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Title: Faulkner's Folly

Author: Carolyn Wells

Release Date: March 25, 2019 [EBook #59126]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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                    [Illustration: First-floor plan]




                               FAULKNER'S
                                 FOLLY


                                   BY
                             CAROLYN WELLS
                   AUTHOR OF "THE BRIDE OF A MOMENT"

                     [Illustration: Publisher logo]


                                NEW YORK
                        GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

                            COPYRIGHT, 1917,
                       BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

                            COPYRIGHT, 1917,
                    BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY.

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                                CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
  I. In the Studio                                                     9
  II. Where They Stood                                                23
  III. What They Said                                                 37
  IV. Goldenheart                                                     51
  V. Blake's Story                                                    65
  VI. Mrs. Faulkner's Account                                         79
  VII. Natalie Not Joyce                                              94
  VIII. The Emeralds                                                 108
  IX. One or the Other                                               123
  X. Orienta                                                         137
  XI. Sealed Envelopes                                               151
  XII. A Vision                                                      165
  XIII. An Alibi Needed                                              180
  XIV. From Seven to Seventy                                         192
  XV. Natalie in Danger                                              206
  XVI. Confession and Arrest                                         220
  XVII. Alan Ford                                                    234
  XVIII. Questions and Answers                                       248
  XIX. Ford's Day                                                    262
  XX. On the Staircase                                               276




                            FAULKNER'S FOLLY




                                   I
                             In the Studio


Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase,
to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.

A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the
finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner
had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought
in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes
still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman's back, when he should
have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft
footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very
slightly ajar.

Faulkner's Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been
its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in
England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired
by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones
and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the
joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home.
The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the
staircase had been the architect's joy and delight. It showed the wooden
wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps
with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and
rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the
plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned
galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the
stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the
available funds and Faulkner's Folly, in little more than two years
after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.

James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had
weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had
been her own home.

The man who bought Faulkner's Folly was one who could well appreciate
all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the
artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great
wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner's house with much
joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.

A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by
the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner's death had postponed
this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the
Stannards' while the picture was being painted. Partly because of
sentiment toward her husband's favourite feature of the house, and
partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities,
Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she
descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had
selected for the portrait.

But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture,
as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and
imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening
of the studio door.

"Blake," she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As
the Stannards' guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts'
servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of
her own rule in that house.

Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled
face,--it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance.

"Blake! What is it?" she said, alarmed at his manner. "What are you
doing?"

"I--heard a strange sound, Madame,--from the studio----"

"A strange sound?" and Beatrice came along the hall toward the footman.

"And the lights in there, just went out----"

"The lights went out! What do you mean, Blake? It is not your business
if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?"

"No, Madame--but--there, Madame! Did you not hear that?"

"Oh, yes, yes," and Beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry
faintly, "Help!" It was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire
extremity. "What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once! Turn on the lights!"

"Yes, Madame," and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt
fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.

It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the
lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest
corners.

Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.

"I knew it was something dreadful!" Blake cried, forgetting in his shock
his conventional speech.

Beatrice gave one gasping "Oh!" and covered her face with her hands. But
in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified
fascination, at the awful scene before her.

At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric
Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument
of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of
his shirt bosom.

"Is he--is he----" began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when
her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.

Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women.
They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.

Joyce, only a few feet from her husband's left shoulder, was glaring at
Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was
huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and
trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an
involuntary scream.

Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake
stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits
together first.

"We must do something," he muttered, starting toward his master. "There
is some accident----"

As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came
forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.

"Eric," she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side.
But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank
to the ground almost fainting.

"Who did this, sir?" Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The
dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed
toward the beautiful girl, his model.

"Natalie," he said, "not Joyce." The last words were a mere choking
gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.

"No!" Natalie screamed. "No! Eric, don't say----"

But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.

Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.

"Do something, Blake," she cried. "Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call
Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?"

Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to Joyce's assistance, and
gently raised her from the floor, where she was still crouching by her
husband's side.

"I don't--know--" returned Joyce Stannard, her frightened eyes staring in
tearless agony. "Did you kill him, Natalie?"

"No!" cried the girl. "You know I didn't! You killed him yourself!"

Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by Miller, who was
Stannard's own man.

Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable
servants took the helm.

"Telephone for Doctor Keith," Miller told the other, "and then find Mr.
Barry."

Barry Stannard was Eric's son by a former marriage; a boy of twenty, of
lovable and sunny disposition, and devoted to his father and to his
young stepmother. He soon appeared, for he had been found strolling
about the grounds.

He came in at Halpin's message, and seeing the still figure in the
armchair, sprang toward it, with a cry. Then, as suddenly, he turned,
and without a word or glance at any one else, he ran from the room.

Without touching it further than to assure himself that life was really
extinct, Miller stood, a self-appointed sentinel over the body of his
dead master. He looked curiously at the instrument of death, but said no
word concerning it.

There was more or less confusion. Several servants, both men and women,
came to the doors, some daring to enter, but except in one or two
instances, Miller ordered them out.

Annette, Mrs. Stannard's maid, he advised to look after the ladies, and
Foster, a houseman, he detailed to keep an eye on Barry.

"Where is Mr. Barry?" asked the man.

"I don't know," returned Miller, calmly. "He just stepped out--probably
he's on the terrace. Don't annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he
wants you."

The three women of the household said almost nothing. Mrs. Faulkner was
so stupefied by the situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which
she had found her hostess and the girl, Natalie, she could think of
nothing to say to either. And the two who had stood near the dying man,
as the light disclosed the group, were equally silent.

Annette proffered fans and _sal volatile_ impartially to all three, but
she, also, though usually too voluble, had no words.

After what seemed an interminable wait, Dr. Keith arrived.

"Stabbed," he said, briefly, as he examined the body, "and with one of
his own etching needles! Who did it?"

"With what?" exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, looking puzzled.

"With an etching point--or needle. An artist's tool. Who did it?"

There was a silence, not so much awkward, as fraught with horror. Who
could answer this question, even by a surmise.

Blake threw himself into the breach.

"We don't know, sir," he said. "It was doubtless done in the dark, and,
when I turned up on the lights--the--the murderer had fled."

A half exclamation from Joyce seemed to deny this assertion, and
Natalie's lovely face again showed that hunted, terrified look that had
marked it at first.

"Where's Barry?" went on Dr. Keith.

"I am here," said young Stannard, himself, coming in from the terrace.
"Dr. Keith, I want this matter hushed up. I am master here now, and
horrible though it may all be, it will not lessen our trouble, but
rather increase it, if you have any investigation or inquiry made into
this thing."

Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement. "You don't know what
you're talking about, Barry, my boy. It is not possible to ignore the
facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know who stabbed
your father?"

"No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father is gone, no persecution of
any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never
be found."

"Why not? Why do you say that?"

"I feel sure of it. Oh, listen to me, Dr. Keith. Be guided by my wishes,
and do not seek the one who brought about my father's death. Joyce, you
agree with me, don't you?"

The young fellow had never addressed his father's wife more formally
than this; indeed, there was not much more than half a dozen years
between their ages, and Joyce, at twenty-seven or thereabouts, looked
almost as young as her stepson. There had always been good comradeship
between the two, and during the two years Joyce had been Stannard's wife
she and Barry had never had a word of disagreement or unpleasantness of
any sort.

About six weeks ago, Natalie Vernon, a professional model, had come to
pose for Stannard, and as she had proved most satisfactory, Eric had
informed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as a house guest for a
time. Joyce had voiced no objection, whatever she may have felt in her
heart, and had always treated Natalie with all courtesy and kindness.

The girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect blonde, with a face like
Dresden china and a form of fairylike grace. The soft pink and white of
her apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes and the gleaming
gold of her wonderful hair were Greuze-like in their effects, yet of an
added piquancy and charm.

It is not to be wondered at that Barry promptly fell in love with her,
nor is it remarkable that Eric himself was more or less under the spell
of his beautiful model. A worshipper of all beauty, Stannard could not
help it if his soul bowed down to this masterpiece of Nature's.

A professional model Natalie was, but only for the draped figure. She
was but eighteen, had been well brought up and educated, but, obliged to
earn her own living, had found she had no resources of work except in
her God-given beauty. Posing was a joy to her, and she had posed for but
a few artists and those of the better, even best class. But Eric,
accustomed to having whatever he desired, was determined Natalie should
pose for some allegorical figures in a great picture on which he was
engaged. This she refused to do, and the more Stannard insisted the more
obdurate she became, until there was continual war between them on the
subject. And owing to this state of things, Natalie had decided she must
leave "Faulkner's Folly," and it was only Barry's entreaties that had
thus far kept her from fulfilling her intentions.

Joyce, herself a beautiful woman, of the dark-haired, brown-eyed type,
had often been a model for Eric's pictures, and if she resented being
superceded by this peaches and cream maiden, she never confided the fact
to those about her. Joyce Stannard was clever by nature, and she knew
the quickest way to make her impressionable husband fall desperately in
love with Natalie, was for her, his wife, to be openly jealous. So this
Joyce would not appear to be. She chaffed him gaily about his doll-faced
model and treated Natalie with the patronising generosity one would show
to a pretty child.

But if Joyce was clever, Natalie was too, and she took this treatment
exactly as it was offered, and returned it in kind. Her manner to her
hostess was entirely correct, well-bred and even indicative of
gratitude; but it also implied, with subtle touch, the older and more
settled state of Joyce, and gave a hint of contrast in the freshness of
Natalie's extreme youth and the permissibility of a spice of the madcap
in her ways.

But all these things, on both sides, were so veiled, so delicately
suggested, that they were imperceptible to any but the closest observer.

And now, whatever the facts of Eric Stannard's death might be shown to
be, now it must soon be made known that when the lights of the room
where he died were turned on, they had revealed these two--his wife and
his paid model--near his stricken body, already quivering with its last
few heartbeats.

In answer to Barry's question, Joyce lifted her white face. "I don't
know--" she said, slowly, "I suppose--as Dr. Keith says--these things must
be--be attended to in--in the usual way. But I, too, shrink from the awful
publicity and the harrowing experience we must go through,--Beatrice,
what do you think?"

Mrs. Faulkner replied, with a gentle sympathy: "I fear it won't matter
what we think, Joyce, dear. The law will step in, as always, in case of
a crime, and our opinions or wishes will count for nothing."

"I have sent for the Coroner and for the Police," said Dr. Keith, who
had given Halpin many whispered orders. "Now, Barry, don't be
unreasonable. You can no more stop the routine of the law's procedure
than the stars in their courses. If you know any facts you must be
prepared to state them truthfully. If not, you must say or do nothing
that will put any obstacle in the way of proper inquiry."

Dr. Keith was treating Barry like a child, and though the boy resented
it, he said nothing, but his face showed his hurt pride and his
disappointment.

"Tell us all you can of the facts of the attack," said Beatrice Faulkner
to the doctor.

"The simple facts are plainly seen," was the reply. "Some one standing
in front of Mr. Stannard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed
him with the etching needle. The instrument penetrated his flesh, just
above and a little to one side of the breast bone, piercing the jugular
vein and causing almost instant death."

"Could it not have been a suicide?"

"Impossible, Mrs. Faulkner. Stannard could not have managed that thrust,
and, too, the position of his hands precludes the theory of suicide. But
the Coroner and his physician will, I am sure, corroborate my statement.
It is a clear case of wilful murder, for, as you must see for yourself,
no accidental touch of that instrument would bring about such a deep
sinking of the point in a vital part of the victim."

"But, if I may ask, sir," said Miller, respectfully, "how could a
murderer see to strike such a blow in a dark room? While Mr. Stannard
_could_ have stabbed himself in the dark."

"Those points are outside my jurisdiction," returned the Doctor, looking
grave. "The Coroner and the Police Detectives will endeavour to give the
answers to your perfectly logical queries."

And then the men from Police Headquarters arrived.




                                   II
                            Where They Stood


The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner's Folly,
of all places in the world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long
Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit,
could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the
criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either
burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard's position
and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to
Paris, Maine. Equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable
art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers.

But the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl
being implicated, were absurd. To be sure, the installation of Miss
Vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but Eric
Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, Mrs. Stannard had always
introduced the girl as her friend.

The Stannards were comparatively new people at The Park, but Mrs.
Faulkner, whose husband had built the Folly, was even now visiting
there, and her sanction was enough for the community. It would, one must
admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it
was too impossible. No, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.

Thus the neighbours.

But the Police thought differently. The report of the Post Patrolman who
first appeared upon the scene of the tragedy included a vivid
description of the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole force,
from the Inspector down, determined to discover which was guilty. To
them the death of Eric Stannard was merely a case, but from the nature
of things it was, or would become, a celebrated case, and as such, they
were elated over their connection with it.

In due course, the Coroner's Inquest took place, and was held in the big
studio where Eric Stannard had met his death.

Owing to the personality of Coroner Lamson, this was not the perfunctory
proceeding that inquests sometimes are, but served to bring out the
indicative facts of the situation.

It was the day after the murder and the room was partially filled with
the officers of the law, the jury and a crowd of morbidly curious
strangers. It seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to
the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the
edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures,
statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original plan the studio had
been a ballroom, but its fine North light and great size fitted it for
the workroom of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only implement
of Eric Stannard. He had experimented with almost equal success in
pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become
deeply interested in etching. And it had been one of his own etching
needles that had been the direct cause of his untimely death.

This fact was testified to by Doctor Keith, who further detailed his
being called to the house the night before. He stated that he had
arrived within fifteen minutes after Mr. Stannard--as the family had told
him--had breathed his last. Examination of the body had disclosed that
death was caused by the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon,
which was not removed until later, was a tool known as an Etcher's
needle, a slender, sharp instrument, set in a Wooden handle, the whole
being not unlike a brad-awl. On being shown the needle, the Doctor
identified it as the instrument of death.

Blake, the footman, was next questioned. He was of calm demeanour and
impassive countenance, but his answers were alert and intelligent.

"Too much so," thought Mr. Robert Roberts, a Police Detective, who had
been put upon the case, to his own decided satisfaction. "That man knows
what he's talking about, if he is a wooden-face."

Now, Roberts, called by his chums, Bobsy, was himself alert and
intelligent, and therefore recognised those traits in others. He
listened attentively as Coroner Lamson put his queries.

"You were the first to discover your master's dead body?"

"Mr. Stannard was not dead when I entered the room," replied Blake.

"No, no, to be sure. I mean, you were the first to enter the room after
the man was stabbed?"

"That I can't say. When I entered----" Blake paused, and glanced
uncertainly about. Barry Stannard was looking at the footman with a
stern face.

Inspector Bardon, who was present, interposed. "Tell the story in your
own words, my man. We'll best get at it that way."

"I was on duty in the hall," began Blake, slowly, "and I noticed the
lights go out in the studio here----"

"Was the door between the hall and studio open?" asked Lamson.

"No, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar. I didn't think much
about the light going out, though Mr. Stannard never turned off the
lights when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. And if it did strike
me as a bit queer, I had no time to think the matter over, for just then
I heard a slight sound,--a gasping like, as if somebody was in distress.
As I had not been called, I didn't enter, but I did try to peep in at
the crack of the door. This was not curiosity, but there was something
in that gasp that--that scared me a little."

"What next?" said the Coroner, as Blake paused.

"Just then, sir, Mrs. Faulkner came down the stairs. She was surprised
to see me peeping at a door, and spoke chidingly. But I was so alarmed,
I forgot myself, and--well, and just then, I heard a distinct sound--a
terrible, gurgling sound, and a voice said, 'Help!' I turned to Mrs.
Faulkner to see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face looked
frightened and she asked me what it meant, and she told me to go in and
turn on the light. So--so, I did, and then I saw----"

"Be very careful now, Blake; tell us exactly what you saw."

"I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his
favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying----"

"Have you ever seen a man die?" Lamson snapped out the words as if his
own nerves were at a tension.

"No--no, sir."

"Then how do you know how one would look?"

"I saw something had been thrust into his breast, I saw red stains on
his shirt front, and I saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes
staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched
out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles.
I couldn't think other than that he was a dying man, sir."

"That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An exact account of the scene
as it appeared to you. Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the
spectacle of Mr. Stannard's plight to see clearly the others who were
present?"

"No, sir," and the man's calm face quivered now. "It is as if
photographed on my brain. I can never forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard
were the two ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon."

"Directly behind him?"

"Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind, but off toward his left,
and Miss Vernon was behind, but toward the right."

"Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies stood," and Coroner
Lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled.

"Oh, sir," begged Blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members
of the household which employed him, "oh, sir--Mrs. Faulkner, sir,--she
came in with me,--she can tell better than I----"

"Mrs. Faulkner will be questioned in due time. You came in first; we
will hear your version and then hers. Be accurate now."

With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots he had designated.

"Mrs. Stannard stood here," he said, indicating a position perhaps a
yard back and to the left of Stannard's chair, which was still in its
place.

"What was she doing?"

"Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped
against her breast."

"And Miss Vernon?"

"She was over here," and Blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its
other side, and stood near the outer door.

"How was she standing?"

"Against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth,
like it would upset in a minute."

"And her hands?"

"They were both behind her, sir, clutching at the table."

"You have a wonderful memory, Blake," and the Coroner looked hard at his
witness.

"Not always, sir. But the thing is like a picture to my mind."

"Like a moving picture?"

"No, sir, nobody moved. It was like a tableau, sir----"

"And then," prompted Inspector Bardon.

At this point, Barry Stannard was again seen to look at Blake with a
glance of deep concentration.

"Important, if true," Detective Roberts said to himself. "Young Stannard
is afraid of the footman's further disclosures!"

Whether that was so or not, Blake suddenly lost his power of clear and
concise narration.

"Why, then----" he stammered, "then, all was confusion. I started toward
Mr. Stannard, it--it seemed my duty. And Mrs. Faulkner, she came toward
him----"

"And the two ladies behind him?"

"They came toward him, too, and Mrs. Stannard took hold of his hand----"

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I couldn't help it, sir--I blurted out, 'Who did this?' And
Mr. Stannard--he said----"

"_Said!_ Spoke?"

Attention was concentrated on the footman, and it is doubtful if any one
save Roberts noticed Barry Stannard's face. It was drawn in an agonised
protest at the forthcoming revelation. But Blake, accustomed to obeying
orders implicitly, continued to tell his story.

"Yes, sir, he spoke--sort of whispered, in a gasping way----"

"And what did he say?"

"He said, 'Natalie, not Joyce.'"

"You are sure?"

"Yes, sir," answered the stolid Blake. "And he sort of raised his hand,
pointing toward the lady."

"Pointing toward Miss Vernon, you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. "I won't have this!" he cried.
"I won't allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told
in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It's all wrong!"

The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital
points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at
stake.

"Sit down, for the present, Blake," he said. "Mrs. Faulkner, will you
give us your version of these events?"

Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then
with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said,
"Certainly. Will you ask questions?"

The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence
than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes
rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the
little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With
a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner.

"I am ready," she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times
and seasons.

A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: "Do you corroborate the story as
just related by Blake, the footman?"

"Yes, I think so," and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as
if in an effort of recollection. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice
Faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Natalie she
seemed a middle-aged matron. "I am sure I agree with his facts as
stated, as to our entering the room, but I'm not sure he was able to
hear clearly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not."

"You were not?"

"No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but I am not ready
to say positively that I clearly understood the words."

"You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping in at the door?"

"He wasn't peeping. He was, it seemed to me, listening. I, naturally,
thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and I called out
his name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that as he was not my
footman I had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his
full face toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled, and that
something unusual must be happening in the studio. He told me the lights
had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing
'Help!' It was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. I
bade Blake turn on the light quickly, and then I followed him into the
room."

"Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. Now, will you
tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it."

"I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing
protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. I inferred
that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him."

"And how did you think this intruder had entered?"

"I didn't think anything about that. One doesn't have coherent thoughts
at such a moment. I realised that he had been stabbed, so of course, I
assumed an assailant. Then I saw his wife and Miss Vernon standing near
him, and I had no thought save to assist in any way I might. I cried out
to Blake to get a doctor, and then I went to Mrs. Stannard's side, just
as she was about to faint."

"Did she faint?"

"No, that is, she did not entirely lose consciousness, though greatly
agitated. And then, soon, the butler and Miller, Mr. Stannard's valet,
came in, and after that Barry came and--and everything seemed to happen
at once. Doctor Keith came----"

"One moment, Mrs. Faulkner, you are getting ahead of your story. What
about the words uttered by Mr. Stannard before he died?"

"They were so inarticulate as to be unintelligible."

"You swear this?"

"I do. If he said 'Joyce' or 'Natalie,' it is not at all strange,
considering that those two women were in his sight. But I repeat that he
did not say them in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean any
real statement. It was the unconscious speech of a dying man. In another
instant he was gone."

Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner's voice trembled, and was so
low as to be scarcely audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and her
eyes met Barry's for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding
and approval.

"Hum," commented the astute Roberts to his favourite confidant, himself,
"the Barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly
lady is his friend, and she's helping him out. She isn't telling all she
knows, or if she is, she's colouring it to save the implicated ladies."

"What is your position in this house, Mrs. Faulkner?"

The faintest gleam of amusement passed over the white face. It was
almost as if he thought her a housekeeper or governess.

"I am a guest," she returned, simply. "I have been staying here a few
weeks for the purpose of having my portrait painted by Mr. Stannard."

"You previously owned this house, did you not?"

"My late husband, an architect of note, built it. Later, it was sold to
Mr. Stannard, who has lived in it nearly two years."

"Where were you just before you came down the stairs and saw Blake?"

"In the Drawing Room, on the second floor, at the other end of the
house. I had been entertaining a guest, and as he had just taken leave,
I went down stairs to rejoin my hostess."

"Where did you expect to find Mrs. Stannard?"

"Where I had left her, in the Billiard Room."

"You left her there? How long before?"

"An hour or so. There were several guests at dinner, and they had
drifted to the various rooms afterward."

"Who were the guests at dinner?"

"Mr. Wadsworth, who was with me in the Drawing Room; Mr. Courtenay, a
neighbour, and Mr. and Mrs. Truxton, who also live nearby."

"Mrs. Truxton, the jewel collector?"

"Yes; that is the one."

"There was no one else at dinner?"

"Only the family group; Mr. and Mrs. Stannard, Mr. Barry Stannard, Miss
Vernon and myself."

"Once again, Mrs. Faulkner, you attach no significance to the words,
'Natalie, not Joyce,' which Blake quotes Mr. Stannard as saying?"

Taken thus unexpectedly, Mrs. Faulkner hesitated. Then she said,
steadily: "I do not. They were the articulation of a brain already
clouded by approaching death. He merely named the people he saw nearest
to him."

"That is not true! Eric meant what he said!"

It was Joyce Stannard who spoke.




                                  III
                             What They Said


With a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, Coroner
Lamson began to question Joyce.

"Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stannard?" he said; "do you
realise that it is a grave implication?"

But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said,
talking rapidly, "My husband's words were in direct answer to the
footman's question. Blake said, 'Who did this?' and Mr. Stannard, even
pointing to Miss Vernon, said, 'Natalie, not Joyce.' Could anything be
plainer?"

"It might seem so, yet we must take into consideration the fast clouding
intellect of the dying man, and endeavour thus to get at the truth. Will
you tell the circumstances of your entering the room, Mrs. Stannard?"

"Of course I will. I had been in the Billiard Room for some time, ever
since dinner, in fact----"

"Alone?"

"Not at first. Several were there with me. Then, later, all had
gone--and--I was there alone."

The speaker paused. She seemed to forget her audience and became lost in
recollection or in thought. She looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed
in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit of white turned in
at the throat. Her brown hair waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot
and her deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly luminous.

"Perhaps it wasn't Natalie," she said, speaking breathlessly. "Perhaps
it wasn't Miss Vernon--after all."

"We are not asking your opinion, Mrs. Stannard," said the Coroner,
stiffly; "kindly confine your recital to the facts as they happened."

But now, the witness' poise was shaken. Of a temperamental nature, Joyce
Stannard had thought of something or realised something that affected
the trend of her testimony.

Bobsy Roberts watched her with intense interest. "Well, Milady," he said
to her, mentally, "you've struck a snag in your well-planned defence.
Careful now, don't leap before you look!"

"Yes," said Joyce, but her quivering lip precluded further speech.

The Coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable by the sight of her beauty
and her distress, always a disquieting combination, and to hide his
sympathy, he repeated, brusquely, "The facts, please, as they occurred."

"I was in the Billiard Room," Joyce began again, "and I heard, in the
studio, a slight sound of some sort, and then the light in here went
out."

"Which was first, the sound or the sudden darkness?"

"The sound--no, the darkness. I don't really know. Perhaps they were
simultaneous."

"One moment; was the Billiard Room lighted?"

"Yes."

"And the door between open?"

"The sliding doors were open--the curtains pulled together."

Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, Mr. Lamson said
quickly: "If they were pulled together, and the room where you were was
light, how could you notice when this room went dark?"

Joyce looked bewildered. "I don't know," she said, blankly, "how could
I?"

The question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled,
that Bobsy Roberts whistled to himself. But not for want of thought. His
thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. "Of
course," his principal thought was, "one of these women is guilty. If
the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn't have any of this
back and forth kiyi with their eyes. Now, the question is, _which_ one?"

Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances. But to a stranger they
were unreadable, and Roberts contented himself with storing them up in
his memory for future consideration. And now, as Joyce looked confused
and nonplussed, Natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly
drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed.

"But you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?" pursued
Lamson.

"Why, yes--I think so. You see--it was all so confused----"

"What was?"

"Why,--the lights,--and that queer sound--and----"

"Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights and the sound. You entered
the studio from the Billiard Room, and saw----?"

"I didn't see anything!" declared Joyce, with a sudden toss of her head.
"I c-couldn't. It was dark, you know. Then somebody, Blake, you know,
turned the switch, and I saw Miss Vernon standing by my dying
husband's----"

"How did you know he was dying? Did you see Miss Vernon strike the
blow?"

"No. But she was in the room when I entered--and, too, Eric said it was
Natalie and not--me."

"You are prepared to swear that Miss Vernon was in the room before you
were?"

"She was there when I went in."

"But it was dark, how could you see her?"

"I didn't. I heard her breathing in a quick, frightened way."

"And when you first saw her?"

"She was cowering back against the little paint stand."

"Looking terrified?"

"Yes, and----"

"And what?"

"And guilty." Joyce said the words solemnly, as one unwillingly
pronouncing a doom.

"Mrs. Stannard, I must be unpleasantly personal. Can you think of any
reason why Miss Vernon would desire your husband's death?"

Joyce trembled visibly. "I cannot answer a question like that," she
said, in a low tone.

"I'm sorry,--but you must."

"No, then," and Joyce looked squarely at Natalie. "I cannot imagine why
she should desire his death. I certainly cannot."

"But any reason why she should dislike him, or wish him ill?"

"N-no."

"Think again."

"My husband was a great artist," Joyce began, as if thinking it out for
herself. "He was accustomed to having his models do as he requested.
Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and--and they were not
very good friends."

"But you and Miss Vernon are good friends? You like her?"

Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. "Certainly," she said, in an
even voice, "I like her."

"Whew!" breathed our friend Roberts, silently. "At last I see what one
Mr. Pope meant when he wrote:

  "Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
  And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer."

For, surely, Joyce's attestation of friendship between herself and the
artist's model convinced nobody. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious
face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound
feeling beneath.

"In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stannard's displeasure?" asked
Lamson.

"Merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his
pictures," was the nonchalant reply.

"That, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?"

"Scarcely." Joyce seemed to give a mere parrot-like repetition of the
Coroner's word.

"Yet, you are willing to believe that Miss Vernon is the criminal we are
seeking?"

"I do not say that," and Joyce spoke softly. "I can only say I saw her
here when I came into this room and found my husband dying."

"Might she not have come in just as you did, attracted by that strange
sound, as of a man in pain?"

"In that case, who could have stabbed my husband? There was no one else
near. That has been testified by those who entered at the other end of
the room."

"Could not a burglar have entered by a window, attempted robbery, and,
being discovered, stabbed Mr. Stannard in self-preservation?"

"How could he have entered?" said Joyce, dully.

"I can see no way. That is, he might have been in here, but in no way
could he have gotten out. That great North window, I am told, opens only
in a few high sectional panes. It is shaded by rollers from the bottom,
and is inaccessible. The other large window, the West one, is so blocked
up with easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody could get
in or out of that. The door to the main hall was, of course, in full
sight of Blake the footman, and that leaves only the South end of the
room to be considered. Now no intruder could have gone out by the door
to the Billiard Room or the door to the Terrace without having been seen
by you or Miss Vernon, who claims she was on the Terrace all evening."

Every one present looked around at the Studio. They saw a spacious room,
about forty feet long by thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty
feet high. An enormous fireplace was on the side toward the house, and
above it ran an ornamental balcony, reached by a light staircase at
either end. The fine, big windows were of stained glass, save where
ground glass had been put in to meet the artist's needs. Originally a
ballroom, the decorations were ornate but in restrained and harmonious
taste. There were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless works of art
all about, and furnishings of regal state and luxury. Yet, also, was
there the litter and mess of working materials and mediums--seemingly
inseparable from any studio, however watched and tended. Here would be a
stunning Elizabethan chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high
with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest of marvellous
workmanship, from whose half-open lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs
or quaintly-fashioned garments. Tables everywhere, of inlay or
marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of pastels, or small casts.
Jugs and vases, fit only for museum pieces, held sheafs of
paint-brushes, while scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood
all round the wall.

The armchair, in which Eric Stannard had sat when he died, was
undisturbed, also the tables near it. A new idea seemed to strike
Lamson. He said, "When you came in in the darkness, Mrs. Stannard, how
did you avoid stumbling over the chairs and stands in your way? I count
four of them, practically in the course you must have pursued."

Joyce looked at the part of the room in question. True, there were four
or more small pieces of furniture that would have bothered one coming in
without a light.

"That's so!" she said, as if the idea were illuminating. "I must have
come in just after or at the very moment that Blake lighted the
electrics!"

"And found Miss Vernon already here?"

"Yes," said Joyce.

"Miss Vernon, will you tell your story?" said Lamson, abruptly, turning
from Joyce to the girl.

"Why--I----" Natalie fluttered like a frightened bird, and gazed piteously
at the inquisitor. "I don't know how."

"Good work!" commented Bobsy Roberts, mentally. "Smart little girl to
know how the baby act fetches 'em!"

But if Natalie Vernon's air of helplessness was assumed, it was
sufficiently well done to convince all who saw it.

"Poor little thing!" was in everybody's mind as the rosebud face looked
pleadingly at the Coroner. At that moment, if she had declared herself
the guilty wretch, nobody would have believed her.

Lamson's abruptness vanished, and he said, gently, "Just a simple
description, Miss Vernon, of your presence in this room last night."

"It was this way," she began, and her face drew itself into delicious
wrinkles, as she chose her words. "I had been, ever since dinner,
almost, on the terrace."

"Alone?"

"Oh, no. Different people were there. Coming and going, you know. Well,
at last, I chanced to be there alone----"

"Who had been with you latest?"

"Let me see," and the palpable effort to remember was too pronounced to
be real, "I guess--yes, I'm sure it was Barry,--Mr. Barry Stannard. And he
went away----"

"Where?"

"I don't know. For a stroll with the dogs, probably. I was about to go
upstairs to my room, when I heard a sound in the studio that seemed
queer."

"How, queer?"

"As if somebody were calling me--I mean, calling for somebody."

"Did you hear your name?" and Lamson caught at the straw.

"Oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. And I went toward the door
to listen, if it might be repeated."

"Was the door open?"

"No, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and these were a little
way open, and I could see through them that the light went out
suddenly----"

"Well?"

"And then I went right in, without making a sound----"

"Didn't it make a sound as you opened the door?"

"The door was open."

"You said it was not."

"Oh, I don't know whether it was or not! I was so scared to see
Eric,--Mr. Stannard, dead or dying, and his wife standing there as if she
had just----"

"Just what? Killed him?"

"Yes," and Natalie's big blue eyes were violet with horror. "She had!
And she stood there, just as Blake said, one hand on the table, and one
clutched to her breast. She did do it, Mr. Coroner. She must have been
out of her mind, you know, but she did it, for I saw her."

"Saw her kill him?"

"No, not that. But I saw her just after the deed was done, and she was
the picture of guilty fear!"

If Natalie could have been transferred to canvas as she looked then, the
picture would have made any painter's fortune. The girl was in white,
soft, crêpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines, for the
gown had been designed by no less a genius than Stannard himself. It was
his whim to have Natalie about the house in the gowns in which he posed
her, that he might catch an occasional unexpected effect. But the simple
affair was not out of place as a morning house-gown, and more than one
woman in the audience took careful note of its cut and pattern. Her
golden hair was carelessly tossed up in a mass of curls, held with one
hair-pin, a huge amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip out,
and one couldn't help wishing it would. Her wonderful eyes had long dark
lashes, and her pink cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous
excitement. So thin was her delicate skin that her hands and throat were
flushed a soft pink and her curved lips were scarlet. Yet
notwithstanding the marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of
doubt that it was Nature's own. The play of rose and white in her
cheeks, the sudden occasional paling of the red lips and the perfection
of the tiny shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing temples all
spoke of the real humanity of this girl's beauty. Small wonder the
artist wanted her for his own pictures exclusively! Joyce was a
beautiful woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a dream, a
very Titania of charm and wonder.

Not by her testimony, not by words of assertion, but by her ethereal,
her incredible beauty, this wonder-girl took captive every heart and,
without effort, secured the sympathy and belief of everybody present.

And yet, the Coroner had to do his duty. Had to say, in curt, accusing
tones, "Then how do you explain Mr. Stannard's dying words, 'Natalie,
not Joyce!'?"

The red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew pinker and great tears
formed in the appealing blue eyes.

"Don't ask me that!" she cried; "oh, pray, don't ask me _that_!"

"But I do, I must ask you. And I must ask you why you stabbed him? Had
he asked you to pose in any way to which you were unwilling to consent?
Had he insisted, after you refused? Was he tyrannical? Brutal? Cruel?
Did you have to defend yourself? Was it on an impulse of sudden anger or
indignation?"

"Stop! Stop!" cried Natalie, putting her pink finger tips into her tiny,
rosy ears. "Stop! He was none of those things! He was good to me,
he--he----"

"Good to you, yet you killed him! Kind to you, yet you took his life----"

"I didn't! I tell you I didn't! It was Joyce! She----"

"Miss Vernon, if you came into the room in the dark, how could you
effect an entrance without upsetting something? There are even more
small racks and stands on that side of the room than the other."

"No, I didn't upset anything----" and Natalie stared at him.

"Then you came in before the room was darkened,--long before,--and you
darkened it yourself, after you had driven the blow that ended the life
of your friend and patron."

Coroner Lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of Natalie's face turned to a
creamy pallor, and the girl sank, unconscious, into a chair.

"Brutal!" cried Barry Stannard, springing to her side. "Inexcusable, Mr.
Lamson. This is no place for a Third Degree procedure!" and asking no
one's permission, he carried the slight form from the studio.




                                   IV
                              Goldenheart


A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion
was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the
pretty little model. For "model," Natalie was always called, in spite of
the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard's house. And she
looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not
those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert débutante. She had the poise and
assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent,
rather than ignorant, child. But her self-reliance, though it had given
way before the Coroner's accusation, was always evident in the clear
gaze of her apprehending eyes and the set of her lovely head. Moreover,
she had that precious possession called _charm_ to an infinite degree.
It was the despair of the artists who had painted her, and Eric
Stannard, unwilling to be baffled, had tried a hundred times, more or
less successfully, to fasten that charm in colour medium. Of late, he
had tried it in his etching. An unfinished piece of work was a waxed
plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of Natalie as Goldenrod. This he
had previously painted, and the result, a study in yellow, was his copy
for the etching. The canvas showed the girl, her arms full of goldenrod,
her yellow gown and her yellow hair against a background of yellow
autumn leaves. It was a masterpiece, even for Stannard. And aside from
the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he decided to make an
etching of the study.

The waxed plate, with this design, had been found on the floor near
Eric's chair, after his death. The wax had been scratched and smudged,
quite evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches and
disfigurements were doubtless made by the very instrument that had
caused the artist's death.

This was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what was indicated? That
Natalie, in a fit of anger at Eric, had destroyed his picture of her?
Or, that Joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait?

The painting, as Natalie had posed for it, was a lovely girl in a full
flowing robe of soft, opaque stuff, showing only a bit of throat and
shoulder, and one rounded arm. The etching, as the artist had drawn it,
garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent drapery, revealing lines that
gave a totally different character to the work.

Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. Whether she was
absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. But could
an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a
way she didn't care to be portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there
was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in
those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss Vernon chose to be an unusual,
even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and
insist upon them. And in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what
might not a woman do?

Again, could it not be that the artist's wife had had her jealousy
stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband's interest in
the model? Could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing
on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged
her slighted wifehood?

"It's a poor clue that won't work both ways," mused Bobsy Roberts, as he
heard of this etching business. The story of it had been told while
Natalie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an unruffled
countenance. Either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so.

Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at
dinner the night before.

The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the
occasion. He was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower.

After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others
in the studio. Mr. Stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition
to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had gone to the Billiard
Room, and later, he and Mrs. Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at
the other end of the house. He had remained there with the lady until
perhaps half past eleven----

"Wait," interposed the Coroner. "Mrs. Faulkner came downstairs, after
your departure, at that hour."

"Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn't note the time. I went
directly home, and retired without looking at the hour."

"You went out at the front door?"

"Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn't look for my hostess as I
left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the
formalities."

There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was
Mr. Eugene Courtenay.

But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the
witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy,
and to him it was a revelation.

"Oh, ho," was his self-communing, "sits the wind in that quarter? Now,
if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are--er--_en rapport_--it puts a
distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this."

Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a
near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce's before she succumbed to
Stannard's Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both.

Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the
effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various
rooms, he had been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Several
others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone
there with his hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from the
Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He had not gone directly home,
but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a
garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit facing the studio South
window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. He thought
nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he
think it strange in any way. Why shouldn't people light and relight
their rooms as they chose? He then went home, knowing nothing of the
tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. No further questioning
brought out anything of importance and Courtenay was dismissed.

Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information. They told of the dinner
party, and of the hours afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels
exhibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the
enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any
light on the mystery.

"Where are these jewels?" asked Lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible
robbery.

"I don't know," Joyce answered, listlessly. "Mr. Stannard kept some of
them in Safety Deposit and some in the house. He had a place of
concealment for them, but I preferred not to know where it is. When I
wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put
them away again."

"Do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that a burglar intent on securing
these gems might have attempted a robbery, and----"

"Come, come, Lamson," interposed Inspector Bardon, "a burglar would
scarcely make his attempt while the household was still up, the house
alight, and people sauntering through the grounds."

"No, of course not," responded the Coroner, in no wise abashed.

Next, Barry Stannard was asked to tell what he could of the whole
matter.

"It was the work of a burglar," said young Stannard, confidently; "it
simply shows his cleverness that he chose a time when he could effect an
entrance easily. He need not have been a rough customer. He may have
been of a gentlemanly type,--even in evening clothes. But he gained
access to my father, I haven't the slightest doubt, and brought to bear
some influence or threat that he hoped would gain him his end. When my
father refused his demands,--this is my theory and belief,--he either
feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge, killed my father with the
nearest weapon he could snatch at."

"And then, you think, Mr. Stannard, that this intruder turned off the
lights and made his exit just before the ladies entered the room?"

"I do. He was evidently a cool hand, and made a quick and clever
getaway."

"And just how did he leave the room? You know, Mrs. Stannard was in the
Billiard Room and Miss Vernon on the Terrace, while Blake was at the
main hall door."

"He made his escape by the large West window," replied Barry. "If you
will examine it on the outside, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or
whatever you call the tool that burglars open windows with."

An officer was sent at once to investigate this, and returned with the
information that there certainly were marks and scratches outside the
window in question. It was a long, French window, opening like a double
door, and near the lock were the tell-tale marks.

Bobsy Roberts cast one comprehensive glance at the West window, and then
closed and reopened one of his rather good-looking grey eyes. He glanced
at Barry, and observed, silently, "Some scheme!" after which, he calmly
awaited developments.

"But how can we think that a man entered at that window," said Lamson,
"when we notice how it is filled with furniture and apparatus?"

"It might have been managed," asserted Barry.

And then Bobsy Roberts spoke out loud. "It couldn't be," he said,
positively. "No one could, by any chance or skill, come in or go out by
that window without moving those plaster casts that are on the floor. No
one could do it without overturning that small easel, whose leg is
directly in the path of the window frame as it swings back. If you will
try it, Inspector, you will see what I mean."

It was true. Even though the window might be opened, it would crash into
and knock over the small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished
picture on a mounted canvas. And it would also knock down some casts
which leaned against it.

Barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now the Coroner regarded him
with a sort of suspicion.

"Mr. Stannard," he said, "I don't want to do you an injustice, but your
theory is so suspiciously implausible, that I can't help thinking you
might have made those scratches on the window yourself, for the purpose
of diverting suspicion."

"I did," Barry blurted out, almost like a school-boy. "And I am not
ashamed of it. My father's death is a mystery. So much of a one that I
feel sure it will never be solved. For that reason, I did and do want to
turn your mind away from the absurd and utterly unfounded presumption
you make that the crime could have been committed by either of the two
ladies who, hearing my father's dying struggles, rushed to his
assistance."

"That may be the case," said Lamson, "with one of the ladies you refer
to. But the other is, to all appearances the one responsible for the
crime. It is my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the position
and high character of the ladies make it seem impossible."

"It is impossible!" protested Barry. "I know of facts and conditions
which make it possible and probable that an outsider, a--well, a
blackmailer, perhaps,--might have attacked my father. This is outside of
discovery or proof, but I request,--I demand that you cease to persecute
your present suspects!"

The boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed even younger than usual,
quivered with the tensity of his emotion and faced the Coroner with a
belligerent antagonism that would have been funny in a case less grave.

Roberts regarded him with interest. "Some chap!" he thought. "I wonder,
now, if he did it himself,--and is trying to scatter the scent. No, I
fancy it's his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he jimmied the door in
a foolish attempt to make a noise like a burglar."

"Do you know where your father kept his jewels?" asked Lamson, suddenly,
and Barry started, as he said, "No, I've no idea. That is, the ones in
the house. The others are in deposit with the Black Rock Trust Company."

"Who does know the whereabouts of those kept in the house?"

But nobody seemed to know. Joyce had said she did not. Barry disclaimed
the knowledge. Inquired of, Miller, the valet, did not know. Nor Halpin,
the old Butler, nor any of the other servants.

It would seem that Eric Stannard had concealed his treasures in a
hiding-place known only to himself. An officer was sent to search his
personal rooms, and in the meantime Joyce was subjected to a further
grilling.

Exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, handsome face was pale and
drawn. Wearily, she answered questions that were not always necessary or
tactful.

At last, when Lamson was trying to draw from her an account of what she
was doing or thinking after Courtenay had left her alone in the Billiard
Room, she seemed to lose both patience and control, and burst forth,
impulsively, "I was listening at the Studio door!"

"Ah! And what did you hear?"

"I heard my husband say, 'No, no, my lady, I will not divorce Joyce for
you!' and then he laughed,--a certain laugh of his that I always called
the trouble laugh,--a sarcastic, irritating chuckle, enough to exasperate
anybody,--_anybody_, beyond the point of endurance!"

The Coroner almost gasped, but fearing to check the flow of speech that
promised so much, he said, quietly, "Did you hear anything further?"

"I did. I heard him say, 'I'll give you the emeralds, if you like, but I
really won't marry you.'"

"Your husband was not a cruel man, Mrs. Stannard?"

"On the contrary, he was gentleness itself. He was most courteous and
gallant toward all, but if any one went counter to his wishes or
opinions, he invariably used a good-natured, jeering tone that was most
annoying."

"And to whom were these remarks that you overheard, addressed?"

"How can you ask? I was just about to go into the room, as I felt it my
right, when, at that very moment, the light was extinguished. I was so
surprised at this, that I stood there, uncertain what to do. Then
hearing Eric gasp, as if in distress, I pushed the curtain aside and
went in. The rest, I have told you."

Joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of crimson swept over her
face. She looked startled, ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence
or told a secret, which she now regretted. Barry sat beside her, and he
was looking at her curiously.

Then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. He
reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but
brought a note he had found on Mr. Stannard's writing desk.

Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over to Inspector Bardon.

Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus:

  Goldenheart:

  You have a strange power over me--you can sway me to your will when I
  am in your presence. But now, alone, I am my own man and my better
  self protests at our secret. You know where the jewels are hidden.
  Take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forget

                                                                   Eric.

The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped at this revelation of
the artist's intrigue with his model. Joyce turned white to her very
lips, and Barry flushed scarlet.

"Call Miss Vernon," commanded the Coroner, abruptly.

Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now.
Without a word, Lamson handed her the note.

The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the trembling of her lip,
which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and
self-possessed.

"Well?" said the Coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce
before, "what does that note to you mean?"

Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. If her angel
face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth
and quivering chin told of her desperate distress.

"It is not to me," she whispered.

"That's right," Bobsy Roberts thought; "stick to that, now. It's fine!"

"It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stannard's desk. Where are the
emeralds? Where are the other jewels hidden?"

"I do not know. I tell you that letter is not mine."

"Not yours, because you didn't receive it. But it was written to you,
and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the
purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him."

Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. Her rosy palm
lifted in protest, she said, "Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard's story
and not mine? What _I_ saw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering
in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime."

Lamson paused. He remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested
witnesses, Mrs. Faulkner and Blake, went to show that these two women
were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime
itself. Who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the
disappointed girl?

And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake had told in detail the
succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the
lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce have
timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment?
And, also, might not Natalie merely have patterned her recital after
that of Joyce? Which woman was guilty?




                                   V
                             Blake's Story


The sapient gentlemen of the Coroner's Jury concluded, after a somewhat
protracted discussion, that Eric Stannard met his death at those
convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. They
could not bring themselves to accuse either Joyce or Natalie, because
for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other's unsupported
story. And Public Opinion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer
Park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that
implicated either or both of these two women. And yet, there were many
exceptions. Many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the
innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed private views that stultified
their statements. And some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a
thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for the burglar theory,
ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder's entrance, and
repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was
sufficient proof of robbery.

It may be that Barry's self-confessed scratching of the paint on the
window-frame turned the trend of thought toward a possible burglar or
blackmailer, even if he gained entrance some other way; and it may be
this was the loophole through which the two suspected people escaped
accusation.

But the interest of the police in these two was strengthened rather than
lessened, and their life and conduct were under close scrutiny.

Captain Steele, who had been assigned to the case, declared that he was
glad of the verdict, for it was better to have the suspects at large,
and he was a firm believer in the principle of giving people sufficient
rope and allowing them the privilege of hanging themselves.

Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house was always called,--in
spite of the Stannards' attempts to use the more attractive name of
Stanhurst,--on the day after the inquest, and Detective Roberts was also
there and one or two other policemen and reporters.

Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room next the studio for his
quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the
proceedings and evidence of the day before.

"You see, Bobsy," he said, "the burglar stunt won't work. I've tried,
and Carter, here, he's tried, and we couldn't come within a mile of
getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making
noise and commotion enough to wake the dead."

"I know it," assented Bobsy. "Knew it all the time. Let's cut out Mr.
Burglar. Also, Blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have
looked in the studio in case of a racket."

"Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab act. They all say about
half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly."

"Of course they don't. People in evening togs never know what time it
is. Why should they? They don't have to punch a clock. I think the
footman would just about know, though. Servants have their hours, you
know. And anyway, let's get that man in here."

Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to
answer questions.

He retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had
testified at the inquest.

"Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?" asked Steele.

"Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went
out."

"How long was the light out?" Roberts put in.

"I should say, not more'n a minute or so. I was that scared when I heard
the sounds, I can't tell about the length of time properly. But it
wasn't two minutes, I'm sure, between the studio light going off and me
turning it on."

"Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner hadn't told you to?"

Blake considered. "I can't say. I think, yes, for I heard that 'Help!'
distinctly, for all it was so faint. And I think, if I'd been on my own,
I'd 'a' gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use his judgment,
sir."

"Right you are, Blake," said Bobsy, who had taken a liking to the
footman. "Now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member
of the family--of the household."

"I don't know much as to that. You see, I was on the hall, and I could
only see those who passed through it."

"Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them."

"Before dinner, everybody was in the Drawing Room, that's over the
dining room, at the East end of the house. Then they all came down the
grand staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then. After dinner,
the ladies had their coffee on the Terrace and the gentlemen stayed at
the table. Then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty
much scattered all over the house. Everybody was in the studio at one
time, and then some went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception Room
we're now in, or up to the Drawing Room. Then, about eleven, Mr. and
Mrs. Truxton went home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner and Mr.
Wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. But after the Truxtons
went, Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing Room. You
see,--er----"

"What, Blake?"

"Well, if I may say it, sir, he's--er--sweet on her, and they two went off
by themselves."

"I see," and Bobsy smiled. "Now, as to the other ladies, Mrs. Stannard
and Miss Vernon?"

"Of those I know nothing, for they didn't come around where I was."

"Nor any of the men?"

"No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he came down, and I let him
out. He says, 'Good night, Blake,' sort of gay like, and I thought
perhaps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir."

"Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came down?"

"Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had heard this queer noise
in the studio, and I was listening at the crack of the door. I meant no
harm, and no curiosity,--but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight of me just then,
and she spoke to me. Then, the lights went out----"

"Why, you said they were out before the lady spoke to you."

"Oh, yes, that's right, they were. Well, it's small wonder I get mixed
up. They were, sir, because I told Mrs. Faulkner they were, and she said
it wasn't my place to comment on that. And she was right, it wasn't my
place, to be sure; but I was worried, that's what I was, worried, and
then we both heard the cry of 'Help!' and she told me to turn on the
studio lights and I did."

"Do they all obey one switch?"

"Yes, sir, that is, there's one main key right at the door jamb that
controls all. So when I turned it on, the whole room was ablaze."

"And of course, you couldn't help seeing the exact state of things.
Well, Blake, which lady do you think did it?"

"Oh, sir," and Blake's solemn face grew a shade more so, "I couldn't
say. I'm sure I don't know. But, it must have been one of them, there's
no getting around that. When I saw the three, as you might say, almost
in a row, and the two ladies, sir, both near to Mr. Stannard, sir, and
both looking--oh, I can't describe how they looked! Why if they were both
guilty they couldn't have looked different."

"They weren't both guilty!" cried Roberts. "It couldn't have been
collusion, eh, Steele?"

"Nonsense, of course not," returned Captain Steele; "one stabbed him,
and the other came in at the sound of his voice. The terror and shock of
the culprit and that of the innocent one would both be manifested by the
same expressions of horror and fright."

"I believe that," said Bobsy, after a minute's thought. "Now, Blake, as
to the actual means of getting in and out of that studio. Let's go in
there."

It was rather early in the morning and the members of the household were
as yet in their rooms. It was not the intention of the Police to intrude
upon them until after the funeral, but it was desirable to make certain
inquiries and investigations while the matter was fresh in the minds of
the servants.

Roberts intended to interview others of them afterward, but just now
Blake was proving so satisfactory that he continued to keep him by.

In the studio, both Steele and Roberts examined carefully the marks on
the West window casing.

"Idiot boy!" exclaimed Bobsy. "To think he could fool us into believing
this was professional work!"

"It shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round here and fix it up so
quickly," said Steele, a bit admiringly.

"That's what Mr. Barry has, sir, the leaping mind," observed Blake, as
if pleased with the phrase. "Often he jumps to a conclusion or decision
that his father'd take hours to reach."

"Mr. Stannard was slow, then?"

"Not to say slow, in some things. He was like lightning at his work. But
as to a matter, now, that he didn't want to bother about, he would put
it off or dawdle about it, something awful."

"And you see," Bobsy went on, "there are only three doors and three
windows in the place. Now we have accounted for----"

"What's the gallery for?" asked Steele, gazing up at the gilded iron
scrollwork of the little balcony.

"Just for ornament, sir," Blake returned. "And I've heard Mr. Stannard
say, it was necessary, to break up that wall. You see, the ceiling is
some twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, being next the main
house."

"It's all one house,--there's no division?"

"No real division, sir, but this end,--the studio and Billiard Room on
this floor, and the rooms directly above,--are all Mr. Stannard's own,
and in a way separate from the rest of the house."

"His sleeping room is above the studio?"

"Yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and den. Mrs. Stannard's rooms
are next, over the Reception Room, and all the other bedrooms are over
the dining room end, and in the third story."

"Listen," impatiently cut in Bobsy. "There are six ways of getting in
and out. Now nobody could have entered at the hall door where you were,
Blake?"

"Oh, no, sir. I was there all the evening, and the hall lighted as
bright as day."

"All right. That's one off. Now we'll go round the room. The North
window is out of the question, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Blake, as the query was to him. "It only opens in those
high, upper sections, by cords, don't you see?"

Blake showed the contrivance that opened and shut the upper panes, and
it was clear to be seen that there was no possibility of entrance that
way.

"Next is the West window," Bobsy went on, "and that's settled by a
glance. Why, look at the chalk dust on the floor. How could any one walk
through that and leave no track?"

This was unanswerable, so they went on to the door to the Billiard Room.

"This is where Mrs. Stannard came in. No other person could have entered
this door unless she had seen him. Now, we come to the East window. This
was open, I am told, but the wire fly-screen makes it safe. Also, Mr.
Courtenay sat on a lawn bench, looking this way, when the light went
out. Had a person climbed in at this window before that he must have
seen him."

"He couldn't climb in, sir, 'count of the screen," said Blake. "It's not
a movable screen. We put them up for the season, and take them down the
middle of October. They all come down next week."

"This door, the last," and Bobsy paused at the door to the Terrace, "is
the one at which Miss Vernon entered. If any one else had come in here
she would have seen him. That completes our circuit. No one could have
gained access to this room except the ones under consideration. Now we
are faced by the fact that one of those two women committed the murder,
and it's up to us to decide which one."

"There's the fireplace," suggested Steele.

"There was a fire there that night," Blake asserted. "That is, there had
been, for the evening was a little chilly, and too, Mrs. Stannard is
fond of an open fire. It was burned out when--when it all happened, but
the embers were smouldering when I came into the room. And no one could
come down the chimney, anyway. It's a crooked flue, and it's full of
soot beside."

"No one ever comes down a chimney," said Roberts, "but it's always well
to look into it." He peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of
soot showed no scratches or marks.

"Then there's no ingress other than those we've noted," Steele mused.
"There's no skylight, no cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place,"
he ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the wainscoated wall.
"Solid," he said, as he came down the other little stair. "Now, is there
any trap door?"

They lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but the oak was an unmarred
surface, and no opening was there of any sort.

"I wanted to be sure," said Roberts, as, a little shamefacedly he
pounded on the floorboards around the West window. "Now, I am sure. We
have only the two doors to deal with. The door from the Terrace and the
one from the studio. Let's look at them both."

Stepping out onto the beautiful covered Terrace, the men paused to take
in the glories of the scene. The splendid lawns sloping down to even
more splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a Nature lover
both. The October foliage was alight and aglow, and the Autumn flowers
were masses of gorgeous bloom. But after a whiff or two of the sunlit
morning air, they returned to their quest.

"On this terrace Miss Vernon and Barry Stannard sat until after eleven,"
Roberts said; "I got that from young Stannard himself."

"Don't put too much faith in those people's ideas of time," warned
Steele. "He may think it was after eleven and it may have been much
earlier."

"You're right, there. Well, anyway, he sat here with her, in the
dark,--he told me he had turned off the Terrace light,--and then he went
off to give the dogs some exercise. I believe they go for a trot every
night, don't they, Blake?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. Barry almost always romps about with the dogs of an
evening."

"Well, that leaves Miss Vernon alone here for an indefinite--I mean, an
indeterminate time. Now, why doesn't Mr. Courtenay see her, as he sits
on that lawn seat yonder?"

"Too dark," said Steele, laconically.

"That's right. She was back, we'll say, under the Terrace roof, and the
night was dark. Moreover, the Studio was brightly lighted, also the
Billiard Room, which threw the Terrace even more in shadow. Well,
then,--I'm sort of reconstructing this,--Miss Vernon sat here, until, _as
she says_, she heard the noise in the studio."

"Or saw the light go out," and Steele shook his head. "Nobody seems to
know which happened first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer
sound."

"No one knows, except the murderer," said Roberts, seriously. "The
murderer knows, because he--or she--turned off the light, but the others,
who are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is about a
moment of unexpected action."

"That's it," and Steele looked at the detective in admiration. "Mighty
few can give a clear account of sudden happenings, unless it's a cut and
dried account."

"And yet--" Bobsy frowned, "you know both Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard
became confused about the lights."

"That's because they both tried to copycat the footman's story. You see,
the one who really killed Stannard, did shut off the lights, and when
she tells her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up about the
sound and the lights, because she was in the studio all the time, and
not where she says she was, at all. Then, on the other hand, the other
of the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she really can't tell
just how things did happen."

"Sound enough. Now let's go to the Billiard Room."

Crossing the studio again, they entered the Billiard Room, a large
apartment with seats round the walls and the table in the centre.

Cue racks and much smoking and other masculine paraphernalia were all
about. There were a skylight of stained glass and a few high side
windows. An outside door was on the South side.

"Here Mr. Courtenay left Mrs. Stannard, at much the same time Barry left
the girl," Roberts said. "So you see, Steele, their chances are equal."

"Chances of what?"

"I mean chances to go into the studio, unobserved of anybody, commit the
deed, turn off the lights, and then, either return to the spot she came
from or to remain in the room until the other entered. It _must_ have
been that way, for there's no other way for it to be."

"All right; now, what about Mrs. Stannard's story of overhearing the
stuff her husband said to the girl?"

"Probably true, but if he said that to Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard
overheard it, she _might_ have run in and found the dead man, or she
_might_ have run in and stabbed the living man."

"In the dark?"

"Perhaps so. She knew where every bit of furniture was. But isn't it
quite as likely that the girl did the stabbing?"

"That wax baby?"

"She isn't the baby she looks! Always distrust a blonde."

"But such a blonde!"

"Distrust them in proportion to their blondeness, then. But we've
learned all we can here. Back to think it over, and puzzle it out."




                                   VI
                        Mrs. Faulkner's Account


Now, although the residents of the aristocratic Rensselaer Park were
willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than
have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid
for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest
anybody, even the hypothetical burglar.

Owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art
world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was
due. All sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts of people and
interest increased rather than dwindled as no definite progress was
reported.

Captain Steele was one of the most able men on the force, and his record
for success in murder cases was of the best. His reputation was at
stake, and he was working his very hardest in his handling of the
present matter. His methods were persistent rather than brilliant, and
his slowness was often the despair of quick-witted Robert Roberts.

"Captain," Bobsy would say, "do you see that point?"

"I saw it long ago," would be the exasperating reply.

"Well, what about it?"

"I haven't thought it out yet."

"Well, get busy."

"I am busy," the stolid Captain would answer, and go on about his
business.

But the two were staunch friends and allies, and possessed the qualities
that enabled them to work side by side without friction.

"You see," said Steele, as they were closeted in the Reception Room,
"it's more or less a psychological problem."

They liked this room for their confabs. The small size and convenient
location suited their purpose admirably. They could shut its two doors,
and be entirely secluded or they could open them and get a general idea
of what was going on about the house.

"Snug little box," Bobsy had said, when he first saw it, and the walls
and ceiling being all of the same general decoration in red and gold,
did give it the effect of a well lined box. It was used by the family
for the reception of transient callers, and was more formal than the
studio or Billiard Room. The Terrace, too, was used as a living place,
in available weather, and even now as the two men were deep in their
discussion, there could be seen through the south window some servants
arranging a small breakfast table out there.

"Psychology is out of my line," Roberts said, in answer to the Captain's
assertion.

"Oh, I don't mean anything scientific. But, it's this way. One of those
women is lying and one telling the truth. Now, if we tax them with this,
we'll get nothing out of them, for they're both at the edge of a nervous
breakdown."

"The innocent one, too?"

"Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one
is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. I think the
little peach was in love with the artist; I'm not sure of this, but it
doesn't matter, anyway. Also, and incidentally, I think that Courtenay
man is very much in love with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are
none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are
our business. And so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than
usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures."

"A murder doesn't connote a high-calibred nature!"

"It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on
occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made,
not born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. And it is the
coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an
otherwise great and noble nature."

"I'm not sure I agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let's
use it by all means."

"It is. Now, here's the situation. As near as I can make out, Mr.
Stannard was alone in his studio after the Truxton people had gone; the
Faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the Drawing Room, the model
was on the Terrace with Barry, and Mrs. Joyce was in the Billiard Room
with Courtenay. The trouble is, we don't know how long this interval
was. Blake says the Truxtons went at eleven. Well, from eleven, then,
till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. Between those two
moments the crime was led up to and committed."

"Must it have been led up to?"

"Not necessarily, I admit. But suppose, let us say, that soon after
eleven, one or other of the two women we're considering, was left alone.
Say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with Mr.
Stannard that led to the stabbing. Then, say, she turned off the lights,
and quickly returned to her post, either in the Billiard Room or on the
Terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did."

"All right, that goes. Now, which?"

"That's what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting
clues of a material nature."

"Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of
the room to turn off the lights, didn't she?"

Captain Steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the
armchair where Stannard died was at the South end of the room.

"Yes," he agreed, "but that's only a few seconds' work."

"But when she did it, the man was not dead. You know he groaned after
the light went out, and later, he spoke."

"Well?"

"Well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all
that? Mrs. Stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My
opinion leans toward her."

"What about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter
to the model?"

"There's too much evidence instead of not enough! But before we sift it
out, which we can do elsewhere, let's try to learn something more from
the people here."

"Servants or the others?"

"The others, if possible. If not, then some servants beside Blake."

The breakfast table on the Terrace had been visited only by Mrs.
Faulkner and Barry Stannard. The other ladies had not appeared. The two
had quite evidently finished, as the men could see from their lace
curtained window, and Roberts proposed they request an interview with
one or both of them.

Somewhat to their surprise, the request was graciously granted. Mrs.
Faulkner said she should be rather glad of an opportunity to learn what
the police had done or were thinking of doing, and Barry seemed anxious
to discuss matters also.

But even before they began, Barry was called away on some errand, and
Mrs. Faulkner was their only source of information.

Bobsy Roberts was disappointed, for he wanted to talk with a member of
the immediate family, but Captain Steele saw a chance to learn something
personal of the two women he wished to study.

"You must know, Mrs. Faulkner," began Steele, "that the two women found
in the room, near the dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of
guilt. Can you tell us anything that will help clear the innocent or
indicate the criminal?"

Beatrice looked at him a moment, before she spoke. She also glanced at
Bobsy Roberts, and then, in a low, calm voice she replied: "I think I
must remind you that these two women are my dear friends. I have known
Mrs. Stannard for years, and Miss Vernon, though a recent acquaintance,
is very dear to me. They are both fine, noble women, utterly incapable
of the crime, even under deepest provocation. Therefore I do not admit,
even to myself, that the circumstances implicate either of them,
although they may seem to do so. With this declaration of my attitude in
the matter, I will answer any questions that I can, but I will not agree
that your theory is the right one."

"Then, who did kill Mr. Stannard?"

"That I cannot say. But in absence of any real evidence against Mrs.
Stannard or Miss Vernon, it must seem to have been an intruder of some
sort. Though it may not be known how he entered, it is far more easy to
believe that he did gain an entrance, than to believe crime of either of
those two."

It was plain to be seen Mrs. Faulkner was determined to stand by her
friends through thick and thin. So Bobsy started on another tack. "Will
you tell us then something of the personal relations of this household?
Was Mr. Stannard in love with his pretty model?"

"I think he was," Beatrice rejoined, as if the matter were of no great
import, "but Mr. Stannard was the type of man known as a 'lady-killer.'
He adored all beautiful women, and was what may be called 'in love' with
many. His nature was so volatile and so impressionable, that his love
affairs were frequent and ephemeral."

"Mrs. Stannard made no objection to this?"

"I think these queries are unnecessarily personal, but I see, so far, no
harm in replying. Mrs. Stannard knew so well her husband's temperament
and disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden adorations,
knowing that he tired of them very quickly. The Stannards were a model
and a modern couple. They never stooped to petty jealousies or
bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each other's actions."

"Mrs. Stannard is his second wife, is she not?"

"Yes, they were married something more than two years ago."

"And Mrs. Stannard had other suitors, who were disappointed at her
marriage?"

"That is usually true of any beautiful woman."

"But in her case you know of instances?" Bobsy smiled pleasantly.

"Naturally, as I know her so well."

"And is Mr. Courtenay one of them?"

"Mr. Courtenay was one of her devoted admirers, and since the marriage
he has been a friend warmly welcomed here by both Mr. and Mrs. Stannard.
No breath of reproach may be brought against Joyce Stannard or Eugene
Courtenay. Of this I can assure you."

"And the young lady,--is Barry Stannard a suitor of hers?"

Beatrice's face clouded a little. "Yes; you cannot help seeing that, so
I will tell you that he is madly in love with Miss Vernon, but his
father strongly objected to the match, and threatened to disinherit
Barry if he persisted in his attentions to the girl. I tell you this,
because I prefer you to hear the truth from me, rather than a string of
garbled gossip."

"And young Stannard persisted?"

"I think so. It was love at first sight on both sides, and Miss Vernon
is a very lovely girl,--of quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet
face indicates."

"Might not Mr. Stannard's objection to his son's suit have been prompted
by his own admiration for the lovely nature?"

"It might have been," and Beatrice sighed. "Eric Stannard was an
exceedingly selfish man, and though his interest in the model was
doubtless his usual temporary love affair, it is quite likely that it
was the main motive of his displeasure at his son's interference. I am
speaking very frankly, for I know these things must all come out, and I
am hoping, if you know just how matters are, you will understand the
case better and be more prepared to relieve the two women of suspicion."

"It may be so," and Captain Steele nodded his head sagely.

But Mrs. Faulkner was watching him closely. "You are not yet very
greatly influenced by my revelations, I can see," she said, "but I am
sure you will come around to my way of thinking, sooner or later. The
more you see of your suspects, the more you will realise the absurdity
of your suspicions."

"That's possibly true. When can we have an interview with either of
them?"

"Mrs. Stannard is prostrated. I am sure you cannot see her before the
funeral, which will be to-morrow. Won't you refrain from asking it,
until after that?"

"Certainly. But Miss Vernon, may we not have a few words with her? You
must realise, Mrs. Faulkner, if the girl is innocent, it will be much
better for her to see us and answer a few straightforward questions than
to appear unwilling to do so."

"I agree with you. I will go and ask her, myself, and advise her to see
you. Shall I go now?"

"In a moment, please; but first, one more question. We are trying to
discover who last saw Mr. Stannard alive, prior to the time of the
murder. What can you tell us as to this?"

"Only that I was in the studio, just before the first of the guests went
away. At that time we were all there, I think, except Barry and Natalie,
who were out on the Terrace. The two Truxtons went home, and at the same
time Mr. Wadsworth and I went up to the Drawing Room----"

"To be by yourselves?"

A certain kindliness in Bobsy's tone robbed the question of
impertinence, and Beatrice smiled a little, as she said, "Yes, exactly.
We stayed there perhaps a half hour, and then Mr. Wadsworth went home. I
did not go downstairs with him, but sat a moment in the Drawing
Room,--thinking over some personal matters. Then when I went downstairs,
it was to see Blake listening at the door,--and the rest you know."

"Yes; now whom did you leave in the studio, when you and Mr. Wadsworth
and the Truxtons went out of it?"

Beatrice thought a moment. "Only Mr. Stannard, his wife and Mr.
Courtenay."

"Then Mrs. Stannard and Mr. Courtenay went into the Billiard Room?"

"Yes, and Mr. Stannard went, too. But he went back in the studio,--Joyce
told me that,--and he must have been there alone when--the person who
killed him came in."

"This would make it, that Mr. Stannard returned to his studio from the
Billiard Room at a little after eleven, say, five or ten minutes after.
The fact that he cried out for help at about eleven-thirty narrows the
time down rather close. We have only about twenty minutes for the
intruder to enter and commit the deed. This is long enough if the crime
was premeditated, but scarcely giving time for a quarrel or argument to
take place."

"Then you assume premeditation?" and Beatrice looked up quickly.

"It would seem so."

"Then I am sure you will find, Mr. Roberts, that it could not have been
either of the two you think. For even if one of them might have done
such a thing in the heat of passion, neither, I am positive, ever
deliberately premeditated it."

"What about the letter found in the desk?"

"That," and Beatrice shook her head emphatically, "that was never meant
for Miss Vernon."

"Yet Mrs. Stannard overheard him say practically the same thing to
somebody in the studio, a moment or two before the crime was committed."

"Joyce thinks she heard that. But Captain Steele, that poor woman
scarcely knew what she was saying at that awful inquest, and she--well,
she had reason to think there were women in Mr. Stannard's life, who
would be willing,--in fact, who wished him to be divorced from her. She
knew this, she knew of that note he had written,--it was not the first of
that nature, and she imagined she heard that speech."

"You make Mr. Stannard out a very bad man, Mrs. Faulkner."

"I am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but he was not a good man in the
ways we are talking of. In other respects, Eric Stannard had few faults.
He was upright, honest and generous. He was kind and he was truthful.
And he was extraordinarily brave and honourable. But he was inordinately
selfish and of sybaritic instincts. He would not try to curb his
admiration for a new and pretty face, and though absolutely loyal to his
wife in honour and principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the
way of a butterfly among the flowers. His genius it is not necessary to
speak of. He is known here and abroad as one of the greatest artists of
the century. And his wide and varied experiences, his cosmopolitan life
and his waywardness of character may well have gained him enemies, who
in a secret and clever manner found means to take his life."

"Who will benefit financially by his death?" Captain Steele asked
abruptly.

"I haven't heard anything about the will yet, but I'm pretty certain,
that outside of a few friendly bequests his fortune is divided between
his wife and son, about equally."

"And his jewel collection? Is not that valuable?"

"Very. The emeralds mentioned in that note comprise a fortune in
wonderfully matched stones. And there are many more. Yes, it is an
exceedingly valuable lot."

"He showed them to Mr. Truxton, that evening?"

"To all of us. That was right after dinner. He showed only a few cases,
but of very beautiful stones."

"And then he put them away, where?"

"I've no idea. They were not in sight, that I remember, when the
Truxtons took leave. But I gave them no thought. I've often seen them,
and after their exhibition, Mr. Stannard always puts them in his safe
himself."

"They have not been found in the safe."

"Then he put them in some simple hiding-place. They will turn up.
Unless, of course, there was a real burglar, whose motive was robbery."

"But you do not think so?"

"Frankly, I do not see how there could have been an intruder, unless
dressed as a gentleman. No other could have gained access to the house."

"The servants saw no stranger, in any sort of garb?"

"They say so," returned Beatrice, thoughtfully. "Don't overlook the
possibility of an accomplice among the servants. I've no reason to think
this, but such things have happened."

"They have indeed, and I assure you we have not overlooked the chance of
it."




                                  VII
                           Natalie, Not Joyce


But the desired interview with Natalie was not achieved before the
funeral of Eric Stannard. It was two days after before the girl would
consent to see Roberts, and then, under protest.

"I've nothing to say," she declared, as she came unwillingly into the
Reception Room to meet him. "I'm not under arrest, and there's no law
that can make me talk if I don't want to."

The lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as Miss
Vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under her, and one
little slipper tapping the carpet. She looked so like a petulant
school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to connect her with a thought
of anything really wrong. But Robert Roberts was experienced in guile
and was by no means ready to accept her innocence at its face value.

"No law ought to make you do anything you don't want to," he said
smiling; "but suppose it's to your own advantage to talk?"

The sympathetic, good-natured face of Bobsy Roberts had a pleasant
effect, for Natalie's pout disappeared and a look of confidence came
into her blue eyes.

"I wonder if I can trust you," she said, meditatively, as she gazed at
him, with an alluring intentness.

"You sure can," returned Bobsy, but he consciously and conscientiously
steeled himself against her witcheries.

"No, I don't think I can," she said, after a moment, and with a tiny
sigh of disappointment, she looked away. "Go on; question me as you
like."

"Why can't you trust me?"

"Oh, I trust you, as far as that goes. But I see you suspect me of
killing Mr. Stannard."

"And didn't you?" Bobsy believed in the efficacy of sudden, direct
questions.

But Miss Vernon was not taken off guard.

"No," she said, quietly, "I didn't. But when I say I didn't, it
implicates Mrs. Stannard, and I don't want to do that. Can't you tell me
what to do?"

"Well, it's this way. If Mrs. Stannard is the guilty person, you want it
known, don't you?"

"No, indeed! If Joyce Stannard killed her husband, she had a good reason
for it, and I'd rather nobody'd know she did it."

"What was her good reason?"

"Well, you know, Mr. Stannard was--that is,--he had eyes for other people
beside his wife."

"You, for instance."

"Yes!" and the flower face took on a look of positive hatred, and of
angry reminiscence. "I have no kindly thought of Eric Stannard, if he
_is_ dead."

"He was kind to you."

"Too kind,--in some ways,--and not enough so in others."

"And his wife was jealous?"

"Who wouldn't be! He petted her to death one day and the next he
neglected her shamefully. I will trust you, Mr. Roberts. Now, listen; if
Joyce killed Eric,--I don't say she did, but if she did, why can't we
just hush up the matter, and pry into it no more? Barry wants that and
so do I. And who else is to be considered?"

"The law, justice, humanity, all things right and fair."

"Rubbish! Let those things go. Consider the wishes of the people most
concerned."

"Then straighten out a few uncertain points. Where are the emeralds?"

"Goodness! I don't know! That foolish letter wasn't written to me."

"To whom, then?"

"I don't know that, either. Some one of Eric's lady friends, I suppose.
Fancy my wanting him to divorce his wife and marry me!"

Bobsy looked at her narrowly, distrusting every word. This girl, he felt
sure, was far from being as ingenuous as she looked.

"But he was in love with you?"

Natalie blushed, a real, natural girl blush.

"I can't help that, Mr. Roberts. I am, unfortunately, a type that men
admire. It is the cross of my life that every one is attracted by my
silly doll-face!"

Bobsy Roberts laughed outright, at this naïve wail of woe.

"You needn't laugh, I'm in earnest. I get so sick of having men fall in
love with me, that I'd like to go and live on a desert island!"

"With whom?" and Bobsy looked at her intently.

"With Barry Stannard," she returned, simply. "We're engaged, now. We
couldn't be, while Mr. Stannard lived, for he wouldn't hear of it.
Threatened to disinherit Barry, and all that. But now, it's all right."

"Miss Vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you of all suspicion. If
you had killed Eric Stannard, because he wouldn't let his son marry you,
you never would have referred to it so frankly."

"Of course I wouldn't. Now, don't you see, since I didn't kill him, it
must have been Joyce. It's been proved over and over that it could not
have been a burglar, or anybody like that. And so, I want to stop
investigating, and leave Joyce in peace. And then, after awhile, she can
marry Eugene Courtenay, and be happy."

"Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?"

"Of course she does. He was in love with her and she with him, before
she knew Mr. Stannard. Then Eric came along and stole her,--yes, stole
her,--just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by his whirlwind wooing,
and--too--he was celebrated, and--well,--you know,--magerful,--and he just
took her by storm. She never really loved him, but she has been good and
faithful, though he has treated her badly."

"And if she killed him, it was----"

"It was because she had reached the end of her rope, and couldn't stand
any more. And, too, she has seen a lot of Mr. Courtenay lately, and--oh,
well,--she was mad that Eric took such a fancy to me, and so,----"

"Look here, Miss Vernon, just see if you can reconstruct the scene to
fit in with a theory of Mrs. Stannard's guilt."

"How do you mean?"

"Can you remember about the light going out and the cry for help,--and
all that, exactly?"

"No,--I've tried to, but it's all mixed up in my mind. I think, if
Joyce,--I mean, whoever did it,--must have struck the blow, and then
turned off the light, and then gone out of the room, and--and come back
again."

"And that could have been you--as well as Mrs. Stannard! You were both
discovered in practically the same circumstances!"

"You're trying to trip me, Mr. Roberts. But you can't do it. Now, look
here, if that note had been written to me, wouldn't it mean that these
emeralds were mine, and wouldn't I claim them?"

"But it states distinctly that you know where they are, and the
presumption is, that you have them in your possession."

"Indeed, I haven't! I wish I had! I mean, I wish I had them rightfully
in my possession! They're wonderful stones! Look here, Mr. Roberts, why
don't you suspect Mr. Truxton? He's gem crazy,--and you know gem
enthusiasts often go to any length to get the stones they covet."

"I hadn't thought of him. And, supposing he did commit crime to steal
Mr. Stannard's jewels, just how did he get away afterward, without
discovery?"

"Well, suppose he stabbed Mr. Stannard, then turned off the light, and
then slipped out through the Billiard Room when Joyce's back was
turned?"

"Too unlikely. Besides, Mr. Courtenay, who sat on the bench on the lawn,
just then, would have seen him leave the house."

"I suppose he would." Natalie drew a deep sigh. "Do give it up, Mr.
Roberts. You never can untangle it."

"Are you going to stay here long?"

"For a time. Mrs. Stannard has asked me to, and Barry wants me." The
simplicity of the girl's manner almost disarmed Bobsy, but he went on:

"Mrs. Stannard, then, has no hard feelings toward you?"

"I don't know. Honestly, Mr. Roberts, I don't know whether she is
keeping me here because she suspects me, or because she doesn't."

"Did Mr. Stannard leave you anything in his will?"

The rose-pink cheeks flushed deeper, as Natalie replied, "Yes, he did.
You probably know that already."

"No, I didn't. Was it a worthwhile amount?"

"From my point of view, yes. It was seventy thousand dollars."

"Whew! Decidedly worthwhile, from almost anybody's point of view."

"I know what you're thinking," cried Natalie as he paused. "It's an
added reason for suspecting me of killing him."

"It might be construed so."

"Well, I didn't! I was pretty mad, when he made that horrid etching from
my Goldenrod picture----"

"And you smudged the wax impression so he couldn't use it----"

"I did not! I would willingly have done so, if I'd thought of it, but I
didn't do it, all the same."

"Who did?"

"Whoever killed him, I suppose."

"Then that lets out Mr. Truxton, or a burglar of any sort. It leaves
only Mrs. Stannard. Mightn't she have done it?"

"A jealous woman might do anything. But Joyce wasn't especially jealous
of me,--no more than of anybody Mr. Stannard might be attracted to."

"And to whom else was he attracted?"

"Nobody just now,--that I know of. You see, Mr. Roberts, I was just about
to leave this house, because Mr. Stannard was too devoted in his
attentions to me. I tell you this frankly, because I want you to
understand the situation."

"And I want to understand it. Tell me more of this matter."

"Well, Mr. Stannard had told me several times of his affection for me
and had told me he would remember me in his will, and, not more than a
week ago, he told me of Joyce's caring for Mr. Courtenay, though how he
discovered that, I don't know, for Joyce never showed it. She was good
as gold. Well, Mr. Stannard didn't say so in so many words, but he
implied that if he and Joyce--separated--and it could be arranged,--and
she--you know,--married Mr. Courtenay,--would I marry him. And I was so
mad, I flew into a rage, and----"

"And scratched up your picture?"

"No, that wax plate hadn't been drawn then. It was afterward that he
drew that, and then I was madder than ever."

"And in the heat of your passionate rage, you----"

"No, I didn't! I tell you, whoever killed Eric Stannard, I didn't!"

"Then what did he mean, when, in his dying moment, he said, 'Natalie,
not Joyce!' Tell me that!"

"I will tell you," and the girl lowered her voice and looked very
serious. "I know exactly what he meant, and Joyce Stannard knows too. He
meant,--you'll think I imagine this, but it's true; he meant that it was
Natalie and not Joyce, whom he loved, and whom he was trying to beckon
to at that moment."

It was impossible to doubt the honesty of the speaker. The great earnest
eyes were filled with mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what
she said.

"I know it," she went on. "You see, he had said to me, several times,
'Natalie, not Joyce,' by way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was
not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to
any woman he might chance to be with. And when I would reprimand him and
bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say 'Natalie, not Joyce,'
till it became a sort of by-word with him. And I know that's what he
meant that night, when he was hurt,--he didn't know he was dying,--and he
called to me in a half-conscious plea to come to his assistance. Also,
he could see me more plainly. Joyce was rather behind him, and his
clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called for me. As a matter of
fact, that speech, though made so much of, means nothing at all. He
wasn't entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream. But he did not
mean that I had stabbed him."

"Did he know who stabbed him?"

"How can I tell that? But if he had known that I did it, or had thought
that I did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he
was saying."

"You mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather
than accused you with his last breath?"

"Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric Stannard would never accuse a
woman of wrongdoing. His speech meant anything rather than that."

"Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with
the affair. Why didn't you tell this before?"

"Can't you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no love for Eric Stannard, I
never had any. His attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me
as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have left him long ago, but
for Barry. Also, I am fond of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and
never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to announce that those
dying words meant that Mr. Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his
affection, especially as it didn't altogether mean that, it was merest
chance that he saw me and not her----"

"But he did see her, for he said 'Natalie, _not_ Joyce.'"

"Yes, I know," and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,--"but, I
mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was
in pain, or a sort of stupor, or--oh, I don't know what his sensations
were, I'm sure,--but I want to show you that he spoke at random, and it
didn't mean as much as it seems to."

Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady.
Either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was
making up a preposterous story.

If she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so
emphasised by the victim's statement, and if she were innocent, the
story she told might well be true.

"Let me follow this up," said Bobsy, looking at her closely. "Then Mr.
Stannard was so in love with you that he called on you in a desperate
moment, rather than on his wife----"

"But he didn't know it was a desperate moment. I don't believe that man
was conscious at all. The stab wound was practically fatal at once. What
he said and did after it, was involuntary. Don't you know what I mean?
He was only half alive physically and almost not at all alive in his
mind--his brain. Couldn't that be true?"

"I suppose so. In fact, I think it must have been--and yet, no, it seems
to me it would be logical for him to tell, even without a clear
consciousness, who his assailant was. Remember Blake asked him outright.
'Who did this?' and he said----"

"I know; but you didn't see him, and I did. He was not looking at Blake,
he didn't even hear him. He was in a dazed state, and, seeing both Joyce
and myself,--he must have seen us both,--his sub-consciousness called out
for me. I am not vain of this preference, I wish it had all been
otherwise, but I insist that explains his words, and--Joyce knows it,
too."

"How do you know she does? Have you talked with her on this subject?"

"Oh, yes. We have discussed it over and over. Mrs. Faulkner and Joyce
and Barry and I have gone over every bit of it a dozen times."

"Is it possible? What does each of the four think? Since you deny the
deed, you can tell what is the consensus of opinion in the household."

"That's just what I can't do. You see, we all hesitate to say anything
that will seem to accuse either of us. Mrs. Faulkner, I can see plainly,
is uncertain whether to suspect Joyce or me. She is convinced, of
course, that it must have been one of us, but she pretends to think it
was a burglar."

"She is fond of you both?"

"Yes, she adores Joyce, and she is most friendly to me. I've only known
her since I've been here, but she seems to believe in me, somehow. She
understands perfectly, that Mr. Stannard meant just what I say he did,
by those words. She knows how he acted toward me, and how Joyce felt
about it."

"Then she suspects Mrs. Stannard?"

"She doesn't say so. She sticks to the safe theory of an intruder. You
can't blame her. None of us can suspect Joyce. It's too absurd."

"And Barry Stannard, what does he think?"

"Oh, he vows it was an intruder. He's thought up a dozen ways for him to
get in and out."

"All equally impossible?"

"I suppose so. Unless,--I hate to say it,--but mightn't Blake have let him
out?"

"Not unless it was somebody known to the household."

"Well?" said Natalie Vernon.




                                  VIII
                              The Emeralds


"You mean?" prompted Bobsy.

"Oh, nothing. But,--just supposing, you know. I'm sure I don't want to
mention Mr. Truxton or Mr. Wadsworth, but they were both here----"

"Absurd! Why, Mr. Wadsworth was with Mrs. Faulkner in the Drawing
Room----"

"Yes, I know. But he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her
up there. Now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with
Blake, couldn't he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and
killed Eric, and then turned off the light and fled, Blake letting him
out the front door?"

"But why would Mr. Wadsworth do that?"

"Why would anybody? I'm only showing you that there _are_ theories that
don't include me or Joyce."

"But not tenable theories. Mr. Wadsworth, I've been told, was having a--a
romantic tête-à-tête with Mrs. Faulkner."

"Yes, he was asking her, for the 'steenth time, to marry him. But she
turned him down again."

"Well, even if she did, probably he didn't give up all hope. And a man,
just from a session of that sort, isn't going to commit a crime."

"Oh, well, of course, it wasn't Mr. Wadsworth. But why not consider Mr.
Truxton? He's a jewel sharp, too."

"We have considered him. But he and his wife went home earlier----"

"He could have come back,----"

"But he didn't. Miss Vernon, we've gone into all these matters very
thoroughly. What do you suppose the Police have been doing? There isn't
a possible theory we've overlooked, and it all comes back to the simple
facts of the evidence that incriminate either Mrs. Stannard or yourself.
I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you this frankly. If you care to
say anything further in your own defence, I'd be glad to hear it.
Naturally, you hate to accuse Mrs. Stannard, but it rests between you
two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made soon."

Bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little, but he was bound to
startle some information out of this provoking beauty.

And Natalie was startled. Her face paled as she took in the significance
of Roberts' words.

"They won't arrest me, will they?" she whispered in a scared little
voice.

"I don't see how they can," and Bobsy looked at the girl, wondering.
That child, that little, tender bit of femininity--surely she could never
have lifted her hand against a man's life! Even had she wished to, she
seemed physically incapable of striking the blow.

"Arrest you! Not much they won't!" and Barry Stannard strode into the
room.

Natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief.

"You won't let them, will you, Barry?" she said, as his arm slipped
round her trembling shoulders.

"I should say not! Are you frightening her, Mr. Roberts? You know you've
no authority for all this."

"It's my duty to learn all I can. If Miss Vernon is innocent, then Mrs.
Stannard is guilty."

"As a choice between the two, it is far more likely to be Mrs. Stannard.
But I do not accuse her. I only insist on the impossibility of this
child's being a criminal."

"'Course I couldn't," and Natalie smiled at the perplexed Roberts. "And
if, to clear myself, I must tell all I know, then I'll tell you that
Mrs. Stannard has those emeralds in her possession now."

"She has! How do you know?"

"I passed her room this morning. The door was ajar, and I was about to
enter, when I saw her, at her dressing-table, looking over the case of
emeralds. I recognised it at once. I've often seen them. I didn't like
to intrude, then, so I went on. I thought I wouldn't say anything about
it, unless it was necessary."

"It is necessary. Has she had them all the time?"

"Let's ask her," said Barry. "I believe Joyce can explain it."

They sent for Mrs. Stannard, and she came, Mrs. Faulkner accompanying
her.

"I found these on my dressing-table this morning," Joyce said, simply,
holding out the case of emeralds to the view of all.

"Found them! Where did they come from?" asked Roberts.

"I don't know," and then, seeing the dark looks on the Detective's face,
Joyce exclaimed, "You tell about it, Beatrice. I--I can't talk."

"This is the story," said Mrs. Faulkner. "About an hour ago, Mrs.
Stannard sent for me to come to her room. I went, and she showed me the
case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she
awoke this morning. It was not there when she retired last night.
Further than that, she knows nothing about it."

"You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?"

"Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We have been talking it over,
and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took
them, and then decided to return them. Of course it would be practically
impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity
that has been given to the matter."

"Of course. But why a servant? Why not a guest--or a member of the
household,--or--or Mrs. Stannard, herself?"

"I!" exclaimed Joyce. "Why I've just found them!"

"Didn't you have them all the time?"

"Of course not! How dare you imply such a thing? This morning they were
in my room, last night they were not there. They were brought there
during the night. It is for you to find out who brought them."

"Was the door of your bedroom locked?"

"No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,--any of us. The outer doors
and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any
of the servants."

"Where were the gems this morning?"

"On my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, adjoining my sleeping room."

"Who do you think put them there?"

"Whoever stole them the night my husband was killed."

"And who do you think that was?"

"Whoever killed him, of course."

"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Faulkner, thoughtfully. "Perhaps the thief and
the murderer were not the same person."

"That may be so," agreed Bobsy. "Have you any theory or suspicion based
on the return of the jewels, Mrs. Faulkner?"

"No; except a general idea that the emeralds might have been stolen and
returned by a servant, and the murder committed by an intruder."

"Why not assume that the intruder also took the jewels?"

"Only because it would be difficult for him to get into the house and
return them to Mrs. Stannard. I can see no explanation of that act save
that a servant did it."

"Or an outsider with the connivance of one of the servants."

"Yes, that might be," agreed Mrs. Faulkner. "The mere placing of the
case in Mrs. Stannard's dressing-room would not be difficult. The doors
all over the house are open or unlocked at night, and a servant could
easily slip in and out of the room unheard."

"You heard no unusual sound in the night, Mrs. Stannard?"

"None," said Joyce.

"I'm sorry to disagree with the construction you put upon this incident,
Mrs. Faulkner," and Bobsy turned to her as to the principal spokesman,
"but to my mind it strengthens the case against Mrs. Stannard. It seems
more than likely that she had the emeralds all the time, or knew where
they were. She kept them hidden, because she thought the letter written
by her husband, tacitly gave the gems to Miss Vernon. Then when Miss
Vernon saw her, looking at the jewels, Mrs. Stannard thought better to
face the music and own up that she had them."

"Why I didn't let her know that I saw her!" exclaimed Natalie.

"Perhaps she saw you in a mirror, or heard you. Doubtless she knew in
some way that you had seen her looking at the jewels, and concluded to
tell the story that accounted for them."

Joyce Stannard looked at the speaker, and her face blanched. With a
desperate cry of distress, she turned and swiftly left the room. Roberts
kept a wary eye on her retreating figure, and as she went upstairs, he
made no attempt to recall or to follow her.

"She has practically condemned herself," he said. "The reappearance of
the emeralds seems to settle it."

"Why?" asked Beatrice Faulkner. "Why do you condemn her because of
that?"

"Look at it squarely, Mrs. Faulkner. Assume for a moment my theory is
right. Then, Mrs. Stannard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion
on Miss Vernon, claims that the jewels were put in her room
surreptitiously during the night. She is sure Miss Vernon will be
suspected of having had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them
secretly. This will militate against Miss Vernon, and imply her greater
guilt also."

"Why, what an idea!" exclaimed Natalie. "As if I ever had the emeralds!"

"That letter said you knew where they were."

"That letter was not written to me."

"To whom then?"

"I've no idea. But not to me. I'm--I'm engaged to Barry."

"You weren't engaged to the son while the father was alive," probed
Roberts.

"N--no. But only because his father wouldn't allow it. I'm going to look
after Joyce," and without a backward glance, Natalie ran from the room,
and up the stairs.

"You see," began Roberts, looking at Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard,
"you two are the only ones I can talk to frankly. Those two ladies
suspected by the police have to be handled carefully. You are both
material witnesses, and as such are bound to tell me truthfully all you
can of anything bearing on the case. Now, however painful it may be for
you, Mr. Stannard, I must tell you that it is rapidly coming to a
show-down between the two suspects, and the probability is, it seems to
me, that the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the wife than on
the model. The direct evidence is perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems
to the police that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier for
Mrs. Stannard than for Miss Vernon. The wife, let us say, had reason for
jealousy, and had reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial
husband. The little model, while irritated at her employer's attentions,
was in love with another man, and could easily get away from the artist
without resorting to crime."

"That's right about Natalie," exclaimed Barry, "but it's unthinkable
that Joyce should go so far as to kill----"

"You don't know all the provocation she may have had," said Roberts. "A
jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before
she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and
then the climax comes. At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn't guilty, Mrs.
Stannard is. You can't find two women hovering over a dying man, and
acquit them both. So it's one or the other, and I incline toward the
suspicion of the older woman."

"But how do you explain the various clues pointing to Natalie?" asked
Beatrice Faulkner.

"Let's take them one by one. First, that note found on the man's desk.
Even if that were written to Miss Vernon, it needn't condemn her. Even
if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that
she killed him. And the whole tone of the note is against its being
meant for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can't look on it as
evidence against the model."

"I agree with that," said Mrs. Faulkner. "That letter may well have been
to some other woman interested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had
the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to
Joyce last night."

"No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn't right. I don't understand the emerald
business altogether, but I thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had
them in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have the evidence of the
dying man's exclamation. That, I think, is perfectly explained by Miss
Vernon's assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife."

"Of course it is," declared Barry. "I know my father was madly in love
with Miss Vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the
first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. I
want to say right here, that I revere and respect my father's memory,
but I cannot deny his faults. And he was far too careless of his wife's
feelings in these matters. My mother died many years ago, and for a long
time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and
in it, too. Then when he married a second time he did not settle down to
the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire
pretty women wherever he met them. Now, it is more than likely that in
his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him,
he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his
wife. I do not defend my father's speech but to me it is explained."

"It may be so," said Roberts. "Now here's another point. Mrs. Stannard
declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to
somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the Billiard Room, near
the connecting door. Shall we say this is an invented story of hers?"

"Let me see," said Barry, "what were the words?"

"To the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and
that as a consolation she could have the emeralds."

"Practically what was in the note," exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner.

"Almost," returned Roberts. "Now was Miss Vernon there and were these
words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from
consideration of her as the criminal."

"If so, then the letter was to her," said Beatrice.

"And it wasn't," maintained Barry. "My father admired Natalie,--made love
to her, we'll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor
did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies."

"Could this be the way of it?" said Beatrice. "Suppose Mr. Stannard was
even then writing that note----"

"But it was found in his desk."

"Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the
actual wording of it. Mrs. Stannard says she heard no other voice, so
may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?"

Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. "It is a possibility," he
conceded. "And then, let us say, after hearing those words, Mrs.
Stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a
quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, Mrs. Stannard caught up the
etching needle and----"

"It isn't at all like her," said Barry, "but I can only say it is more
easily to be conceived of in her case than in Natalie's. I don't want to
admit the possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can believe it,
before I can imagine Natalie doing such a thing. And as you say, Joyce
had motive, and Natalie had none."

"I won't subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stannard. Miss Vernon inherits
a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the
artist toward her----"

"No, I wasn't," said Natalie herself, suddenly reappearing. "On the
contrary, I had persuaded Mr. Stannard, that very day, not to ask me to
pose for him, except as a fully draped model. He had apologised for his
previous insistence, and I looked for no more trouble on that score. I
was trying to get up courage to ask him to let Barry be engaged to me,
but I hadn't accomplished that."

"If Mrs. Stannard had had any angry words with her husband just before
he was attacked, could you have overheard them?" asked Roberts.

"I don't think so. Not unless they had spoken very loudly. The door to
the Terrace was closed, or almost closed. And I was not thinking about
what might be going on in the house. Unless there had been an especial
disturbance, I should not have noticed it."

"Yet you heard that gasping cry for help through the closed door."

"Yes. But that was not a faint gasp, it was a penetrating sort of a cry.
An attempted scream, I should describe it."

Roberts looked at her closely. Was she innocent or was she an infant
Machiavelli?

"It is a difficult situation," he said, with a sigh. "We have but two
eye-witnesses. Each naturally accuses the other and denies her own
guilt. One speaks truth and one falsehood. How can we distinguish which
one tells the truth?"

"Don't say eye-witnesses," objected Natalie. "I didn't see the crime
committed. If I think Joyce did it, it's only because I went in and
found her there and nobody else about."

"Suppose," and Bobsy Roberts looked her straight in the face, "suppose
Eric Stannard held in his hand your picture,--that etching, you know, and
suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. Or, say, he wasn't talking to
it, but what he did say, and what his wife overheard, was said while he
held your picture, and she thought he referred to you. Then she, in a
jealous fury, resented the idea of his giving you the emeralds, and----"

"I didn't want the emeralds," said Natalie, coldly, "and I certainly
didn't want Eric to marry me, but even granting your premises right, it
takes suspicion of the murder from me, and places it on Joyce."

"It does," agreed Barry, "and that's where it belongs, if on either of
you two."

"It must be so," said Beatrice Faulkner, "for if Natalie had known where
the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her
the gems,--for it really did give them to the one it was written to,--then
she would have kept them and not have given them back to Joyce."

"By Jove, that's so!" exclaimed Roberts. "Whatever woman that letter was
meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to
Eric Stannard's wish, and if she had them she would be extremely
unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. But how, then, explain their
return?"

"It wasn't a return," said Beatrice. "Joyce had them herself all the
time."

"I believe she had," said Roberts.




                                   IX
                            One or the Other


Bobsy Roberts was at his wits' end. He pondered long and deeply but he
could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to
follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider.

He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him
wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery.

"Walls have ears," he said to himself, whimsically, "now if they only
had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know."

The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires
which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers.
Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his
belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers,
and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with
patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the
findings.

But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and
looking unmistakably like a jeweller's box. Bobsy opened it, and found a
small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words
"For my Goldenheart. From Eric."

It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was
written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the
parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the
same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper
wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in
the creases.

"Bought it for her but never gave it to her," Bobsy surmised. "Surely I
can make something out of this."

But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address
of any sort, can't be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller's
name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was
bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none.

Bobsy showed it to Joyce Stannard, but she took little interest in it.

"It must have been bought before I married Mr. Stannard," she said.

"Why?"

"I know by the box. That sort of a box was used by that firm the year
before I was married. In all probability Mr. Stannard did buy it for a
lady, and for some reason or other didn't present it. It's of no great
value."

"No," agreed Bobsy, "except as it proves that his interest in
'Goldenheart' has lasted for some time."

"Then Goldenheart can't be Miss Vernon," said Joyce, wearily. "It seems
to me, Mr. Roberts, that you get nowhere. You make so much of little
things----"

"Because we can't get any big piece of evidence. You know yourself, Mrs.
Stannard, that our principal clue is the finding of you and Miss Vernon
in a situation which _might_ mean the guilt of either of you, and _must_
mean the guilt of one of you."

"Mr. Roberts, I want to say to you very frankly that I wish to be
cleared of suspicion. I did not kill my husband. I can't quite believe
Miss Vernon did, but at any rate I want the mystery cleared up. I don't
know how to set about it myself, and if you don't either, I want to
employ some one else. This is no disparagement of your powers, but if
you know of any--more experienced Detective----"

"There are plenty of more experienced detectives, Mrs. Stannard, but I
am anxious to succeed in this quest myself. Will you not give me a
longer time, and if at the end of, say, another week, I have made little
or no progress, call on whomever you like."

"Very well. But I must be freed myself. I am willing to spend a fortune,
if need be, but I cannot live under this cloud of suspicion."

"Let us work together then. Tell me anything I ask, and you may be able
to give me some help. First, can you state positively that no person
came in through the Billiard Room and went on to the studio while you
were in the Billiard Room, just before the tragedy?"

"Why, of course, nobody passed through."

"The Billiard Room was lighted?"

"Yes. Not brilliantly, but a few lights were on."

"Mr. Courtenay had just left you?"

"A short time before, yes."

"And,--now think carefully,--could you not have been sitting with your
back to the door, or--perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands, or
for any such reason, could some one have passed you without your knowing
it?"

Joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said, "No; positively not. I was
sitting on one of the side seats, and I may have had my eyes closed, for
I was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed through the room I
should have heard footsteps, of course."

"On the soft, thick rug?"

"Much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is very acute. Yes, Mr.
Roberts, I must have heard the intruder, if one came in that way."

"I do not think one did, but there is no other way for any one to have
entered the studio."

"Why not by coming in the Terrace door, and passing Natalie instead of
me?"

"The probability is less. The Terrace door was closed, and, too, Miss
Vernon sat back on the Terrace, and must have seen any one passing in
front of her."

"But suppose she did see him, and chooses to deny it for his sake?"

Bobsy looked at her. "I've been waiting for this," he said. "You mean
Barry Stannard. There is room for thought in that direction. He had
reason to be angry at his father, first because of his refusal to let
Barry marry the girl, and also, because of Eric Stannard's annoyance of
the little model. The father out of the way, the son steps into a
fortune and wins his bride beside."

"But Barry never did it! I confess I've thought of it as a theory, but I
can't believe it of Barry,--I simply can't."

"Mrs. Stannard, somebody killed your husband. If not a common
malefactor, who was bent on robbery, then it must have been one of Mr.
Stannard's intimates. If that is so, Barry Stannard is no more above
suspicion than Miss Vernon or yourself."

"That's true enough. Well, go ahead, Mr. Roberts. Do all you can, but do
get somewhere. You reason around in a circle, always coming back to the
proposition that it must have been either Miss Vernon or myself."

"That is where I stand at present," said Bobsy, very gravely, "but I
shall try to get some new light on it all,--and soon."

Joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave and went away, and as soon
as he was gone she threw herself on a couch and cried piteously.

The visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what Joyce had said that
the gold heart was bought shortly before her marriage to Eric. The date
was looked up and the purchase verified. So it seemed to tell nothing
save that it was meant for a gift but never given. Probably, thought
Roberts, it was owing to Eric's marriage that he concluded not to give a
keepsake to a woman other than his bride. But, after all, mightn't
Goldenheart be Joyce herself? No, for the letter found in the desk
denied that. But that letter might have been written a long time ago.
Not likely, for it stated that Joyce would not be unwilling to consider
separation from her husband. That of course, pointed to the fact that
Joyce loved another, doubtless Courtenay, but more than all it pointed
to Natalie as Goldenheart. Well, it was not inconceivable that Eric
Stannard, the gay Lothario, had called more than one woman Goldenheart.
Yet had it been Natalie, would he not have said Goldenrod, especially as
he had painted her in that guise?

And so, as usual, Bobsy Roberts puzzled round in circles and came back
to the old idea that it must be one of those two women, and could not by
any possibility be any one else.

And now, to prove it. He planned to delve deeply into the recent past of
the two, and also into Eric's behaviour of late, and he felt he must get
some hint or some clue to go upon.

Then, too, there were the missing jewels. The emeralds had been returned
to Joyce,--that is, she _said_ they had been returned. But the rest of
the collection was still unfound. Bobsy didn't think they had been
stolen or lost, but merely that Eric had hidden them so securely that
they were unfindable. A queer procedure that. It would seem that he
would have left some record of their hiding place. But he was a queer
man,--careless in every way. And the jewels might be in a bank or Safe
Deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the house. The whole
business was unsatisfactory, nothing tangible to work on. An out and out
robbery, now, one might track down. But a jewel disappearance that might
be all right and proper, was an aggravating proposition.

So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined.
He had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of
real detective work. But it was not so easy as he had thought it. It was
all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite
another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the
finding of them present at the scene of the crime.

Bobsy tried to balance up the points against each.

Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn't love her husband, and Natalie was
angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the
seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie's bequest was quite as
desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received
was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a
fortune as great as Joyce's. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women
were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and
so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the
light and still find the way around quietly.

Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the
blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the
front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning
to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the
room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,--or perhaps she
heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer
fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as
Blake snapped on the key, and then--discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner
both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue.
Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the
time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew
it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted.
Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either
woman's action was quite compatible with a criminal's sudden action at
being discovered, or an innocent woman's horror at the scene before her.

But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed
he'd find out which was which before his week was up.

Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric's
rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The
bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them.
Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had
always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in
order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same.

But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were
scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great
question.

Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he
went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had
made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its
big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the
beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully
appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood
thinking of Blake's experience. There the footman had stood, listening
at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in
less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not
time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away,
in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a
physical impossibility. Now, once again, which?

Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and,
after a moment's hesitation, she spoke to him.

"Mr. Roberts, I've had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it.
Will you help me?"

"In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?"

"Come in the studio. I'll speak to you first about it. I was looking for
Barry, to ask him."

They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of
mystery, and sat down.

"Here is the letter," said Joyce, handing it to him. "I wish you would
read it."

Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn?

It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not
scholarly looking penmanship.

It ran:

  _Mrs. Stannard_:

  Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure
  you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a
  woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a
  trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly
  prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general
  public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those
  interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is
  no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for
  the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the
  benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.

                               Very truly yours,
                                                                Orienta.

The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and
straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant's
circular letter.

"It isn't worth the paper it's written on," said Bobsy, handing it back.

"But how do you know? I've read up on this sort of thing and while there
is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it's always done by a
cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance.
This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I've a notion to see
what she'll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good."

"Of course, Mrs. Stannard, if you choose to look into this matter I have
nothing to say, but you asked me for advice."

"I know it," and Joyce shook her head, "but if you don't advise me the
way I want you to, I'll----"

"Ask somebody else?"

"Yes, I believe I will."

"Do. I really think if you confer with Barry Stannard or with Mrs.
Faulkner, they would give you advice both sound and disinterested.
They'd probably tell you to let it alone."

"I'm going to ask them, anyway. I won't ask Natalie, for I don't think
she knows anything about it. Why, Mr. Roberts, if we could just get a
clue to the mystery, it might be of incalculable help."

"Yes, but you can't get a clue from a fraud."

"I don't believe she is a fraud, but even so, I might learn something
from her."

"If you do, I hope you will give me the benefit of the information."


Joyce laid the matter before Barry and Beatrice. Natalie was present
also, and Joyce was surprised to find that the girl was well versed in
the whole subject of psychics and occult lore.

"I don't know an awful lot about it, Joyce," she said, "but I've read
some of the best authorities, and sometimes I've thought I was a little
bit psychic myself. I'd like to see this Orienta."

"It doesn't seem right," objected Mrs. Faulkner. "What do you suppose
she does? Go into trances?"

"Yes, of course," said Natalie. "And then she talks and tells things and
when she comes to again, she doesn't know what she has said."

"Then I don't believe it's true."

"Oh, yes, it is, Mrs. Faulkner. I mean, it's likely to be. Why, if she
could tell us who----"

"Do we want her to?" said Barry, very soberly. "Isn't it better to leave
the whole thing a mystery?"

"No," said Joyce, decidedly. "I want to find out the truth, if there's
any way to do it. I don't think much of detectives, at least, not Mr.
Roberts. Oh, he's a nice man,--I like him personally. But he doesn't
accomplish anything."

"Well, let's have Orienta come here," suggested Natalie. "And we can see
how we like her, and if we don't want her to, she needn't try her powers
in our cause."

"The police might object," said Mrs. Faulkner.

"Oh, no," rejoined Barry. "This is a private matter. We're at liberty to
do a thing of that sort, if we want to. But I don't approve of it."

"I'm going to write to her, anyway," Joyce declared. "I want to see what
she proposes to do."

"Yes, do," urged Natalie. "And ask her to come here as soon as she can
arrange to."




                                   X
                                Orienta


"I wish you'd use your influence with Joyce, and urge her not to have
this poppycock business go on." Barry looked troubled, and his round,
good-natured face was unsmiling.

"I have tried," returned Beatrice Faulkner, "but she is determined. And,
really, it can't do any harm."

"It might turn suspicion in the wrong direction."

"Barry, what are you afraid of? Do you fear any revelation she may
make?"

"No, oh, no,--not that. But if--well, supposing she should declare
positively that it was Natalie or Joyce,--either of them, don't you see
it couldn't help influencing the police? I want the whole thing hushed
up. Father is gone, it can't do him any good to find out who killed him,
and it may make trouble for an innocent person."

"I'll talk to Joyce again, but I doubt if I can change her determination
to ask this Orienta here. Absurd name!"

"Yes, and an absurd performance all round."

"I'll do my best. And, Barry, I'm thinking of leaving here to-morrow;
I've staid longer than I intended, now."

"Oh, don't go away. Why, you're a kind of a--how shall I express it?"

"A go-between?"

"Well, not in the usually accepted sense of that term, but you are that,
in a nice way. You can tell Joyce what I can't tell her--at least, what I
say to her has no effect. By the way, Joyce wants to go away, too."

"Will they let her?"

"I don't know. But since she is thinking about this Orienta, she's
planning to stay here longer. I don't know what she will do, but don't
you see, Beatrice, if she goes away, even for a short time, Natalie
couldn't stay here without a chaperon? So won't you stay a while longer,
until we see how things are going? You've been such a trump all through
these troubled days,--why, everybody depends on you to--to look after
things, don't you know."

Beatrice smiled at the boy,--for when bothered, Barry looked very
boyish,--and said, kindly, "I will stay another week, then. You see, at
first, Joyce was so nervous and upset, she asked me to look after the
housekeeping a bit, but now her nerves are better, and I think the
routine duties of the house help fill up her time, and are really good
for her."

"Well, you women settle those matters between yourselves. But you stay
on a while, and help me and Natalie through. The girl threatens to go
away, too; in fact, everybody wants to get out of this house, and I
don't blame them." They were in the studio and Barry looked with a
shudder toward the chair where his father had met his death.

"No, I can't blame them either,--and yet, it is a wonderful house. Must
it go to strangers?"

"I suppose so. It's Joyce's, of course, but she doesn't want to live
here. I don't want to take it off your hands, for Natalie won't live
here either. You don't want it, do you?"

"I? Oh, no. My own life here was a happy one, but the memories of those
old days and the thoughts of this recent tragedy make the place
intolerable to me as a home. But strangers could come in, and start a
new life for the old place."

"It isn't old. And it's going to be hard to sell it, because of--of the
crime story attached to it. If we could only get matters settled up, and
the police off the case, we could close the house and go away. Joyce
would go back to her mother's for a time, and eventually, of course, she
will marry Courtenay. He's a good chap, and there's not a slur to be
cast on him. As long as my father lived, Eugene never said a word to
Joyce that all the world mightn't hear."

"How do you know?"

"I only assert it, because I know the man."

"Barry, you're very young, even younger than your years. Try to realise
that I'm not saying a word against Joyce or Mr. Courtenay, either,
but--well, since your father himself realised how matters stood between
them, you ought to see it, too."

"I know they cared for each other, but I mean, Joyce and Eugene both
were too high-minded to let their caring go very far."

"High-mindedness is apt to break through when people skate on thin ice.
But don't misunderstand me. Keep your faith in all the high ideals you
can, both in yourself and others. What did you think of your father
leaving such an enormous sum to Natalie?"

"It was more than I supposed, but father was absurdly generous, and
often in erratic ways. He probably made that bequest one day when he was
especially pleased with her posing, or, more likely, when he himself had
worked with special inspiration and had produced a masterpiece."

"Very likely. Miss Vernon doesn't seem surprised about it."

"Oh, she knew it. He told her a short time ago."

"Do the police know that?"

"I fear so. And those are the things that worry me. If they think
Natalie killed my father to get that money, it is a strong point against
her. Of course, she didn't, but all the evidence and clues in this whole
business are misleading. I never saw or heard of such a mass of
contradictory and really false appearances. That's why I'd rather hush
it all up, and not try to go farther."

"Here comes Natalie now. I'll leave you two alone and I'll go to see
what I can do with Joyce about that clairvoyant matter."

Barry scarcely heard the last words, for the mere sight of Natalie
entering the room was enough to drive every other thought from his mind.
Her white house gown was of soft crêpe material, with a draped sash of
gold silk, a few shades deeper than her wonderful hair. Gold-hued
slippers and stockings completed the simple costume, and in it Natalie
looked like a princess. With all her dainty grace and delicate lines,
the girl had dignity and poise, and as she walked across the room Barry
thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

"You angel!" he whispered; "you gold angel from a Fra Angelico picture!
Natalie, my little angel girl!"

He held out his arms, and the girl went to him, and laid her tiny
snowflake of a hand on his shoulder.

"Why do you stay in this room, Barry? I don't like it in here."

"Then we won't stay. Let us go out on the Terrace in the sunlight."

The Autumn afternoon sun was yet high enough to take the chill off the
crisp air, and on a wicker couch, covered with a fur rug, they sat down.

"Here's where we sat, the night of----" began Barry, and then stopped, not
wanting to stir up awful memories.

"I know it," returned Natalie. "You left me here,--where did you go,
Barry?"

"Off with Thor and Woden for a short tramp. You said you were going
upstairs, don't you remember?"

"Yes. But where did you tramp?"

"Oh, around the grounds."

"Which way?"

"What a little inquisitor! Well, let me see. We went across this lawn
first."

"Did you see Mr. Courtenay on that stone bench there?"

"No, I don't think so. No, I'm sure I didn't. Why?"

"I just wanted to know. Where did you go next? Come, Barry, I'll go with
you. Go over the same path you went that night."

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

They started across the lawn, and soon Natalie turned and looked back.
"Could you see me from here?" she asked.

"Not at night, no. But I didn't try. I thought you had gone in the
house, and I went straight ahead. The dogs were jumping all over me, and
I was thinking of them."

"Oh, Barry! After the conversation we had just had, were you thinking of
the dogs instead of me?"

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

"Where next?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you refuse to tell me?"

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

"Barry! Do remember. You must!"

After a moment's silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying,
"I have no recollection. Don't ask me that again."

Natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned
their footsteps toward the Italian gardens, the beautiful landscape
planned and laid out by a genius. Down the stone steps they went and
paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. Then Barry took her in
his arms. "Dear little girl," he breathed in her ear, "don't be afraid.
It will all come out right. But we don't want the truth known. Now,
don't give way," as a sob shook Natalie's quivering shoulders. "You
mustn't talk or think another word about it. Obey me, now, take your
mind right off the subject! Think of something pleasanter,--think of me!"

"I can't very well help that,--when you're so close!" and the lovely deep
blue eyes smiled through unshed tears.

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

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

"Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the
nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you
marry me?"

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

"Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn't to
be my wife!" and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which
was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed
jacket.

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

"Of course you do, my blessed infant. Now, as we didn't get along very
well with our marriage settlement for a topic, let's try again. Beatrice
wants to go away from here. Do you want her to?"

"Oh, no! Don't let her go. I'd be lost without her. I want to go, you
know, but I can't, I suppose. Beg her to stay as long as I do,--won't
you, dear?"

The pleading in the blue eyes was so tender and sweet that Barry kissed
them both before replying. "I will, darling. I'll beg anybody in the
world for anything you want, if I have to become a professional
mendicant. Now, brace up, Sweetheart, for I want to talk to you about
lots of things, and how can I, if you burst into tears at every new
subject I bring up?"

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

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

"Unhand me, villain," she said, trying to speak gaily. But it was
impossible, and the scarlet lips trembled into a curve that broke
Barry's heart for its sadness. He gathered her to himself.

"Dear heart, you are all unstrung. Go to your room for a time, don't you
want to? Let Beatrice look after you,--she's kindness itself."

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

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

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

"Commonplace isn't exactly the word I'd choose to describe you, you
wonder-thing! But run away and powder your nose, it needs it. Ha, I
thought that would stir you up!" as Natalie pouted. "Run along, and I'll
see you at dinner time. And this evening we'll have our chat."

But that evening Orienta came. Joyce had refused to listen to any one's
objections and had made the appointment with the clairvoyant to come for
a preliminary conference whether she gave them a séance or not.

Barry and Natalie refused at first to meet the visitor, but Joyce
persuaded them to see her, so that they might argue intelligently for or
against her. Beatrice consented to be present, for Joyce had begged it
as a special favour.

And so, when Blake ushered the stranger into the Reception Room she was
greeted pleasantly by all the members of the household.

Nor was this perfunctory, for the charm of the guest was manifest from
the first. At her entrance, at the first sound of her low, silvery
voice, each hearer was thrilled as by an unexpected bit of music.

"Mrs. Stannard?" she said, as Joyce rose and held out her hand. The long
cloak of deep pansy-coloured satin fell back showing its lining of pale
violet, and the dark Oriental face lighted with responsive cordiality,
while she returned the greetings.

Selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, Orienta sank into it, and
crossed her dainty feet on a cushion which Barry offered. Her purple hat
was like a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicuous nor
eccentric. She chose to keep her hat on, and also retained her long
cloak, which, thrown back, disclosed her robe of voluminous folds of
dull white silk. Made in Oriental design, it was yet modishly effective
and suited well the type of its wearer.

Though not beautiful, the woman was wonderfully charming. In looking at
her each auditor forgot self and others in contemplation of this strange
personality. Each of the four observing her had eyes only for her, and
didn't even glance aside to question the others' approval.

Without seeming to notice this mute tribute, Orienta began to speak. "We
will waste no time in commonplaces," she said, her voice as perfectly
modulated as that of a great actress, "they cannot interest us at this
time. It is for you to tell me whether or not you wish to command my
services in this matter of mystery. If so, well,--if not, I go away, and
that is all."

The name she had chosen to adopt was a perfect description of her whole
personality. Her oval face was of olive complexion; her eyes, not black,
but the darkest seal brown; her hair, as it strayed carelessly from the
edges of the confining turban, was brown, in moist tendrils at the
temples, as if she were under some mental excitement.

It was evident,--to the women, at least,--that the scarlet of her full
lips, and the flush on her cheek bones, was artificial, but it gave the
impression of being frankly so, and not with intent to deceive. It was
perfectly applied, at any rate, and the flash of her ivory white teeth
made her smile fascinating.

"That's the word," Barry Stannard thought, as it occurred to him, "she's
fascinating, that's what she is. Not entirely wholesome, not altogether
to be trusted, but very, _very_ fascinating."

With a subtle understanding, Orienta perceived that Barry had set his
stamp of approval on her, and turned her attention to the women.

"I in no way urge or insist upon my suggestions," she said. "I only tell
you what I can do, and it is for you to say. For you, I suppose, Mrs.
Stannard?"

"Yes," said Joyce, and her tone was decided. "Yes, it is for me to say,
and I say I want you. I want you to tell us anything you
can,--_anything_--about the mystery that has come to this house. I want to
know who killed my husband, and I want to know why, and all the details
of the deed."

"Oh," Barry protested, "don't begin with that, Joyce. Let Madame Orienta
tell us something of less importance first. Let us have a séance or a
reading or whatever the proper term may be, and test her powers."

The visitor gave him a slow smile. "It is as I am instructed," she said,
in a matter-of-fact, every-day sort of way. "But I must inform you
before going further, that my fees are not small. Test my powers in any
way you choose, but I must include the test in my final statement of
your indebtedness."

"All right," said Barry. "I'll pay the test bill, and then, Joyce, if
you want to go on with your plans, you can assume the further expense."

"Can we do anything to-night?" asked Natalie. She had sat breathless,
listening, but now, with eyes like stars, she eagerly questioned.

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

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

"Fear my revelations!"

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

Instead of being annoyed or offended, Orienta looked at her and smiled
from beneath her heavy dark brows. "You are psychic, yourself," she
said.

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




                                   XI
                            Sealed Envelopes


With a high hand Joyce carried the matter through. She ignored
opposition and met remonstrance with a baffling disdain. She arranged
for a return of Orienta for the experiments on the following evening,
and after the departure of the medium, she declared she would listen to
no comments on her actions and went off at once to her own rooms.

Beatrice Faulkner expressed herself guardedly. "I don't care what
revelations come," she said, "except as they affect you people here. It
doesn't seem to me that that woman can say anything to make me think
either Joyce or Natalie committed the crime, but I don't want her to say
anything that will make either of them uncomfortable."

"If she does, there'll be trouble," declared Barry, gloomily. "I feel as
you do, and I want to try her on any ordinary subject first----"

"But we are going to do that," put in Natalie. "I'm crazy to see the
whole performance, but I'm scared, too. I wish Joyce would promise not
to go on with it if any one of us doesn't like it."

"She won't promise that," said Beatrice. "Joyce is bound to see it
through. I don't know what she expects from it, but she has no fear,
that's certain."


Orienta had stipulated that the séance take place in the studio, saying
that the influences of the place would go far toward producing
favourable conditions for her.

So they awaited her there, at the appointed time, and within a few
minutes of the hour she arrived. Pausing in the hall to lay off her
wraps, Orienta then glided into the great room where her group of
auditors were assembled. This time she wore a robe of dark green, as
full and flowing as the white one. There was no suggestion of Greek
drapery, but an Oriental style of billowing folds that would have been
hard to imitate. A jade bracelet showed beneath the flowing sleeve and a
jade ring was on one finger of the long, psychic hand.

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

"Certainly. It is my talisman,--my charm. Without it, I could do
nothing."

"Really? How wonderful!" and the girl looked earnestly at the carven
stone. "Your power is occult, then?"

"I think it must be. Yet I would not be classed with the people who go
by the general title of mediums. They are, usually, frauds."

Orienta made this statement simply, as if speaking of some matter
unconnected with her own work or claims. She gave the impression that if
fraudulent "mediums" wished to impose upon the gullible public, it was
of no interest to her, but she declined to be considered one of them.
And so secure was she in her own sincerity, she deemed it unnecessary to
emphasise or insist upon it.

"What is your wish?" she asked, at length. "Will you try me first on
some outside matters or shall we proceed at once to the question of the
mystery we seek to solve?"

Just then Robert Roberts was announced.

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

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

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

"The detective who is working on the case."

Orienta shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it matters not to me. But are
you sure you want him to know what I may reveal? It may incriminate----"

"I don't care who may be incriminated!" exclaimed Joyce. "I want to find
out a few things. As a matter of fact, I asked Mr. Roberts to come."

Natalie turned pale. Had Joyce laid a trap? And for whom? What might
they not learn before the evening was over?

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

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

"Priestess, if you please," she returned. "I refuse to be called a
medium or a seeress or even a clairvoyant. I am these things, but the
titles have been so misused that I claim only to be a Priestess of the
Occult. This is no academic title, I simply name myself a priestess of
the cult I express and follow."

"Priestess, I greet you," said Bobsy, and to those who knew him a shade
of mockery might be detected in his tone. But it was the merest hint and
quite unobservable to the one he addressed. In most decorous manner he
took a place in the group, and Joyce announced the plan she had in mind.

"First," she said, "we will have an exhibition of Oriental powers. We
will follow her instructions and she will give us a showing of her
methods and her feats. Then,--if I say so,--we will proceed to try the
other experiment."

"It is well," said the Priestess. "Remember, please, I make no claims to
magic or to witchcraft. I have, within myself, some inexplicable, some
mysterious power that enables me to see clairvoyantly through material
substances. I have also an occult power which allows me to see
happenings at a distance or in the past as if they were transpiring here
and now. These two powers are at your disposal, but further than that I
cannot go. I cannot answer questions, unless they come within the range
of the two conditions I have mentioned to you just now. I cannot read
the future or tell fortunes. I can only see what is shown to me, and if
I disappoint you, I cannot help it. Now let us proceed. I will ask you
each to write a question on a slip of paper and enclose it in an
envelope. Sign your name to your question and seal the envelope
securely."

"Old stuff," said Bobsy Roberts to Barry, in a low whisper. But Barry
shook his head. He would not commit himself until the experiment was
over.

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

Barry rose and went to the desk nearest to him. There was a small paper
pad, and in a pigeon-hole were several small envelopes.

"Will these do?" he asked.

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

Bobsy looked at her closely. Surely she wasn't at all particular about
the materials used. He must watch carefully for hocus pocus, if he was
to discover any.

"Ink or pencil?" said Barry.

"It doesn't matter," and Orienta was almost irritated now. "I'm not
doing legerdemain tricks, with prepared paraphernalia!"

Barry, a little embarrassed, picked up a pencil, but in trying it, broke
off its point. So he took ink, and wrote on the top slip of the pad a
short question. This he tore off and passed the pad to Joyce.

At last, each had written a question, signed the slip, tucked it in an
envelope and sealed the envelope. Also each put a small private mark on
the outside of his or her envelope to distinguish it again.

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

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

"Now," said Orienta, "I propose to read these questions in the dark and
without opening the envelopes. It is no trick, as you can readily see
for yourselves, but I must ask you to sit quietly and not ask questions
until I have finished. Then ask whatever you choose. If you please, Mr.
Roberts, hand me the envelopes, and then turn off the lights. Or, stay,
turn off the lights first, that there may be no chance of my seeing even
a mark on the outside."

Bobsy did exactly as directed. Orienta sat in a large chair, facing the
others, who sat in a row before her. The lights were arranged so that
Bobsy might turn off all at the main switch, save one small table light,
which would give him opportunity to regain his seat, and then this could
be also turned off.

With everybody raptly watching, Roberts, holding the envelopes, turned
off the lights. The room was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing
on a small table. Then he handed the lot of sealed envelopes to Orienta,
who took them in a hand-clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of
them. In another second, Bobsy had taken his seat, and snapped off the
last small light. The room was in perfect darkness. Barry's hand stole
out and clasped Natalie's, but otherwise there was no movement on the
part of any one.

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

"I will read the questions," she said, "in the order they were given me.
This is the first: 'Who is Goldenheart?' It is signed Joyce Stannard.
This is the answer, as my mind sees it. A woman sitting on a rocky seat
near a rushing brook or river. There is a man near her. He bends above
her, and speaks endearing words. He calls her Marie, she calls him Eric.
She is small and pale. Her hair is Titian red. Though not beautiful, she
is attractive in a pathetic way. Ah, the vision is gone."

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

"No questions, please," said Orienta, "unless you want this experiment
to stop right here. I will now read the contents of the next envelope.
This is, 'Who marred my etched picture?' signed Natalie Vernon. My mind
sees the artist who made it, himself scratching it. He is in a fury. It
is because he does not feel satisfied with his own work. He mutters,
'Not right! no, not right, yet!' There is no one with him. He is alone.
The vision fades."

Orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if exhausted. But in a
moment she spoke again. "You know," she said, "if you prefer to have the
lights, it doesn't matter at all to me. I read these in the dark because
I think if the room were lighted you might suppose I saw the message in
some way by means of my physical eyes. It is not so, but if you prefer
the light, turn it on."

"I do," cried Roberts, and before any one could object, he snapped on
the table light and then the main key which flooded the big room with
illumination.

Orienta smiled. "I thought you were sceptical, Mr. Roberts," she said.
And then, as if his doubts were of little consequence, she said, "Shall
I proceed?"

Joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance and reproof at Bobsy
Roberts, who looked a little crestfallen, but determined to take no
chances.

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

She did not look at the envelope she now held, but looked straight at
Roberts, as if to convince him of her honesty.

"This is signed Beatrice Faulkner, and it says, 'Where are the lost
jewels?' My mind sees this picture. The jewels, not lost, but safely
hidden. They are in a strong box, not a safe, more like a metal-bound
trunk. I cannot tell where this box is, but it is in a bare place, like
a store room or safety place of some sort. The vision goes."

"May we speak?" asked Natalie, eagerly.

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

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

"This is Mr. Stannard's question," and Orienta held another envelope in
her long fingers, "'Would it not be wiser not to attempt to solve the
mystery, but to hush up the whole matter?' My mind sees a picture. It is
vague, there is no detail, but it is bright and beautiful. There are
fair flowers and soft colours. They shift, like a kaleidoscope, but
always rosy and lovely. It means, yes, it would be better to give up
trying to solve the riddle.

"And now," Orienta spoke in a distinctly scornful voice, "there is but
one more, Mr. Roberts' envelope. In it he has written, 'Are you a
fraud?' I answer this as carefully as I do the others. My mind shows me
myself, and I see my honest attempts to do my duty and to read aright.
No, I am not a fraud. That is all."

"For shame, Mr. Roberts!" cried Joyce, angrily. "I am sorry I asked you
here to-night, and I will now ask that you go away. I am more than
interested in Orienta's work, I am enthralled, and I refuse to have it
interrupted or interfered with by your unjust suspicions and rude
behaviour! Please go away, and let us continue our experiments in
peace."

"Oh, Mrs. Stannard, please let me stay," begged the penitent Bobsy;
"I'll be good, I promise you. You see, I'm so interested in the thing, I
wrote that to test it, and Madame Orienta came through with flying
colours. If you will let me remain, I promise not to offend again, in
any particular."

Bobsy had a way with him, and Orienta herself smiled a little as she
said, "Let him stay. I'm glad to convince him."

So Bobsy staid.

Then Barry proposed that they try the same test over again, but without
signing their papers. "Thus," he said, "we will feel more free to ask
what we choose."

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

"Seal them with wax, if you wish," said the Priestess, smiling at Bobsy.
"I see there is a sealing set right there on the desk."

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

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

"Shall I read these in the dark or in the light?" asked Orienta, as
Bobsy held the five missives toward her.

"Why not as you did before?" said Beatrice, "part of them in darkness
and part in light. I think those read in the dark even more wonderful
than in the light."

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

"You may choose," said the Priestess.

"Dark, then," replied Joyce.

So again the room was made totally dark, and immediately came Orienta's
soft, velvety tones.

"'Will what I fear ever happen?'" she read slowly. Then she sighed, "I
cannot say, my child." Every one present knew she spoke to Natalie,
although the question had not been signed. "I hope not,--I think not,--but
the vision is clouded. It is better that you forget all. Forget the
past, live for a bright and happy future. The vision fades."

They had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject,
and the next one would ensue.

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

"'What can I do to help?'" No hint was needed, for all felt sure this
was Beatrice Faulkner's question.

The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: "Nothing more
than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here
and they are appreciated."

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

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

Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness.
She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark.

"'Am I doing right?'" she read. For an instant the long lashes on the
cheeks of the Priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at
Joyce. "Yes, you are doing right. Continue in the procedure you have
planned."

A look of contentment passed over Joyce's face. She showed intense
relief, and oblivious to the others' curious glances she drew a long
sigh and relaxed in her chair.

Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that the questions were not
signed. She knew at once who wrote each. Next came Barry's.

Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, "'Will
the truth ever be known?'"

There was a perceptible pause before she said, "You do not want it
known, because you fear it. But your secret is safe. That, at least,
will never be known."

Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry Stannard had a secret.
Pshaw! Not necessarily because this faker said so! And yet, was she a
faker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put those sealed envelopes
into that long, inert hand. There they were still, intact, seals
unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if
they were so much blank paper. Whatever her power, it was superhuman. No
physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such
sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. No, there was no
chance for trickery. It was a supernatural gift of some sort.

His own envelope came last. He had boldly written, "Who killed Eric
Stannard?" a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude
words.

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

"At last," she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, "at last we
come to the vital question. It matters not who wrote it, it is what each
one wanted to write. Shall I answer?"

There was silence.


Orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance around.




                                  XII
                                A Vision


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

Bobsy Roberts regarded her with awe. All his scepticism was gone; he was
ready to believe anything she might say. She had stood the severest
tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come
triumphant through the experimental ordeal. Surely, if she revealed
anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. But could she do that?

Natalie and Barry both showed fear. Strive to hide it as they would, it
lurked in their staring eyes, it was evident in their restless hands,
and as if moved by the same thought, they turned and gazed at each
other.

Beatrice Faulkner looked troubled. She saw the two young people in their
distress, and she looked at the Detective furtively.

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

"Yes," she said, and her voice rang out with its note of determination,
"yes, Madame Orienta, tell all you know,--all you can learn by your
mystic power."

As if in obedience to a command, the graceful figure of the Mystic fell
into a languid pose. Her arms fell limply, her head drooped a very
little to one side. Her eyes were open, but seemed to be unseeing, for
her glance was fixed, as if watching a mirage.

She looked directly toward the chair where Stannard had died. Her
half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking.
She sounded as one in a trance. She was alive but not alert, like one
sleep-walking or talking in a dream.

"I see it all,--clearly. I see the artist in his favourite chair. He is
at his work,--no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work
that he has done. It is not a picture--it is a small panel. He takes up a
tool,--an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. He hesitates, and then with a
sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. It pleases him
that he has done so, and he smiles. A man enters."

There was a stir among her audience. The tension was too great. Barry
sought Natalie's hand and clasped it tightly. Roberts shot glances
quickly from one to another, but returned his gaze at once to the
speaker. Joyce and Beatrice leaned forward, fairly hanging on the words
of revelation.

"The man,--he is big and dark,--confronts the artist as he sits. The
intruder, without a word, grasps the sharp tool from the fingers of the
one who holds it, and thrusts it into the breast of his victim. He darts
across the room, turns off all light, and--it is so black,--I cannot see
him depart. But--I hear him--I hear his stealthy tread. He comes back,
past the dying man,--he hears a groan,--he pauses,--I can see nothing, but
I hear two come in at opposite doors. They stand, breathing heavily in
fear--in horror of--they know not what. As they stand, half-dazed--I hear
the man--the murderer slip past one of them, and out of the room. The
light flashes on. The room is dazzlingly bright. I see the two who first
entered. They are women. They gaze affrightedly at each other and then
at the man in the chair. Two others have appeared. They are at the other
end of the long room. It must have been one of these who flashed the
light on. They are a man,--a servant he is,--and a woman. Both are
terrorised at what they see. The two women near the chair of the dying
man accuse each other of the crime. But this is the frenzied cry of
shock and fright. They do not mean it--they scarce know what they utter.
The dying man raises his head in a final effort of life. He sees the
scene with the clearness of the dying brain. He hears the servant say,
'Who did this?' He replies, with upraised, shaking finger--'Natalie--nor
Joyce.' He means neither of these innocent women was concerned. He tries
to tell more, to tell of his assailant, but Death claims him. His voice
ceases, his heart stops beating,--he is gone. That is all. With his last
breath he tried to say, 'Neither Natalie nor Joyce,' but his failing
speech rendered the words unintelligible. The vision fades."

Orienta ceased speaking, her eyes drooped shut and she lay back in her
chair as one asleep.

The silence remained unbroken for a minute or more. The beautiful voice
still rang in their ears. They were still back in the scene they had
heard described. The vividly drawn picture was still with them, and
there was no reaction until Bobsy Roberts said, in a tone of awed
belief, "By Jove!"

Then the stunned figures moved. Beatrice looked at Joyce with a smile of
deep thankfulness, and then turned to smile at Natalie. The girl was
radiant. She had sensed acutely the whole scene, and she realised
perfectly what the revelation meant. Barry was looking at her adoringly,
and his face was full of triumphant joy.

Joyce looked still a bit dazed. Had the experiment really proved so much
more successful than she had dared to hope? She looked at Roberts. He
was scribbling fast in a notebook, lest some point of the story escape
his memory.

Orienta opened her eyes, roused her long, exquisite figure to an upright
posture, and passed her hand gently across her brow.

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

"May we ask questions?" eagerly exclaimed Bobsy.

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

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

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

"I see him clearly," she said, clasping her hands in her tense
concentration, "but his back is toward me as he bends over his victim."

"How is he dressed?"

"I cannot quite tell. His figure is vague. His clothes seem merely a
dark shadow against the light."

"Does it seem to be evening dress?"

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

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

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

"He is not masked?"

"No."

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

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

"And he has a round, smooth-shaven face?" Roberts spoke eagerly, as if
he had in mind a distinct personality.

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

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

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

"Then is he clean-shaven?"

"No, he wears a beard."

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

"Dark, yes. But not heavy."

"Pointed or full?"

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

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

"I see no hat."

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

"I cannot tell. The vision fades."

"Let up, Roberts," said Barry. "We are sure now the man was an intruder.
Let it go at that. If you can find such a one, it won't matter whether
he had a hat or not."

"It is important," insisted Bobsy. "Now, Madame Orienta, tell us again
of his actions. Even if the vision has faded, tell from your memory what
he did. You saw him when he crossed the room toward the hall door. It
was light then?"

"Yes. He moved swiftly, straight to the electric switch, and pressed it.
Then I could see no more."

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

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

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

"Yes, a sort of gasp or groan."

"Right. It was this, then, that attracted the attention of Mrs. Stannard
and Miss Vernon, and they entered at about the same time?"

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

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

"That is as the vision revealed it."

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

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

"It couldn't have been past Miss Vernon," said Bobsy. "She was too near
the door, according to her own account. And I don't see how he could
have passed Mrs. Stannard, as there was a low light in the Billiard
Room, and she must have seen him pass."

"Both women were looking toward the source of the sound they heard.
Also, at that very moment, the wounded man gave a faint cry of 'Help!'
An instant after, the servant turned on the light. In that instant the
man disappeared, unnoticed by any one. I am not explaining these
occurrences, Mr. Roberts; I am describing them. It is for you to
interpret their meaning."

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

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

Orienta looked at the girl with an affectionate expression.

"You are a 'sensitive' yourself, Miss Vernon. It will not be difficult
for you to understand. By my clairvoyance I read the thought in his
mind. I know he feared one or other of the two women he saw might be
suspected. The dying often have abnormally acute prescience. To ward off
any such danger, and in reply to the servant's inquiry, he strove to say
neither of you were implicated,--he raised his hand in protest,--but he
was physically unable to articulate clearly, and so his words were
misconstrued."

"You heard the words," said Natalie to Beatrice Faulkner; "does it seem
to you he meant that?"

"Yes," was the reply. "Now that I think it over I feel sure he did. At
the moment, you know, I could scarcely control my senses, and his voice
sounded so queer and unnatural, it was difficult to gather his meaning."

"I think so, too," broke in Joyce. "I know that's what he meant. Eric's
very nature was against his accusing any woman of wrong-doing. He meant
just what Madame Orienta has told us. And I am glad there can be no more
doubt about it."

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

"I suppose so. I came from a lighted room into one of pitch blackness. I
heard a quick breathing from the opposite side of the room, where
Natalie was. I daresay I involuntarily took a step forward, and the man
slipped past, behind me. It all happened so quickly, and I was so
frightened, I can't describe my exact sensations. But I accept Madame
Orienta's revelation as the truth, and----" Joyce's face paled a little,
and she spoke very sternly, "I positively forbid any further
investigation of the whole matter."

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

"Not at all," was the haughty answer, and Joyce looked like a queen
issuing commands. "I have no idea who the intruder was, nor do I want to
know. But if this story is made public, a dozen men will be found to fit
the description, and it will mean no end of trouble and injustice.
Therefore, I request, Mr. Roberts, that you let it go no further."

"I can't promise that," said Bobsy, gravely. "I am bound to report to my
chief. But if he agrees, I will stop all investigation."

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

"I think you need have no fear, Mrs. Stannard, of any injustice being
done. One moment, Madame Orienta. You saw the footman, Blake, followed
by Mrs. Faulkner, enter the room and turn on the light, just as they
testified?"

"The light was flashed on, and then I saw the servant, his hand still on
the switch. Behind him, at his very shoulder, was Mrs. Faulkner, her
face drawn with fear and horror. Naturally I turned my attention at once
to the other end of the room, and there saw, for the first time, the two
women whom I had heard enter a moment before."

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

He went straight to headquarters and sought Captain Steele.

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

"Again or yet?" asked his unmoved listener.

"Got it in the queerest way, too," Bobsy went on, as he fished for his
notebooks in the pocket of the overcoat he had laid off. "Do you believe
in mejums, Cap?"

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

"Well, to begin at the beginning of this chapter of it, Mrs. Stannard
engaged a clairvoyant lady to see visions."

"Spooks?"

"Not exactly that, but to--well, to reconstruct the murder
scene,--mentally, you know,--and see who did the stabbing. And by Jove,
she told us!"

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

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

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

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

"I'll try," and Captain Steele folded his hands and listened without a
word while Bobsy told him every detail of the Orienta revelation.

Often he referred to his notes, and again he told vividly from memory
the exact words of the priestess.

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

"Sure I did, and so would you if you'd been there. You can sort of sense
the difference between the professional fake mediums and this--this lady.
She was the real thing, all right. I felt just as you do, before I saw
her, but I was soon convinced. Why, man, that reading the sealed
messages was enough."

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

"But she didn't use any of their 'ways.' I, myself, handed the bunch to
her, and immediately she read them out, and in pitch dark, too. No,
there was no chance for trickery. She read them in dark or light,
equally well. And not a seal broken or an envelope torn. Now, then!"

"No chance for a confederate?"

"Not the least. We sat in a row, and she sat facing us, fully eight feet
away. And what could a confederate do? I handed her the envelopes,--she
gave them back to me,--intact. Not one of us moved. When it was dark, her
voice proved she was in her chair, and when I flashed on the light
suddenly, there she was, without a change of posture, holding the
envelopes exactly as I had given them to her. I tell you she's the real
thing. I've read up on the trickery business, and all the books say that
while there is lots of fraud, there is also a certain amount of
telepathy or clairvoyance or whatever you call it, that's true. And
that's her sort."

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

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

"Who, then?"

"Eugene Courtenay."

"What?"

"Of course it is. I've had him in the back of my head for some time, but
I couldn't get a peg to hang a clue on. Now, I see how he could have
done it. He did do it, just as the lady said. He slipped in, stabbed his
man, turned off the light, and--slipped out again, past Mrs. Stannard."

"Why didn't she know it?"

"She did know it! Don't you see? Those two are in love. They wanted
Stannard out of the way. But I don't think there was collusion. I think
it was this way. You know, it is history that Mrs. Stannard and
Courtenay were alone in the Billiard Room. Of course he was making love
to her, and bemoaning the fact of Stannard's existence. Now, either he
went from her into the studio, and she knew it, or else, he went away,
as they say, and returned, through the Billiard Room--and she didn't know
it."

"How could she help seeing him?"

"Oh, say she was crying,--or had buried her face in a sofa cushion,--or
was sitting before the fire and he passed behind her. But admit that he
_could_ have gone through that room unknown to her,--which, of course, he
could. Well, he goes in, and, later, in the dark, he goes out the same
way. I don't know about her knowledge of any part of this performance,
but I think she knew nothing of it, or she wouldn't have engaged the
occult lady."

"She did that to clear herself."

"Yes, and Miss Vernon, too. But when the Priestess, as they call her,
spoke of a tall, dark man, with a beard, Mrs. Stannard was scared to
death and wanted it all called off."

"A tall man, with a beard?"

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

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

"Yes, but only when I dragged it out of her. She vowed she couldn't see
him clearly, and I pretended I wanted her to say a round, smooth-shaven
face, and little by little I wormed it out, and it was Courtenay to the
life. Then, Mrs. Stannard weakened on the whole show, which proves it."

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

"Only vaguely. But you know his story. How he sat on the lawn bench and
watched the lights go off and on! Good work, that! He himself turned
them off and then escaped to the lawn, and cleverly sat there to see
what occurred, instead of going home, and thereby being suspected."

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

"Sure. He knew they'd get off all right, and if he expected to marry
Mrs. Stannard, he couldn't let himself get into the game. So he made up
his simple, clever yarn, and stuck to it. Yes, sir, Courtenay's your
man!"

"Wait, what about that conversation Mrs. Stannard overheard? She says
her husband was talking to a woman."

"She made that up. Probably she had a glimmer of suspicion toward
Courtenay, and did anything she could to make it seem somebody else."

"Then she hired this visionary, and that brought about the very
revelation she didn't want!"

"But she never dreamed it would do so. She had no faith in the thing,
and thought it would merely divert suspicion to some unknown intruder.
And so it would, if I hadn't pinned the Seeress down to a careful
description. Then, the more Mrs. Stannard showed discomfiture the more I
knew I was right."

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

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




                                  XIII
                            An Alibi Needed


Very discreetly Bobsy conducted his interview with Eugene Courtenay. The
detective wanted to trap his man before he could realise any danger, so
he called on him the morning after his talk with Steele.

Courtenay was not a business man. He called himself a farmer, but his
farming was of the fancy variety and was done almost entirely by expert
gardeners. His place was not far from the Folly, and when Bobsy called,
at about eleven o'clock, he was received courteously enough by the man
he desired to see.

"It's this way, Mr. Courtenay," said Bobsy, after a few preliminaries,
"in the interests of law and justice, I want you to tell me a little
more in detail the story you told at the inquest."

"There are no further details than those I related, Mr. Roberts. What
have you learned that makes you think my testimony of sudden
importance?"

Clearly, this was not a man to be easily hoodwinked. Bobsy felt his way.
"Not of sudden importance. But all testimony is important, and sometimes
by elaboration it becomes illuminative."

"Good word, illuminative," remarked Courtenay. "But I cannot help to
shed light for you, I fear. Just what do you want to know?"

Here was an opening. Bobsy accepted it as such.

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

"I don't know, really. One doesn't note hours when not on business
matters. It must have been between eleven and half-past. That's as near
as I can come to it. Why?"

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

"It is my duty to ask," he said coolly. "At what time did you reach
home? I suppose you don't know that, either."

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

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

"I was."

"Had you on a hat?"

Eugene Courtenay started. But he answered at once: "Not a hat. I wore a
cap over there. I often do when I go to a neighbour's."

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

"Why, confound it, man. I don't know! I suppose I did. No, let me see. I
believe I was carrying it, and laid it on the bench beside me."

"And left it there?"

Courtenay laughed a little self-consciously. "Yes, I did. I came nearly
home before I thought of it. Then I went back and gathered it in. Why?"

Again that direct, snapped-out question.

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

"How should I know? After events prove that the tragedy in the studio
was then being gone through with--but I had no idea of that at the time.
I glanced at the house, of course. There was a light in the studio--in
fact, lights over most of the house. I found my cap and came on home.
Why?"

"I'll answer your whys, Mr. Courtenay. Because the police have reason to
think your story is not entirely true. Because we think it was you,
yourself, who turned off the studio light."

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

"Did you, Mr. Courtenay?"

"I refuse to answer such an absurd question! In the first place, I was
out on the lawn, when the light went out."

"So you say. But who corroborates that?"

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

"Yes, that may be true, but your first statement is not. You left Mrs.
Stannard in the Billiard Room, you went into the studio--whether in the
interim you had been out on the lawn or not, doesn't matter--you stabbed
Eric Stannard, you turned off the light, and returning through the
Billiard Room, you went back to that bench, and awaited developments."

"You must be insane!"

"Oh, no, I'm not insane. Neither were you. It was a clever dodge. You
didn't know the women would be implicated, but when they were, however
you might regret that, you couldn't confess your own guilt----"

"Why couldn't I?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

"Did you see any one, any servant or gardener, perhaps, who can vouch
for your story?"

"No--I can't remember that I did. But, man, alive, how could I get in and
out of that room? It has been proved----"

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

"But how?"

"Answer this question truthfully. What was Mrs. Stannard doing, when you
left her in the Billiard Room?"

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

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

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

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

"No."

"Then why the act?"

"I cannot say."

"You mean you will not. Was it because you had said something to her
that caused her emotion?"

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

"Very well, don't answer. But, you must admit, that if her face was
buried in the pillow, she could not see if a man passed through the
Billiard Room to the studio."

"But no one did!"

"How do you know?"

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

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

"You accuse me?"

"I do."

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

"I have not."

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

But Bobsy Roberts was no fool. He said, quietly, "I'd rather you would
tell me what you think of me. It may help me to get at the truth. There
are reasons why we are inquiring into your connection with this
matter--you will hear the reasons soon enough. There is peculiar but
direct evidence that you are the man who stabbed Mr. Stannard."

"Evidence? What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. But never mind that. You have nothing else to tell me?
No proof to adduce that you were just where you claim to have been when
the studio was darkened?"

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

"Then that is all, Mr. Courtenay. You needn't tell me what you think of
me. Your opinion doesn't interest me. But perhaps after you hear the
evidence I speak of, you'll sing another tune. Oh, I'm not going to tell
you about it. Ask Mrs. Stannard."

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

"Good morning." And Bobsy went away, filled with conviction of Eugene
Courtenay's guilt.


Courtenay went at once over to see Joyce.

"I've missed you so," she said, simply, as she met him on the Terrace.
"Why haven't you been here?"

"I thought better not, darling. I can't control myself sufficiently to
hide my love for you. And I feared it might bring embarrassment on you
if I let it be seen by any one. Oh, Joyce, it seems so long to wait!
Must it be two years? I can't live through it."

"Hush, Eugene. It seems sacrilege even to speak of our love and poor
Eric dead so short a time. Be patient, dear heart. We are both young.
You couldn't love me, or respect me, if I failed in ordinary behaviour
toward a husband's memory. And Eric was good to me."

"Good to you! Losing his head over every pretty woman he met! Joyce, how
could you ever marry him?"

"He made me. Don't you know how some women succumb to cave-man wooing? I
don't understand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making carried me off
my feet, and I had promised him before I knew it."

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

"I think it would. I was fascinated by his very vehemence. Now, I know
better. I want only your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and
content me as he never could."

"You poor little darling. I wish I could give it to you now. Mayn't I
kiss you once--just once, Joyce?"

"No, Eugene. Not yet. Some day--when I can't be patient any longer. When
the hunger for your big, sweet affection becomes too intense--the craving
too uncontrollable."

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

"When the robins nest again," she said, with a little pathetic smile at
the quotation. "But now, dear, sit down, I've a lot to tell you. I'm
glad you came over, I was going to send for you."

And then, without further preamble, Joyce told him the whole story of
Orienta and her revelations.

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

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

"Why, I don't know. Not a tramp, of course. But, perhaps some
blackmailer. You know--Eric's life wasn't spotless."

"Listen, Joyce. The man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. He
was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. He had reason to hate Eric
Stannard. Do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?"

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

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

"I must, Joyce. And you must listen. When I left you, did you keep your
head down on that pillow--or, did you raise it? Tell me truly, dearest."

"I--I kept it down there. I was crying a little--after what--you know--what
we had been talking about. I staid that way a long time."

"Until you heard the sounds from the studio?"

"Yes; until that."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, the police think so."

"The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why--_why_ did I ever have Madame
Orienta come here? But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene--we will
prove it."

"Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told
this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?"

"To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and
Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when
the Priestess' story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of
guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!"

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

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

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

"Yes. I thought it wise. I thought it would implicate some stranger and
I wanted him to hear."

"Why did you think it would accuse a stranger? Look here, Joyce, you
didn't employ that woman to cook up a yarn, did you?"

"Mercy, no!" and Joyce opened her eyes full at him. "Eugene! What an
idea! Of course I didn't. Why, I believe in her as fully as--as I do in
you! I can't say more than that! She is honest and earnest in what she
tells. Whether she sees truly, is another thing, and one over which she
has no control. But all she says is in sincerity and truth."

"It may be. But she has surely woven a web around me. That is, if others
share your belief in her. Now, I'm going to work, Joyce, to find my
alibi."

"What do you mean?"

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

"Swear falsely?" Joyce whispered the words.

"If need be. But I hope to get an honest witness. May I speak to your
outdoor servants? And the house staff, too, if necessary?"

"Of course. Find the head gardener, Mason, he'll round up the rest. Oh,
Eugene, you will find some one, surely. They are about the grounds every
night. And perhaps Barry saw you. He was out with the dogs."

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

Courtenay went away, and Joyce went into the house. She went to Beatrice
Faulkner's room, and found her there.

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

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

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

"Of course not! What nonsense!"

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

"Not make one up! Don't ever say that, Joyce. You mean, he's going to
find proof of his own testimony."

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

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

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

"Then believe him innocent! You wrong-minded woman, to doubt the man who
loves you, at the first breath of suspicion!"

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

"Look in your heart and answer that yourself."

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




                                  XIV
                         From Seven to Seventy


"Listen, Joyce, dear. You are nervous and excited, or you never would do
Mr. Courtenay such injustice. Think back; remember how he has always
loved you--long before you married Eric. How patient and good he has
been, never showing any undue interest in you or any animosity toward
Eric. Why, then, imagine that he would do this desperate thing?"

"That's just it, Beatrice. He restrained his feelings as long as he
could, and that night--in the Billiard Room, he--he lost control--and he
said he--he c-couldn't stand it. You know he thought Eric didn't treat me
right----"

"And Eric didn't. But even if Mr. Courtenay did lose his head for a
moment, that doesn't mean he was the murderer, and you mustn't suspect
him, Joyce."

"But you know what Orienta said--about a dark man with a pointed beard.
Who else could it have been?"

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

"I know. And you are a comfort, Beatrice. But I never can marry Eugene
if he has even a shadow of doubt hanging over him. I want him cleared."

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I think Barry was off in the other direction, down by the orchards.
But, Beatrice, maybe Mr. Wadsworth saw him. Didn't he leave you just
about that time?"

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

"Oh, no. He's a fine man, and if he did see Eugene, his word will stand.
Are you going to--do you care for him, Beatrice?"

"No, Joyce. He is, as you say, a fine man, and he has asked me many
times to marry him, but I do not love him in that way. I admire and
respect him, that is all."

"Poor Mr. Wadsworth. He worships the ground you walk on. Perhaps later,
when all this horror is a thing of the past, you may change your mind."

"Never, Joyce. But I'll ask Mr. Wadsworth about Eugene. You telephone
him to come over here. If I do----"

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

Joyce called him up on the telephone, and Wadsworth came over to the
Folly that evening.

"Why, yes, I think so," he said, when questioned by Beatrice. "Let me
see; when I left here, I walked a couple of times round the Italian
garden paths, hesitating as to whether I should come back for one last
appeal, or accept your refusal as final. I decided on the latter course,
and was planning to go away on a long trip, to--to make myself keep away
from you." He looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his
own. "I don't want to persist too hard, dear, but I am of a determined
nature, and I can't give you up. So, I'm going away, but I warn you I
shall yet return and ask you once more--yes, once more, Beatrice."

"That is in the future," she returned, gravely, "but now, let us see if
we can help poor Joyce."

"Poor Courtenay, as well! Now, I think I did see him, as I came along
the South lawn. I'm sure I saw some man on the bench out there, and it
was much the outline of Courtenay. And then, yes, I remember now, just
then the light went out, and I couldn't see him clearly. Of course, I
thought nothing of the light being put out. I assumed the people were
going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you
again that night. Had the lights staid on, I fancy, after all, I should
have entered the house again."

They were alone in the studio. It was but partially lighted, and
Beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment.

"Come out of here," she said; "I hate the place, it seems to be haunted
by Eric's spirit. Come into the Reception Room."

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

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

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

"Mayn't I see it?"

"Not now. Some time."

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

Humouring his whim, Beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on
the balustrade, as Eric had painted her.

"Beautiful. Stannard was a wonderful genius. I want that picture, dear.
I don't care if it is unfinished. If I can't have the original--yet--will
you give me the duplicate?"

"No, oh, no!" and Beatrice looked startled. "I'd hate you to have it,
with this staircase and all----"

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

"As an architectural gem, yes. Mr. Faulkner prided himself on its
design. But now--Eric's death----"

"Oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to
the footman's queer actions, didn't you?"

"Yes; I was just on this very step when I heard that faint moan--oh,
don't remind me of it."

"I won't. I was a brute to be so thoughtless. Dear heart, can't you
leave this house? Why do you stay in a place of such sad memories?"

"I do want to go away--and I must. And yet, Joyce needs me. She leans on
me for everything. Come into this little room, and sit down."

They went into the cosy, low-ceiled Reception Room, and Beatrice
continued. "I was just thinking I could leave her, when she became
worried about Mr. Courtenay. Now, if you can convince the police that
you saw him out there, just at that critical moment when the light
disappeared, you will establish his alibi. Can you do this?"

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

"Had he a hat on?"

"No, but his hand on the back of the bench held a cap. I saw this
clearly, for the light from the studio window was very strong. But as I
looked at the man, the light went out. Understand, I was not looking at
him with any curiosity or even interest. Merely he was in my line of
vision, that is all. When I could not see him because of the sudden
darkness, I thought no more of him, and I went home then."

"And you will go to the police and tell them this?"

"I certainly will, the first thing to-morrow morning. To-night, if you
prefer."

"No, wait till morning. Stay here a little longer. I feel lonely
to-night."

"Dear heart, can't you learn to look to me to cheer that loneliness?"

"Don't--you promised you wouldn't. But let's chat a bit. Tell me, do you
believe at all in spiritism?"

"Spiritualism?"

"No; spiritism. They're quite different. Spiritualism is the
old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping performance. Spiritism is the
scientific consideration of life after death."

"Of course, I believe in life after death----"

"But do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?"

"By rapping and tipping tables?"

"No, not at all. By silent communion, or by a restless haunting of
places they used to occupy? There! didn't you hear a faint sound then? A
soft rustle, as of wings?"

"No, I didn't, and neither did you. That Orienta person has you all
unnerved. I won't stand it. I insist on your leaving this house. If I
see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding
Courtenay, will you get away at once?"

"I'd be glad to, if Joyce is willing I should go. Natalie is fond of me,
too. But Barry will look after her. Yes, if Mr. Courtenay is freed of
all suspicion, I will go away at once."


Roger Wadsworth's story carried weight with the police, who were already
rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant.

And as Courtenay himself said to Captain Steele, "Your precious
detective, Roberts, forced that woman to describe me. Even granting she
had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn't say
anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he
suggested it. Then she said 'yes.' If he'd said, 'hasn't he red hair and
freckles?' she would have said 'yes,' also! It's auto-suggestion. Her
mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought
she saw. But since you've put me on the rack, I'm going into this thing
myself. For reasons of my own, I'm going to hunt down the murderer of
Eric Stannard. There's nobody on the job that has any push or
perseverance. Young Stannard doesn't want the truth known. Why, I can't
say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts.
I'm ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one
you say. Or I'll work alone. But solve the mystery I'm bound to!"

Courtenay's manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own
innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about
"protesting too much." But when Courtenay said he would be at their
bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go
in peace to pursue his own inquiries.

And he went first to Lawyer Stiles, to look into the matter of
Stannard's will.

"The first motive to consider," Courtenay said to the surprised lawyer,
"is always a money motive. Who benefits by this will, aside from the
principals?"

Stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities.
Suddenly Courtenay started in astonishment.

"Have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?" he asked.

The lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression.

"Just what do you mean?" he said.

"Ah, then you _have_ seen it! Were you going to let it pass unnoted?"

"I must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks."

"And I will do so. That will has been tampered with, and you know it!"

"Tampered with?"

"Don't repeat my words like a parrot! Yes, tampered with. The original,
written in Mr. Stannard's own hand, has been added to by some one else."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't think so, I know so. Now, why haven't you made it known? You
must have seen it?"

"Where is the fancied alteration?"

Courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he
could be dishonest or if he had been blind. He laid his finger on one
clause, the one stating Natalie Vernon's bequest, and said, "There, that
is the place. That was written seven thousand dollars, it has been
changed to read seventy thousand dollars."

Lawyer Stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. "It
is in letters and figures both," he demurred, "it would be difficult----"

"I know it is. And it was not very difficult to add _ty_ to the written
seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the
original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was
intended by the testator."

"Well?"

"Well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable
fraud like that?"

"I'm sorry you saw that, Mr. Courtenay. In explanation, I have nothing
to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that I am in the
confidence of the Stannard family, and this is their affair--not yours."

"Whew!" Courtenay gave a short whistle. "I begin to see. They know it,
and make no objection."

"Y--yes."

"Who knows it?"

"Barry Stannard."

"And Mrs. Stannard?"

"I can't say. She read the will, but made no comment."

"You're sure Barry knows?"

"I am."

"And he stands for it because Miss Vernon did it! That baby! Who'd think
her capable of such a thing?"

"Hush, Mr. Courtenay. You've no right to accuse her. You've no evidence
that she did it. In fact, I'm told Miss Vernon writes a large, dashing
hand, and this----"

"And Eric Stannard's hand is small and cramped. Yes, a clever forgery.
It looks quite a bit like his own writing. But the ink is different, the
slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been
changed!"

"Granting that. What matter, if Barry Stannard doesn't care? Moreover,
he is going to marry Miss Vernon, and the fortune will be theirs
jointly."

"But don't you see? If Natalie Vernon altered that will, she wanted that
larger sum, and--she----"

"Don't say it. At least, don't say it to me. If you want to put the
matter up to Barry, go ahead. But I decline to express an opinion or
form a conclusion."

"What does Barry say?"

"He ignores it. I called his attention to it, and he said, 'Changed
figures? Oh, I guess not. It doesn't matter, anyway; that, and more,
will be at Miss Vernon's disposal some day.' So I said no more."


Eugene Courtenay went straight to Joyce.

"Do you know anything about a changed figure in Eric's will?" he asked,
bluntly.

"No," she returned; "what do you mean?"

"Natalie Vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to
seventy thousand."

"How could she?"

"It wasn't difficult. Eric wrote the will himself. He wrote seven and
she made it seventy--the words, I mean. Then he wrote a figure seven and
three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. Mighty clever work,
but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter."

"What possessed the child?"

"Don't call her a child. The woman who could and would do that, is a
Machiavelli in petticoats. But don't you see where the knowledge of her
act leads us?"

"You mean----" Joyce could not say it.

"Of course I do. I've thought all along there was still a doubt of her."

"Oh, I haven't. Even if she did alter the will, that doesn't prove----"

"It doesn't prove--anything. But you know this will was made very
recently----"

"Of course; Natalie has only been here two months."

"I know it. Well, say, Eric made this bequest to her, soon after she
came--you know, Joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning----"

"Yes, I know it, Eugene."

"And then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why, _why_ would
she do this, except to inherit--at once?"

"Natalie! That dear little thing! Never! I did suspect her the least
mite, just at first--but I don't now."

"Barry does."

"Oh, no! He can't."

"He does. And that's why he didn't want any fuss made about her
forgery----"

"Don't call it that!"

"It _is_ that. What else can I call it?"

"But I can't believe it. Maybe--maybe somebody else did it. Barry----"

"Nonsense! Why should Barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?"

"Oh, I don't know! It's all so confusing."

"Not confusing; there's no doubt she did the forging. But it's a
terrible state of affairs. I don't want to be the one to accuse her."

"Must you?"

"Well, I'd determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on
Eric's murderer. Primarily to clear myself--for your sake. And, too, for
the sake of justice and right. I'll go now, Joyce, I must think this out
alone. Good-bye, darling. Don't worry. I'll do only what is right,
and--what you approve."




                                   XV
                           Natalie in Danger


"Natalie! What _are_ you doing?"

Joyce entered Natalie's room, to find her on her knees before an open
trunk. Hats and gowns lay about the room, the wardrobe shelves were
empty, and as the girl was fairly flinging wearing apparel into the
tills, the question was superfluous.

"I'm packing," the model answered, "to go away."

"Why, what has happened? Why do you want to go?"

Natalie rose to her feet. A negligée of pale green Liberty silk fell in
lovely folds about her, her slender arms were bare, and her gold hair
hung in two long braids.

"I can't stand it any longer, Joyce," she said, her voice quivering.
"It's all so dreadful. Suspicion everywhere, and everybody looking on me
as a murderer, and----"

"Now, Natalie, dear, don't talk like that. And, anyway, you can't go. I
don't believe they'd let you----"

"Why not? I'm not under arrest, or surveillance, or whatever they call
it."

"You would be, if you tried to go away. Don't you know we are all
watched--whatever we do or wherever we go?"

"But they don't suspect _you_ any more, Joyce, and you were found just
as near Eric as I was, when--when he----"

"Hush, Natalie, you don't know what you're talking about. Why, now they
suspect Eugene."

"I know they do, but he didn't do it. He'll soon convince them of that."

"I'm not sure that he can. And--suppose he did do it----"

"Kill Eric? Joyce, you're crazy! Why would he?"

"You know, well enough----"

"That he loved you, yes, but that wouldn't make him commit crime. Why,
you wouldn't marry him if he won you in that way."

"Of course, I wouldn't. And that's what's worrying me. If he and Eric
quarrelled about me, and if--oh, I can't tell you just what I mean----"

"I know. If Eugene reproved Eric for his neglect of you, or--for his
attentions to me, it might have led to high words, and Mr. Courtenay is
a very impetuous man, and Eric never would brook a word of criticism--oh,
of course I understand, Joyce!"

"But Eugene must be cleared--he _must_ be, at any cost. Look here,
Natalie, did you know Eric had left you such a big bequest?"

Natalie flushed, and began to walk nervously up and down the room.
"Why," she said, not looking at Joyce, "he told me he'd leave me a nice
little sum, but he said he wasn't going to die till he was ninety, so I
didn't pay much attention to the matter."

"But didn't you know the sum he mentioned in his will? Had he never told
you?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because that will was altered. The sum he wrote for you was made ten
times greater."

"Was it?" Natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time.

"Yes, it was. You knew this?"

"How could I know it? I never saw the will."

"They think you did. They think you altered it."

"Who thinks so?"

"The police and Mr. Stiles. And Eugene asked me about it. I thought I'd
ask you before anybody else did."

"That was dear of you, Joyce." Natalie sat down on a couch, and taking
her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. "Joyce," she said, at
last, "why are you good to me? You think I killed Eric----"

"No, I don't, Natalie----But, oh, don't you see? I don't want to think it
was Eugene, and--I don't know which way to turn."

"You're not in such a terrible strait as I am, Joyce," and Natalie's
blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. "I don't know _what_ to
do--I've no one to ask, no one to confide in----"

"Can't you tell me?"

"You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to
admit she suspects anybody--I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was
some stranger--and, it wasn't--I mean--oh--what am I saying? Joyce, I shall
go crazy."

Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted
animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her
slippered foot tapped the rug continuously.

"You didn't love Eric, did you?" and Joyce looked at the girl, as if
seized with a new idea.

"No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can't help it. He was almost
repulsive to me. Not physically--he was handsome, and most
correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I've only posed
for a few artists, but they were all--you know--impersonal in their
relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first."

"I know it. I saw it."

"And you didn't resent it?"

"I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh,
Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty--but Eugene was
always around, you know--and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that
Eric's attention was taken up with his model."

"I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told
me----"

"What, Natalie?"

"No, I can't tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can't ward it off,
and I can't meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?"

"May I come in?" and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir.

"Yes," Joyce answered. "Come on in. This child says she is going away."

"She isn't!" and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key,
removed it and put it in his pocket.

"Oh," cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of
business. "There's a lot of things in there I want!"

"Can't have 'em," returned Barry, "unless you promise to put 'em back in
that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us."

"Barry, I _must_ go away. I've--I've good reasons."

Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little
figure and put an arm round her.

"Don't speak of going away, Natalie. Don't think of it. It would look
like confession."

"Have you heard about the will?" she asked, an awestruck note in her
voice.

"Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half
the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy
thousand makes no difference to us."

"But you don't think I--forged it--do you, Barry?"

"Of course not, darling. I don't think you ever did a wrong thing in
your life, of any sort or description--and I wouldn't care if you had."

"Wouldn't you care if I had committed--crime?"

"Oh, if you put it that way, I suppose I'd care--but I'd love you just
the same."

"_Just_ the same?"

"Just exactly, darling."

"And you don't think I changed that will?"

"I do not."

"Who did, do you think?"

"How do you know anybody did?"

"Joyce says so."

"Well, never mind about it. If I know who did it, I won't tell you--and
you needn't ask."

"It was a very strange thing for anybody to do, Barry."

"Except you----"

"Yes, except me! Oh, you _do_ think I did it!"

"Hush, sweetheart, don't talk so loud. Now, listen, Natalie. You're in a
tight place. There's no use denying it, you are. Now I want you to
promise me to do exactly as I tell you, in every instance. You trust me
to do only what is best for both of us, don't you?"

"For both of us--yes, Barry." The blue eyes were very sad, but the soft
voice did not falter.

"That's a trump, my own little trump! There are some dark hours ahead,
darling. I don't know just how things will turn. But I'm tying to head
off trouble, and I hope to succeed."

"Barry, Eugene Courtenay didn't kill Eric, did he?"

"No, Natalie, he didn't. That clairvoyant business was all poppycock."

"Then how did she read those questions, Barry? I think that was
wonderful."

"It was, Natalie. I concede you that. She couldn't have used any
trickery there--there was absolutely no chance."

"She really read them, then, by clairvoyant sight?"

"I don't see any other explanation."

"Nor do I. Then, why wasn't her vision of the--the scene in the studio,
the truth?"

"I don't say it wasn't. I don't say but what somebody did slip past
Joyce and get into the room that way. But it wasn't Courtenay."

"I don't think it was, either."

"Of course you don't. Now, my own little girl, remember, you've promised
me----"

"To love, honour and obey you----"

"You darling!" and Natalie's speech was interrupted by an impulsive
kiss. "You blessed angel! But you mustn't say such things, they unnerve
me--and I've a hard row to hoe, my girl."

"Can't I help?"

"Only by doing the things you just promised to do. I want you to, of
course; it was only the suggestion in the phrase you used that drove me
crazy! Some day, sweetheart, you shall promise before witnesses; but
just now, swear to me alone, that you will obey my least dictate in
this--this trouble."

"I will, Barry," and, solemnly, Natalie lifted her scarlet, curved lips
for the kiss that sealed the compact.

"Mr. Roberts is here," said Joyce, looking in at the door; "he wants to
see Natalie."

"Oh, I can't see him!" and Natalie clung tremblingly to Barry, "what
shall I do?"

"Do just as I tell you, dearest. See him, of course. And----"

"Then I'll have to dress. Go on down, Barry, and talk to him till I
come."

Natalie seemed to turn brave all in a moment at Barry's words. Stannard
went downstairs, and Joyce helped the girl to slip into a house-gown.

"A pretty one," she stipulated. "I want him to like me."

"As if any one could help doing that," and Joyce selected a little grey
velvet, with lots of soft lace falling away from the round-cut bodice.

"There," she said, as Natalie hastily twisted up her hair and thrust a
couple of shell pins in it, "you look a dream! a demure little dream.
Natalie, be careful, won't you?"

The girl gave Joyce a long look, and said softly, "Yes--for his sake."
Then she went slowly downstairs.

Bobsy Roberts was talking with Mrs. Faulkner as Natalie entered. He
jumped up, and greeted the lovely girl with an impulsive, "So sorry to
trouble you, but I must ask you a question or two, and I promise to cut
it short."

"What is it?" and Natalie gave him one of her confiding smiles.

Bobsy hesitated. How could he ask a fairy like that, a rude, blunt
question. But it had to be done, and he said, "It's--it's about Mr.
Stannard's will. Did you ever see it?"

Clearly, Natalie was surprised. It seemed to be not the query she had
looked for. But she was calm. After the slightest pause, she said
slowly, very slowly, as if choosing her words, "No, Mr. Roberts, I have
never seen Mr. Stannard's will. Why should I see it?"

"You know he left you a large sum of money?"

"Of course I know that. Mr. Stiles informed me."

"Did you not know of it before Mr. Stiles told you?"

Natalie glanced at Barry, who smiled at her.

"Yes; that is, I knew Mr. Stannard had left me a bequest, but I did not
know how much. Nor did I care!" Natalie lost her self-control. "Do you
suppose I wanted that money? I did not, and I do not! I refuse to take
it!"

"My dear child," said Beatrice Faulkner, rising and going to sit beside
her, "don't say such things. The money is honestly yours----"

"Not so fast, Mrs. Faulkner," said Roberts, amazed at Natalie's excited
words; "we cannot feel sure the money honestly belongs to Miss Vernon
until we know who altered Mr. Stannard's will. Did you?"

He turned quickly to Natalie with his question, as if anxious to get the
miserable business over.

"Certainly not," she replied, with disdain in every line of her face.
"In the first place, Mr. Bobsy--I mean, Mr. Roberts----"

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.


                                THE END




                          Transcriber's Notes


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