“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 hecouldhave 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!”
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—whydid 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.”
“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——”