“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.”
“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. WheredidI 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,veryfascinating.”
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.”
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.
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.