“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.
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—Imust! 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. Youmustcome 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.
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 womanhadto 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 youknowyou’re a psychic? Not imagine or hope or think, butknow.”
“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.”
“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?”