“But do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?”
“By rapping and tipping tables?”
“No, not at all. By silent communion, or by a restless haunting of places they used to occupy? There! didn’t you hear a faint sound then? A soft rustle, as of wings?”
“No, I didn’t, and neither did you. That Orienta person has you all unnerved. I won’t stand it. I insist on your leaving this house. If I see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding Courtenay, will you get away at once?”
“I’d be glad to, if Joyce is willing I should go. Natalie is fond of me, too. But Barry will look after her. Yes, if Mr. Courtenay is freed of all suspicion, I will go away at once.”
Roger Wadsworth’s story carried weight with the police, who were already rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant.
And as Courtenay himself said to Captain Steele, “Your precious detective, Roberts, forced that woman to describe me. Even granting she had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn’t say anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he suggested it. Then she said ‘yes.’ If he’d said, ‘hasn’t he red hair and freckles?’ she would have said ‘yes,’ also! It’s auto-suggestion. Her mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought she saw. But since you’ve put me on the rack, I’m going into this thing myself. For reasons of my own, I’m going to hunt down the murderer of Eric Stannard. There’s nobody on the job that has any push or perseverance. Young Stannard doesn’t want the truth known. Why, I can’t say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts. I’m ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one you say. Or I’ll work alone. But solve the mystery I’m bound to!”
Courtenay’s manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about “protesting too much.” But when Courtenay said he would be at their bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go in peace to pursue his own inquiries.
And he went first to Lawyer Stiles, to look into the matter of Stannard’s will.
“The first motive to consider,” Courtenay said to the surprised lawyer, “is always a money motive. Who benefits by this will, aside from the principals?”
Stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities. Suddenly Courtenay started in astonishment.
“Have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?” he asked.
The lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression.
“Just what do you mean?” he said.
“Ah, then youhaveseen it! Were you going to let it pass unnoted?”
“I must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks.”
“And I will do so. That will has been tampered with, and you know it!”
“Tampered with?”
“Don’t repeat my words like a parrot! Yes, tampered with. The original, written in Mr. Stannard’s own hand, has been added to by some one else.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think so, I know so. Now, why haven’t you made it known? You must have seen it?”
“Where is the fancied alteration?”
Courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he could be dishonest or if he had been blind. He laid his finger on one clause, the one stating Natalie Vernon’s bequest, and said, “There, that is the place. That was written seven thousand dollars, it has been changed to read seventy thousand dollars.”
Lawyer Stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. “It is in letters and figures both,” he demurred, “it would be difficult——”
“I know it is. And it was not very difficult to addtyto the written seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was intended by the testator.”
“Well?”
“Well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable fraud like that?”
“I’m sorry you saw that, Mr. Courtenay. In explanation, I have nothing to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that I am in the confidence of the Stannard family, and this is their affair—not yours.”
“Whew!” Courtenay gave a short whistle. “I begin to see. They know it, and make no objection.”
“Y—yes.”
“Who knows it?”
“Barry Stannard.”
“And Mrs. Stannard?”
“I can’t say. She read the will, but made no comment.”
“You’re sure Barry knows?”
“I am.”
“And he stands for it because Miss Vernon did it! That baby! Who’d think her capable of such a thing?”
“Hush, Mr. Courtenay. You’ve no right to accuse her. You’ve no evidence that she did it. In fact, I’m told Miss Vernon writes a large, dashing hand, and this——”
“And Eric Stannard’s hand is small and cramped. Yes, a clever forgery. It looks quite a bit like his own writing. But the ink is different, the slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been changed!”
“Granting that. What matter, if Barry Stannard doesn’t care? Moreover, he is going to marry Miss Vernon, and the fortune will be theirs jointly.”
“But don’t you see? If Natalie Vernon altered that will, she wanted that larger sum, and—she——”
“Don’t say it. At least, don’t say it to me. If you want to put the matter up to Barry, go ahead. But I decline to express an opinion or form a conclusion.”
“What does Barry say?”
“He ignores it. I called his attention to it, and he said, ‘Changed figures? Oh, I guess not. It doesn’t matter, anyway; that, and more, will be at Miss Vernon’s disposal some day.’ So I said no more.”
Eugene Courtenay went straight to Joyce.
“Do you know anything about a changed figure in Eric’s will?” he asked, bluntly.
“No,” she returned; “what do you mean?”
“Natalie Vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to seventy thousand.”
“How could she?”
“It wasn’t difficult. Eric wrote the will himself. He wrote seven and she made it seventy—the words, I mean. Then he wrote a figure seven and three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. Mighty clever work, but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter.”
“What possessed the child?”
“Don’t call her a child. The woman who could and would do that, is a Machiavelli in petticoats. But don’t you see where the knowledge of her act leads us?”
“You mean——” Joyce could not say it.
“Of course I do. I’ve thought all along there was still a doubt of her.”
“Oh, I haven’t. Even if she did alter the will, that doesn’t prove——”
“It doesn’t prove—anything. But you know this will was made very recently——”
“Of course; Natalie has only been here two months.”
“I know it. Well, say, Eric made this bequest to her, soon after she came—you know, Joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning——”
“Yes, I know it, Eugene.”
“And then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why,whywould she do this, except to inherit—at once?”
“Natalie! That dear little thing! Never! I did suspect her the least mite, just at first—but I don’t now.”
“Barry does.”
“Oh, no! He can’t.”
“He does. And that’s why he didn’t want any fuss made about her forgery——”
“Don’t call it that!”
“Itisthat. What else can I call it?”
“But I can’t believe it. Maybe—maybe somebody else did it. Barry——”
“Nonsense! Why should Barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?”
“Oh, I don’t know! It’s all so confusing.”
“Not confusing; there’s no doubt she did the forging. But it’s a terrible state of affairs. I don’t want to be the one to accuse her.”
“Must you?”
“Well, I’d determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on Eric’s murderer. Primarily to clear myself—for your sake. And, too, for the sake of justice and right. I’ll go now, Joyce, I must think this out alone. Good-bye, darling. Don’t worry. I’ll do only what is right, and—what you approve.”
“Natalie! Whatareyou doing?”
Joyce entered Natalie’s room, to find her on her knees before an open trunk. Hats and gowns lay about the room, the wardrobe shelves were empty, and as the girl was fairly flinging wearing apparel into the tills, the question was superfluous.
“I’m packing,” the model answered, “to go away.”
“Why, what has happened? Why do you want to go?”
Natalie rose to her feet. A negligée of pale green Liberty silk fell in lovely folds about her, her slender arms were bare, and her gold hair hung in two long braids.
“I can’t stand it any longer, Joyce,” she said, her voice quivering. “It’s all so dreadful. Suspicion everywhere, and everybody looking on me as a murderer, and——”
“Now, Natalie, dear, don’t talk like that. And, anyway, you can’t go. I don’t believe they’d let you——”
“Why not? I’m not under arrest, or surveillance, or whatever they call it.”
“You would be, if you tried to go away. Don’t you know we are all watched—whatever we do or wherever we go?”
“But they don’t suspectyouany more, Joyce, and you were found just as near Eric as I was, when—when he——”
“Hush, Natalie, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why, now they suspect Eugene.”
“I know they do, but he didn’t do it. He’ll soon convince them of that.”
“I’m not sure that he can. And—suppose he did do it——”
“Kill Eric? Joyce, you’re crazy! Why would he?”
“You know, well enough——”
“That he loved you, yes, but that wouldn’t make him commit crime. Why, you wouldn’t marry him if he won you in that way.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t. And that’s what’s worrying me. If he and Eric quarrelled about me, and if—oh, I can’t tell you just what I mean——”
“I know. If Eugene reproved Eric for his neglect of you, or—for his attentions to me, it might have led to high words, and Mr. Courtenay is a very impetuous man, and Eric never would brook a word of criticism—oh, of course I understand, Joyce!”
“But Eugene must be cleared—hemustbe, at any cost. Look here, Natalie, did you know Eric had left you such a big bequest?”
Natalie flushed, and began to walk nervously up and down the room. “Why,” she said, not looking at Joyce, “he told me he’d leave me a nice little sum, but he said he wasn’t going to die till he was ninety, so I didn’t pay much attention to the matter.”
“But didn’t you know the sum he mentioned in his will? Had he never told you?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because that will was altered. The sum he wrote for you was made ten times greater.”
“Was it?” Natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time.
“Yes, it was. You knew this?”
“How could I know it? I never saw the will.”
“They think you did. They think you altered it.”
“Who thinks so?”
“The police and Mr. Stiles. And Eugene asked me about it. I thought I’d ask you before anybody else did.”
“That was dear of you, Joyce.” Natalie sat down on a couch, and taking her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. “Joyce,” she said, at last, “why are you good to me? You think I killed Eric——”
“No, I don’t, Natalie——But, oh, don’t you see? I don’t want to think it was Eugene, and—I don’t know which way to turn.”
“You’re not in such a terrible strait as I am, Joyce,” and Natalie’s blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. “I don’t knowwhatto do—I’ve no one to ask, no one to confide in——”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to admit she suspects anybody—I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was some stranger—and, it wasn’t—I mean—oh—what am I saying? Joyce, I shall go crazy.”
Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her slippered foot tapped the rug continuously.
“You didn’t love Eric, did you?” and Joyce looked at the girl, as if seized with a new idea.
“No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can’t help it. He was almost repulsive to me. Not physically—he was handsome, and most correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I’ve only posed for a few artists, but they were all—you know—impersonal in their relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first.”
“I know it. I saw it.”
“And you didn’t resent it?”
“I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh, Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty—but Eugene was always around, you know—and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that Eric’s attention was taken up with his model.”
“I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told me——”
“What, Natalie?”
“No, I can’t tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can’t ward it off, and I can’t meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?”
“May I come in?” and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir.
“Yes,” Joyce answered. “Come on in. This child says she is going away.”
“She isn’t!” and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key, removed it and put it in his pocket.
“Oh,” cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of business. “There’s a lot of things in there I want!”
“Can’t have ’em,” returned Barry, “unless you promise to put ’em back in that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us.”
“Barry, Imustgo away. I’ve—I’ve good reasons.”
Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little figure and put an arm round her.
“Don’t speak of going away, Natalie. Don’t think of it. It would look like confession.”
“Have you heard about the will?” she asked, an awestruck note in her voice.
“Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy thousand makes no difference to us.”
“But you don’t think I—forged it—do you, Barry?”
“Of course not, darling. I don’t think you ever did a wrong thing in your life, of any sort or description—and I wouldn’t care if you had.”
“Wouldn’t you care if I had committed—crime?”
“Oh, if you put it that way, I suppose I’d care—but I’d love you just the same.”
“Justthe same?”
“Just exactly, darling.”
“And you don’t think I changed that will?”
“I do not.”
“Who did, do you think?”
“How do you know anybody did?”
“Joyce says so.”
“Well, never mind about it. If I know who did it, I won’t tell you—and you needn’t ask.”
“It was a very strange thing for anybody to do, Barry.”
“Except you——”
“Yes, except me! Oh, youdothink I did it!”
“Hush, sweetheart, don’t talk so loud. Now, listen, Natalie. You’re in a tight place. There’s no use denying it, you are. Now I want you to promise me to do exactly as I tell you, in every instance. You trust me to do only what is best for both of us, don’t you?”
“For both of us—yes, Barry.” The blue eyes were very sad, but the soft voice did not falter.
“That’s a trump, my own little trump! There are some dark hours ahead, darling. I don’t know just how things will turn. But I’m tying to head off trouble, and I hope to succeed.”
“Barry, Eugene Courtenay didn’t kill Eric, did he?”
“No, Natalie, he didn’t. That clairvoyant business was all poppycock.”
“Then how did she read those questions, Barry? I think that was wonderful.”
“It was, Natalie. I concede you that. She couldn’t have used any trickery there—there was absolutely no chance.”
“She really read them, then, by clairvoyant sight?”
“I don’t see any other explanation.”
“Nor do I. Then, why wasn’t her vision of the—the scene in the studio, the truth?”
“I don’t say it wasn’t. I don’t say but what somebody did slip past Joyce and get into the room that way. But it wasn’t Courtenay.”
“I don’t think it was, either.”
“Of course you don’t. Now, my own little girl, remember, you’ve promised me——”
“To love, honour and obey you——”
“You darling!” and Natalie’s speech was interrupted by an impulsive kiss. “You blessed angel! But you mustn’t say such things, they unnerve me—and I’ve a hard row to hoe, my girl.”
“Can’t I help?”
“Only by doing the things you just promised to do. I want you to, of course; it was only the suggestion in the phrase you used that drove me crazy! Some day, sweetheart, you shall promise before witnesses; but just now, swear to me alone, that you will obey my least dictate in this—this trouble.”
“I will, Barry,” and, solemnly, Natalie lifted her scarlet, curved lips for the kiss that sealed the compact.
“Mr. Roberts is here,” said Joyce, looking in at the door; “he wants to see Natalie.”
“Oh, I can’t see him!” and Natalie clung tremblingly to Barry, “what shall I do?”
“Do just as I tell you, dearest. See him, of course. And——”
“Then I’ll have to dress. Go on down, Barry, and talk to him till I come.”
Natalie seemed to turn brave all in a moment at Barry’s words. Stannard went downstairs, and Joyce helped the girl to slip into a house-gown.
“A pretty one,” she stipulated. “I want him to like me.”
“As if any one could help doing that,” and Joyce selected a little grey velvet, with lots of soft lace falling away from the round-cut bodice.
“There,” she said, as Natalie hastily twisted up her hair and thrust a couple of shell pins in it, “you look a dream! a demure little dream. Natalie, be careful, won’t you?”
The girl gave Joyce a long look, and said softly, “Yes—for his sake.” Then she went slowly downstairs.
Bobsy Roberts was talking with Mrs. Faulkner as Natalie entered. He jumped up, and greeted the lovely girl with an impulsive, “So sorry to trouble you, but I must ask you a question or two, and I promise to cut it short.”
“What is it?” and Natalie gave him one of her confiding smiles.
Bobsy hesitated. How could he ask a fairy like that, a rude, blunt question. But it had to be done, and he said, “It’s—it’s about Mr. Stannard’s will. Did you ever see it?”
Clearly, Natalie was surprised. It seemed to be not the query she had looked for. But she was calm. After the slightest pause, she said slowly, very slowly, as if choosing her words, “No, Mr. Roberts, I have never seen Mr. Stannard’s will. Why should I see it?”
“You know he left you a large sum of money?”
“Of course I know that. Mr. Stiles informed me.”
“Did you not know of it before Mr. Stiles told you?”
Natalie glanced at Barry, who smiled at her.
“Yes; that is, I knew Mr. Stannard had left me a bequest, but I did not know how much. Nor did I care!” Natalie lost her self-control. “Do you suppose I wanted that money? I did not, and I do not! I refuse to take it!”
“My dear child,” said Beatrice Faulkner, rising and going to sit beside her, “don’t say such things. The money is honestly yours——”
“Not so fast, Mrs. Faulkner,” said Roberts, amazed at Natalie’s excited words; “we cannot feel sure the money honestly belongs to Miss Vernon until we know who altered Mr. Stannard’s will. Did you?”
He turned quickly to Natalie with his question, as if anxious to get the miserable business over.
“Certainly not,” she replied, with disdain in every line of her face. “In the first place, Mr. Bobsy—I mean, Mr. Roberts——”
The light laugh that greeted her slip of the tongue served to break the tension of the moment. “Forgive me,” she said, and her dimpling smile of embarrassment would have turned the head of an anchorite. “You see, I’ve heard you called that, and, though I didn’t mean to be familiar, I—I got sort of mixed up.”
“All right, Miss Vernon, it doesn’t matter at all. One Robert’s as good as the other.”
“It’s funny to have two names alike, isn’t it?” and Natalie’s voice shook a little.
“Yes,” and then with an effort, Bobsy returned to the attack. “You know nothing of the change in the will, then, Miss Vernon?”
“I certainly don’t. Did somebody change the text?”
“Yes. It’s a mysterious affair. But if you know nothing about it, we must ferret it out as best we can.”
He spoke lightly, but his eyes never left Natalie’s face. In fact, Roberts was by no means asking her because he attached any importance to her spoken answer, but because he hoped by her expression or by some inadvertent slip, to learn the truth, even though she tried to conceal it.
“Mr. Roberts,” she said, suddenly, “if I wish to go away from this house, is there any reason I should not do so?”
“I’d rather you would ask somebody else that, Miss Vernon.”
“Whom shall I ask?”
“Captain Steele, or——”
“I am answered. You mean I would not be allowed to go.”
“I think it would be better for you to remain where you are. There may be developments shortly, that will call for your presence, though they may not affect you seriously. Please don’t plan to go away just now, but, also, don’t think my advice more indicative than it is meant to be.”
Roberts went off, and the four people he left behind him sat in a constrained silence.
At last, Beatrice spoke. “We must all band together to save Natalie,” she said, very seriously. “There is no use deceiving ourselves; Natalie is in danger. We know and love her, so we can’t connect her in our minds with any wrong-doing, but to outsiders the case looks different. Let us, then, face conditions that exist, and plan how we can best help her.”
“There’s only one way,” said Joyce, “and that is to find the real murderer. I wish I had never let that Orienta mix herself into the matter. It’s her talk that turned suspicion toward Eugene. And we all know he’s innocent. But when we try to find out who is the criminal, Eugene’s name comes up.”
“I’m not sorry we had the clairvoyant,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully. “As you say, we all know Mr. Courtenay is innocent, but if there was an intruder, Orienta explained how he could have entered. You wouldn’t have heard any one pass you in the Billiard Room that night, would you, Joyce?”
“No, I’m sure not; I was—I was crying—and I gave no thought to anything but my own troubles.”
“Then somebody may have slipped by you—of course, not Mr. Courtenay, but somebody——”
“I wish that woman had seen the intruder’s face,” said Natalie, suddenly. “You know, I believe in clairvoyance—I’m psychic myself—I wonder—oh, I wonder if I could find out anything—in that way!”
“What are you talking about?” said Barry, impatiently. “Don’t you mix yourself up in those witchcraft things——”
“’Tisn’t witchcraft. And, anyway, I’ve a notion to try it. Don’t you think I might, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“Might what, dear?”
“Find out something about the mysteries that are growing deeper and more numerous all the time?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” began Beatrice, with a helpless look, but Barry said, sternly, “I forbid it,” and turning on his heel, he left the room.
That evening Barry Stannard was not at home, and Natalie declared her intention of trying to learn something by psychic or clairvoyant revelation. The three women sat in the Billiard Room, and were for the thousandth time discussing the tense situation.
“Why, if you want to try it, Natalie, go ahead,” said Joyce, wearily. “It certainly can’t do any harm. Barry only objects because he thinks it will get you into a nervous state——”
“Nonsense! It makes me more nervous to be forbidden to do what I wish. Come on, let’s go in the studio, and try it, at any rate.”
“I’d rather not,” said Beatrice Faulkner. “In a way, Barry has asked me to keep you from this sort of thing, and I feel a certain responsibility——”
“I understand,” said Natalie; “and you needn’t take any part. Just sit by and look on.”
“No, I’d rather not If you don’t mind, I’ll go to my room. I’ve letters to write, and I’m sure you’ll get along better without a disturbing element.”
“I agree with Beatrice,” Joyce said, after she had gone. “If you can do anything at all, you can do it better with only approving minds present. What are you going to do, anyway? I mean, how are you going to attempt it?”
“I’m not sure, but I think I can go into a trance, like Orienta did——”
“She didn’t go into a trance.”
“Not exactly. But she had a sort of trancelike condition come over her. Well, come on in the studio, and I’ll see.”
The two went into the big room, and Natalie sat down in a small chair, directly facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had died. She held in her hand the scratched and defaced etched picture of herself.
“You sit beside me, Joyce. I somehow feel if you hold my hand it will help. Now I’ll concentrate on the etching, and perhaps there will be a manifestation of some sort from Eric, or I may have a vision—of the truth.”
Interested, but not very hopeful of success, Joyce sat beside the girl, and they concentrated their thoughts on the empty chair in front of them and the man who used to use it.
For ten minutes they sat in silence. Natalie quivered and occasional shudderings shook her slender frame, but there was no trance or vision. And then, just as Joyce was about to exclaim that she could bear it no longer, her nerves were giving way, they heard a sound that was exactly the same as the sighing groan that had reached their ears when Eric was dying. Startled, they gazed wildly at each other, then back to the great armchair. Was his spirit still hovering about the place it had last been in the flesh? Again they waited, and again they heard that ghastly sound. Faint, almost inaudible, but unmistakably the voice of the dying man. It seemed to say “Help!” but so low was the tone they could scarce be sure. And then the light went out and they were in utter darkness.
Natalie gasped out a faint scream, and Joyce gripped her hand, with a whispered, “Hush! Don’t scream! The servants will come in. I’ll make a light.”
She rose and tremblingly made her way across the room to the main switch. It was turned off, and with a twist, she flashed on the light. Quickly she stepped out into the hall. There was no one there but Blake, and as the door had been closed, he had noticed nothing. He said nobody had passed through the hall.
Upstairs Joyce ran, conscious only of a desire to find some one who would admit having turned off the light. She ran to Beatrice Faulkner’s room and entered without knocking.
“What is it?” said Mrs. Faulkner, looking up from the letter she was writing, “Oh, Joyce, what has happened?”
“Somebody turned off the studio lights! Beatrice, who could have done it?”
“Turned off the lights! What do you mean?”
“Yes, Natalie and I sat there, Natalie thought she would go into a trance, you know——”
“That foolish girl! Did she?”
“No. But we heard—oh, I can’t tell you now! Come with me back there, do!”
Rising hastily from her desk, Beatrice followed Joyce downstairs and into the studio. There they found Natalie standing by a table in the middle of the room, looking with a staring gaze at a large leather case that was on the table.
“The jewels!” cried Joyce. “Eric’s jewels! Where did you find them, Natalie?”
“Right here on this table. I haven’t touched them.”
“What do you mean?” and Beatrice looked curiously at the girl. “How did they get there?”
“I don’t know,” said Natalie, dully. She seemed as one bereft of her senses. “When Joyce turned on the lights——”
“Who turned them off?” put in Beatrice, unable to hold back the question.
“Eric did,” said Natalie, her eyes wide with awed wonder. “He—that is, his spirit, was here—we heard him sigh—and he turned the lights off and then put the jewels on the table——”
“Oh, Natalie, what nonsense! It couldn’t have been Eric’s spirit that brought that box in here!”
“Then who did?”
Beatrice looked at the girl, and said, “Did you do it, Natalie? Did you know where they were all the time?”
“No, I didn’t do it. Neither did Joyce. We sat right there by Eric’s chair—and Eric was present—we heard him, didn’t we, Joyce?”
“We did, Beatrice, we surely did. I’d know that voice among a thousand. It was the same groan—the same cry for help that he uttered that—that awful night. Can it be that he came back at Natalie’s wish?”
“It’s too incredible,” returned Beatrice. “I can’t believe it. Joyce, it must have been one of the servants, who turned off the light and put the box in here. One who had stolen it.”
“No, Blake saw nobody.”
“Was he in the hall?”
“Yes, just where he was that other night. Oh, it’s too weird. I don’t know what to think!”
“Maybe some one came in from outside——”
“No, we were as silent as death itself. We would have heard a window or door open. There was no sound whatever, was there, Natalie?”
“No. Spirits make no sound.”
The girl was still in a half-dazed state. Almost in a trance she was, even now, or, rather, she appeared so.
“I can’t stand it,” she said. “I feel giddy. I’ll go to my room.”
She went away, and the two other women stood, looking at each other.
“It must have been Natalie,” said Joyce, reluctantly. “You see, she did know where the jewels were and got them out of some hiding-place when I ran up to your room.”
“But how could she turn off the lights?”
“I don’t know, unless she has an accomplice among the servants. Sometimes I think Blake——”
“No, Joyce, don’t implicate Blake. I feel sure he is entirely innocent. Did you hear that voice clearly?”
“Not clearly, but unmistakably. As I say, it was so still that every sound seemed exaggerated. But I heard Eric’s voice as truly as I stand here. Explain it, Beatrice.”
“How can I? Except to say that there must have been some human agency. I don’t believe for a minute that Eric’s ghost returned the jewels.”
“But Natalie says he has haunted this studio ever since he died. She says he will continue to do so, until his murderer is found and punished.”
“I have heard of such things, but I can’t believe it in this case.”
“What will Barry say? He was so imperative that Natalie should not try the trance business.”
“I know it. But I can’t see that she has done any real harm. The jewels are here—isn’t it marvellous, Joyce? How could they have been brought in without your knowing it?”
“Oh, as to that, I’m sure Natalie produced them after I left the room. I wish now I’d stayed here. My one thought was to get somebody else to corroborate the mysterious happenings.”
“You’re sure the jewels were not here on the table when you went out of the room?”
“I can’t say positively. They might have been. You see, I never thought of looking for them. I looked about the room to see if any person were present, and I looked thoroughly, too. But I didn’t look on the table.”
“Nobody could have come in at the Billiard Room door?”
“No, we sat right there, you know. The case is just the same as on the night of the murder. That’s why Natalie insists that Eric’s spirit turned off the lights and put the jewels on the table.”
“Are the jewels all there? Are any missing?”
“I’ve not looked them over. At a first glance, they seem to be all right.”
“It must be that some one stole them, and just now returned them. There’s no other possible explanation, Joyce. It throws suspicion back to Mr. Truxton or——”
“Or Eugene Courtenay, you were going to say! Now, he didn’t do it, Beatrice—I know he didn’t.”
Weary and afraid, full of nameless horrors and uncertainties, Joyce locked the jewels in her dressing-room safe, and went to bed.
She and Beatrice both felt they could stand no more that night, and notifying the police of the finding of the jewels must wait until the next day.
And next day, when Bobsy Roberts came and heard the strange story he was probably the most bewildered man on the force.
“Tell it all over again,” he said, after hearing the tale from Joyce.
Patiently she repeated the details.
“Where is Miss Vernon?” he asked abruptly.
“You can’t see her to-day,” returned Joyce, “the poor child is prostrated.”
“What did she hope to gain by her trance performance?” asked Roberts, mulling over Joyce’s story.
“She hoped to get some sort of manifestation that would tell her who was the murderer. She never thought of having the jewels restored.”
“Now, Mrs. Stannard, there’s no use trying to dodge the issue. We’ve been pretty suspicious of Miss Vernon from the first. This last matter settles it, to my mind. You know that unsent letter found in Mr. Stannard’s desk was without doubt meant for Miss Vernon. You know it said that she knew where the jewels were hidden. Now, she has proved that she did know, and she produced them in this hocus-pocus way, to hide her theft.”
“No, no, Mr. Roberts, I cannot believe it! Natalie is not bad enough for all that maneuvering; nor would she, I’m sure, be capable of it. Again, granting you’re right in suspecting her of making up last evening’s events, how could she imitate Mr. Stannard’s voice——”
“Oh, that was hypnotism. Miss Vernon is psychic, and, too, she evidently possesses the power of hypnotising at will. She made you believe you heard those sounds. She made you believe the lights went out——”
“Oh, I know the light went out! I couldn’t be mistaken as to that!”
“No, but I mean she went and turned them out while you thought she still sat by your side. Weren’t your eyes closed?”
“No, they were wide open. She did not leave her seat. The lights were turned off by a hand other than hers, whether mortal or spirit, I cannot say.”
“Well, the whole affair was of her invention and carrying out. She is responsible for your husband’s death, Mrs. Stannard. There is no doubt whatever of Miss Vernon’s guilt.”
“Just take that back, Roberts,” and Barry Stannard came into the Reception Room where the speakers were sitting. “Miss Vernon is as innocent as an angel in this business. I’m ready to confess. I killed my father, and I own up to it, rather than have Natalie suspected. If you had been any sort of a detective you would have known from the first that I did it. But you had your head set in one direction and nothing could change you. You know perfectly well I had motive and opportunity. It was not premeditated, I did it on the spur of sudden indignation.”
“Barry,” cried Joyce, “what are you saying? You didn’t kill Eric!”