon came in and seated herself between the two windows,

under a box containing a lighted kerosene lamp. Her face, usually so

complacent, was showing signs of perturbation. She was nervous, looking

round every little while suddenly, running her fingers through her short

cropped curly hair, throwing her head back as if she found it hard to

breathe. She was without a hat, and wore, instead of her professional

costume of silk and beads, a black cotton crape gown.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Flora took a chair in front of the cabinet.

Vixley rose, fastened black shutters in front of the windows, closed the

door, put out the gas and turned down the lamp in the box, shading it

with a cloth curtain. The room was now so dark that one could scarcely

distinguish anything, until, when eyes became somewhat accustomed to it,

figures indistinct and shadowy could be vaguely recognized. Flora Flint

spoke:

"I must ask you all to keep perfect silence, please. The spirits won't

manifest themselves unless the conditions are favorable and the circle

is in a receptive state. We can't do anything unless there's harmony,

and if there's any antagonistic vibrations present there's no use

attempting anything in the way of demonstration."

After this prologue, she began, accompanied by the faithful, the

dreariest tune in the world:

"We are _waiting_, we are _waiting_, we are _waiting_, just now,

Just now we are _waiting_, we are _waiting_ just now;

To _receive_ you, to _receive_ you, to _receive_ you just now,

Just now to _receive_ you, to _receive_ you just now.

Show your _faces_, show your _faces_, show your _faces_, just

now,

Just now show your _faces_, show your _faces_ just now!