"And you went on?"
"I didn't hear him reply,—he usually says, 'Allright, Mac,' so I repeated my call. Then, when he didn't respond that time, I knocked at his door."
"Fearing something was wrong?"
"N-no,—not wrong,— I think I just wanted him to say something——"
"Why were you so anxious he should say something?" This last from Weston, with a direct glance.
"Why, good Lord, man," Thorpe's eyes blazed, "because I am accustomed to a reply, and when it didn't come, I naturally wondered why."
"Didn't you think he might merely be asleep?"
"I didn't think anything about that. I acted on impulse. I didn't hear him, and I wanted to see him."
"And you did? You opened the door?"
"Yes, after I knocked twice,—then I— I opened his door."
"It was not locked?"
"No; we never lock our bedroom doors."
"Go on,—and then?"
"Then"—Thorpe spoke slowly, as if choosing his words—"then, I saw him lying in the bed,—still,—as if asleep. I went closer, and I saw by the look on his face that he was dead."
"You knew that at once?" asked Middleton. "You didn't think he was only asleep——"
"No,—the pallor was unmistakable——"
"Have you often looked upon death?"
"Never before,—except at a funeral."
"And yet you knew at once it was death you saw,—not sleep. That is remarkable, Mr. Thorpe."
Thorpe met Middleton's eyes, and then his own fell.
"I can't help that, Doctor," he said; "I was sure,—that is,—almost sure Mr. Blair was dead."
"Yet you called Hastings and told him Mr. Blair was ill."
"Yes,—I couldn't seem to say the—the other——"
"Why did you kill him, Mr. Thorpe?"
"I— I kill him! Oh, I didn't!— I told you I didn't!"
"Yes; but we can't believe you."
The few days following Gilbert Blair's death were like a nightmare to his friends. A search of his papers had revealed a probable address of his mother, but a telegram sent there had as yet brought no reply and though a letter was despatched, no answer could be expected to that for a week or more.
Meantime, by general consent, Benjamin Crane took charge of Blair's affairs. The funeral took place in an undertaker's establishment and the body was placed in a receiving vault, until Blair's people could be heard from. His immediate possessions remained in the studio rooms, for the lease had still six months to run, and the police objected to any removal of the dead man's effects. It was practically impossible to seal them up as Thorpe occupied the same rooms, but a strict surveillance was kept, and Weston doggedly asserted he would yet track down the murderer.
For no one could doubt Blair had been murdered. On the eve of the prize competition, in which he was so deeply interested,—on the eve, as he hoped,of being engaged to Carlotta Harper, whom he loved, full of life and energy, why should he kill himself? It was impossible to accept the theory of suicide, and the detectives were hard at work on the case.
McClellan Thorpe was suspected, but as there was no evidence against him, save his indubitable and exclusive opportunity, he had not as yet been arrested.
"His opportunity was not exclusive," Mr. Crane contended. "Those studio apartments are not burglar proof! Anybody might have got in during the night and administered the poison."
"No," Weston objected. "It would be practically impossible for any one to go into those rooms, force or persuade Blair to swallow poison and get away without being heard by Mr. Thorpe or without leaving any trace of his presence."
"Well, look here, Weston," Mr. Crane spoke very seriously, "you know me well enough to know I've no notion of evading justice for anybody. But knowing McClellan Thorpe as I do, and knowing his peculiar temperament, I wish you'd let him alone,—at least, until you have a bit of indisputable evidence."
"I've got it, Mr. Crane."
"What?"
The two were sitting in Benjamin Crane's library, where they often met to talk over the case. Juliewas present, for she wanted to know every detail of any discovery that might be made.
"I don't believe it!" she flared out at the detective's statement.
"Yes, Miss Crane," Weston said, "I found a pretty suspicious circumstance to-day. Nothing less than a very small bottle, without cork or label, but smelling unmistakably of prussic acid."
"Where was it?" demanded Crane.
"Hidden in an old and unused paint-box of McClellan Thorpe's."
"Where was the paint-box?"
"'Way back, on a cupboard shelf. Pushed back, behind a pile of old books."
"Planted evidence," suggested Crane. "The real criminal put it there to incriminate Mr. Thorpe."
"Not a chance!" said Weston, smiling. "I've had that place watched too closely for that, sir! Nobody could get in to plant evidence, or to do anything else without being seen by my men. No, sir, that bottle in Mr. Thorpe's paint-box was put there by his own hand, and it will prove his undoing."
"But it's absurd!" flashed Julie. "Mr. Thorpe never killed his friend,—but if he had done so, he wouldn't be fool enough to leave such evidence around!"
"He couldn't help himself, Miss Crane. When he used the bottle that night, he had to secrete it somewhere, and since then he has been too closelywatched to dare to take it from its hiding-place and dispose of it."
"But I don't see how he could have done it," Crane objected. "How could he persuade Blair to take a dose of poison?"
"Oh, in lots of ways. Say, they had a highball or that,—all he had to do was to drop the tiniest speck from the little vial into the drink. He could easily do that unobserved. Anyway, he did do it. Then, of course, afterward, he had ample chance to clean the glasses and remove every trace of crime, except that he had to conceal the bottle. This he did in the most obvious way. Exactly the way any one would try to secrete such a thing. The bottle had been emptied and washed, but that poison has such an enduring odor that it is practically impossible to eliminate it entirely. But there's the fact, Mr. Crane, now, unless another suspect can be found, it's all up with Mr. Thorpe."
"Then we'll find another suspect!" exclaimed Julie.
"Go ahead, Miss. I'll investigate your new man, as soon as you name him. That's the important part of this affair, there's no chance of another suspect. No one has been so much as thought of——"
"That doorman?" said Julie.
"Nixy! He had no motive, no opportunity,—and there's not the slightest reason to suspect him."
"Some outsider, then," went on Julie, desperately,"some fellow artist, who feared Gilbert would win that prize——"
"Miss Crane, you must know that's the motive attributed to Mr. Thorpe. You must know that he and Mr. Blair were rivals in that competition and——"
Julie's eyes flashed fire. "And you mean to say that he killed his friend,—his chum,—in order to be sure of winning the prize!"
"That's the motive we're assuming. But there was doubtless a scrap,—a row about the pictures or drawings,—in fact,— I hate to tell you these things, but we have learned that there was bad blood between the two men, for each thought the other had imitated his own ideas. This brought about more or less dissension, and—well, probably both men lost their temper, and real hatred ensued."
Weston tried to adapt his language so as to spare Julie's feelings as much as possible, for the girl was highly wrought up, and he was genuinely sorry for her. He knew of the state of things between her and Thorpe, knew, too, that it explained Benjamin Crane's determination to free Thorpe from suspicion, if it could be done.
But Crane was staggered by the disclosure of the hidden vial.
"It's a clew," he said, but he spoke slowly and thoughtfully.
"Yes, it's a clew," agreed Weston, "and it will convict the criminal. The label,—if it ever hadone,—has been washed off. The cork is missing,—and, by the way, if that cork could be found it would help a lot! But all the same, I've a notion I can trace that bottle to its source."
"How?" asked Crane. "Is it of a peculiar shape or style?"
"No; just a common, ordinary two-ounce bottle, such as most druggists use all the time. But there's no name blown in it,—that's important, for many dealers have their names on their glassware, and a blank bottle is conspicuous of itself."
"Conspicuous by its rarity,—but not therefore traceable," said Mr. Crane.
"Perhaps so,—by elimination——"
"Nonsense!" Julie cried; "you can't trace it, and you know it! You're just making believe,—you're what do you call it? framing a case! you're railroading McClellan Thorpe to prison! I won't have it! Father, surely you can do something! Youmust!"
Stifling her sobs, Julie ran out of the room.
There was an uncomfortable silence and then Benjamin Crane said:
"You see what a hard position I'm in, Weston."
"Yes, sir."
"But of course," Crane sighed deeply, "justice must be done,—only I beg of you, Weston, use every effort to find another suspect,—a logical one,—now, don't misunderstand me! I mean, if there can possibly be a doubt of Thorpe's guilt, and achance of another man's guilt,—for Heaven's sake find that other man!"
"Not a chance."
"But, at least, keep an open mind. And spare no expense. Get a special detective,—a big one,—there now, don't bristle! I don't suppose you think yourself the cleverest in the world, do you? Don't you admit any superior? If so, get him; if not, then prove your own worth. I repeat, I want no undue favor shown to McClellan Thorpe, but if he is not the guilty man, then I want you to move heaven and earth to find the real criminal. Can't you conceive, Weston, of a murderer so clever as to have committed the crime, planted the vial as evidence against Thorpe and made his escape leaving no clew?"
"I can conceive of such a thing, sir, as I can conceive of a ghost,—but there is no evidence for either conception."
"Evidence enough for ghosts, Weston! Haven't you read my book?"
"Oh, I clean forgot that book you wrote, Mr. Crane. No, I haven't read it, but my folks have, and I dare say you do believe in spooks. But, come, now, you don't believe a spook killed Mr. Blair, do you, sir?"
"No,—and yet, it is within the bounds of possibility——"
"Not as the police count possibility! There's small chance of any human agency other than Mr.Thorpe, but far less chance of a supernatural agent! I'll be getting along, Mr. Crane, if you're going off on that track."
"Hold on, Weston, I'm in earnest about this special detective. Suppose I engage a private one. Can you and he work in harmony?"
"Oh, yes, I'm not pig-headed. So long as he don't interfere too much, or get me into any scrapes with his highfalutin tricks,—which they all have, go ahead and get him. I'll do my own duty, as I see it and as it's dictated to me by Headquarters; but if you want to engage a dozen private detectives, there's no law against it. And, sir, I'm free to confess I feel mighty sorry for that pretty daughter of yours, and if anybody else can save her man for her, when I can't—why, let him at it!"
"Good for you, Weston, I hoped you'd be above petty jealousy. Go on, now, and see if you can't connect up that empty vial with somebody whose name isn't Thorpe,—and, I say, you're not going to arrest him yet, are you?"
"Not just yet,—but,—well, I'll let you know—soon, where we stand."
His visitor gone, Benjamin Crane put on his hat and went at once to see Madame Parlato. He had acquired the habit of an interview with her when anything bothered him, and his faith in her powers was unshaken.
His request for aséancewas granted, for since the book of Benjamin Crane's had made such a success,the medium was besieged with patrons, yet she always gave Crane the preference over other sitters.
Admitted to the private sanctum, Crane told the Madame he wished to learn anything possible concerning the death of Gilbert Blair.
The medium went into a trance as usual, and after a short interval, announced in her low monotone that the spirit of Peter Crane was present.
"My boy," said Crane, eagerly, "do you know who killed Blair?"
"Yes, father," came the reply, through the voice of Madame Parlato; "do not seek further than you already know."
"You mean it was——"
Benjamin Crane hesitated. He was a cautious man, and often as he had had this sort of interviews with Peter's spirit, he was always particular to give no information unnecessarily.
"Yes,—dad,—it was."
"Well, who? who, Peter?"
"Must I say the name?"
"Yes, boy. But only if you're sure you know. It would be a grave error otherwise."
The medium stirred uneasily, and was silent for a time. Then, with a long drawn sigh, she resumed, "Well, father, if I must tell you, it was Thorpe."
"Oh, Peter, not really!"
"Yes, dad. Don't look any further,—it was Thorpe."
The medium was silent after that. She came out of her trance state, looking a little bewildered.
"Did you get anything?" she asked, for, as she had frequently told her sitter, she herself knew nothing of what transpired while she was unconscious.
"Yes," Crane returned, and knowing there would be no further communication that day, he went home.
He found Thorpe there, discussing the matter with Mrs. Crane and Julie.
"I don't know what to do," Thorpe said, as Mr. Crane joined the group. "I didn't kill Blair,—at least, I don't think I did."
"What does that mean?" Crane asked.
"Only that if I did do it, it was unconsciously."
"In your sleep?"
"No; but under hypnotism. I've not much belief in that sort of thing,—but,—well, you know about occult matters, might it not be possible?"
Benjamin Crane was disappointed. He had hoped for a vigorous denial on Thorpe's part, but this halfway confession seemed to him a mere quibble. He found himself believing the man guilty and that he was using this hypnotism suggestion as a last resort to prove innocence.
"Stop it, father!" Julie cried. "You are thinking Mac did do it, having been hypnotized by somebody!Well, he didn't! and Iknowhe didn't and I'llproveit!"
"Good talk, Julie, but does it mean anything!" asked her father, giving her a look of gentle sadness.
"I'll make it mean something! That thick-witted detective doesn't know a thing! Now, I don't believe in the hypnotism theory——"
"Why, Julie," said her mother, "I've heard you say you believed in hypnotism!"
"Oh, yes, I do, but I mean not in this case. Nobody hypnotized McClellan to kill Gilbert. I'm sure of that, and I wish you wouldn't repeat it, Mac. People will only laugh at you."
"Well, what are you going to do, my child?" asked her father.
"Oh, I don't know! I'm desperate,— I will find out something!"
"Of course you will, Julie, for I'll help you."
It was Thorpe who spoke, and he seemed to have suddenly acquired a new energy.
"I'm going to turn detective myself," he went on. "We'll work together, Julie, and,— Mr. Crane, if we succeed,— I mean succeed in freeing myself from suspicion——"
"And finding the real criminal," put in Crane with a very serious face.
"Yes, and find the real criminal," but Thorpe's face was less bright, "then, sir, will you give us your blessing?"
"Yes, McClellan," but Crane's voice had no hearty ring, "yes, when you are a free man in every sense of the word, you may take my little girl for your own."
Thorpe gave him a searching look. "I can't help seeing, Mr. Crane," he said, "that you think,—or perhaps I may say, you fear I am guilty. I hope I can prove to you that I am not."
Crane noticed the wording of his speech. Thorpe hoped to prove to him,—but he didn't say he was innocent.
And Benjamin Crane believed the man guilty. Greatly influenced by what he had heard at theséancewith the medium, Crane was still willing to be convinced to the contrary, but Thorpe's own attitude and words did not carry conviction.
"Well, my children," Crane said at last, "here's my proposition. I can't think your determination to do detective work will produce much fruit. Now, if you like, I'll engage the best detective I can find and put him on the job. What say, Thorpe?"
It was a test question, and Crane eagerly awaited the answer. If Thorpe were really innocent, he would welcome the clever sleuthing that would be likely to unearth the truth.
But he was disappointed to hear Thorpe say, "Not yet, Mr. Crane. Give us a chance. Let me try,—let us try,"—with a glance at Julie—"give us a few days, at least,—then, if we gain nothing,—then bring on your detective."
"But,— I hate to say it, Mac, though I dare say you know it,—you may be arrested any day now."
Thorpe gave a start, and the sudden pallor that came to his face showed how the idea affected him.
"Oh, not that,—hardly that——"
"Yes, it's imminent." Crane thought best to tell him this. "They—they say they've got the goods on you, Mac."
"What—what do you mean by that?"
"Well," Crane couldn't bring himself to tell of the poison bottle, "well, my boy, they say that you and Blair quarreled."
"We did."
"Over the sketches for the prizes?"
"Yes, over those, and over other matters."
"When was this?"
"We'd been scrapping off and on for some time. Nothing very serious. But,—well, when Gilbert implied that I had used his ideas, I—I got mad."
"And saw red?"
"Yes, I suppose that's what they call it."
"The night he—he died?"
"Yes."
"Mac," Benjamin Crane looked grave, "suppose you tell me just what happened that night."
"Well,—we'd all been to the Club to dinner, you know."
"Yes."
"And when we went home, Bob Knight went with us. He was irritating, somehow,—said heheard Blair and I had combined on our work——"
"Why was that annoying?"
"Oh, it implied that Gilbert and I took each other's ideas, or something,— I don't know,—anyway, he stirred us up, and when he went off, Gil and I were touchy. We had some words, and Blair tore up his sketches, a-and—tore up some of mine, too."
"He did! No wonder you were annoyed."
"Yes; they were the ones I had ready,—or, almost ready, to send in."
"Go on," said Crane, briefly.
"Well, there's little more to tell. I went into my bedroom and slammed the door. Yes, I slammed it, for I had lost my temper, and I was mad at Blair."
"And then?"
"I don't know anything more to tell. I heard Blair around the studio for a time, and once I heard his footsteps near my door, as if he wanted to speak to me,—maybe make up,—but he didn't say anything or knock, or call out,—and then, after a time I heard him go into his own bedroom and close the door."
"And you heard nothing through the night?"
"Nothing unusual. The ordinary sounds in the building, of course."
"And you stayed in your room,—in your bed,—till morning?"
"Yes, I did. I sleep very soundly, and I sleep late. The details of the morning, and my findingof Blair,—you know. Don't ask me to recount all that again."
"No; I shan't. Are you going on with your work for the competition?"
"Of course!" Thorpe's face showed surprise at the question. "Why should I not? I rescued the torn sketches from the waste-basket, and I can copy them. I've a good chance at it, I think."
"Now that Blair's out of the running?"
Thorpe looked up angrily, but as suddenly he became calm. "No, Mr. Crane," he said, "not because of that. But because Gilbert can't steal my plans."
"Unpleasant talk, Mac. I don't like that."
"But it's true. Blair did take my ideas——"
"Consciously?"
"I think so. Why, he incorporated in his design, a particular bit of drawing that I had invented and shown to him only a day or two before."
"You must see, McClellan, that your saying that puts a bad face on the whole affair?"
"I suppose it does," and the man again relapsed into moody silence. "Oh, well,—it's all in a lifetime."
"A lifetime that has just ended,—or one still being lived?" Benjamin Crane spoke like an avenging justice, and there was no mistaking his meaning.
But beyond a startled glance, Thorpe made no reply.
Much as Benjamin Crane desired to believe in Thorpe's innocence it was difficult for him to do so, after the disclosure of the medium, Madame Parlato. In her powers he had absolute faith, of her honesty and sincerity he was entirely confident, and it was largely the accounts of herséancesthat made the bulk of his book about his son's communications with him. Theséanceswere frequent, still, and at each one he gained more material for use in a second book.
The book, the one already published, was in its fourth edition and was still having large sales. It was called "A Prophecy Fulfilled," and dealt with the old prophecy of the gypsy,—that Peter should be lost while on a distant journey, should die a terrible death there, but should mysteriously return to his family.
This, Benjamin Crane held, had been accomplished in full. The long journey, the terrible death, were matters of fact, and Mr. and Mrs. Crane believed that the return of their son was equally a matter of fact.
Wherefore, the book was written in a simple, straightforward style, without excitement or exaggeration, and it gave detailed recitals of the happenings at theséances.
Needless to say that the medium was besieged with would-be clients, but she accepted very few, for the Cranes claimed most of her time. Not that they were continually in her presence, but the exhaustive nature of her trances made it impossible for her to devote many hours a day to their practice. And Benjamin Crane made it quite worth her while, financially, to reserve for him her peculiar talents.
The sessions brought forth little that was new or different, but the parents never tired of what they implicitly believed was absolute direct communication with their son's spirit through the personality of Madame Parlato.
Criticism, disapproval, even ridicule from their friends and acquaintances moved them not a jot from their faith and trust.
Wiser and better people than we, believe in it,—they would argue,—and it is now so much a part of our lives, that I think we could scarcely live without it.
And so, they went along, cheered and made happy by the communications and fully reconciled thereby to the death of their cherished son.
Julie, though never quite satisfied of the truth of the whole matter, had become more or less imbuedwith the atmosphere that she lived in, and aside from her own feelings, was glad that her parents could be happy in their grief, even though it were a delusion.
And the popularity of this book brought him absorbing work and many outside interests to Benjamin Crane. Continually, people came to see him, to discuss the question of Continuity, or Life after Death, and to argue for or against the reappearance of departed spirits.
Many of these he saw and learned to like and his circle of acquaintances was continually enlarging.
Naturally, when he discussed matters with them, the subject of Gilbert Blair's death was talked of. Crane was a careful man, and rarely told what happened at hisséances, save in a general way. For he had learned of the dangers of having his statements misquoted and exaggerated, and as a rule, he was canny enough to let his visitors talk, while he said little.
And from the consensus of opinion thus gathered, he discovered that public sentiment was largely against McClellan Thorpe. This troubled him, for if Thorpe were guilty it was surely Crane's duty to guard his daughter from a criminal. On the other hand, Julie was so deeply in love with Thorpe, and so positive that he was in no way a wrong-doer, that the father's heart was torn.
But his most vital reason for believing in Thorpe's guilt was the message from his son to that effect.
"It rests between our two children," he said to his wife. "Peter tells us Mac is the guilty man,—and Julie tells us he isn't. Now, we must learn the truth. I'm going to get a detective, myself,— I've had a fine one recommended,—and I don't think we need say anything to Julie or Mac about it. They asked for a few days to do some 'detecting' on their own account,—but it won't amount to anything, I feel sure. So I'm going to engage Pennington Wise,—if I can get him. I'm told he's a most successful man, though not one of the 'wizards' or know-it-all variety."
"Very well," Mrs. Crane, as always, agreed; "but don't tell anybody. Need you?"
"Yes, I'll tell Weston. It wouldn't be fair not to. You see, I'm in a peculiar position. I've taken the responsibility of investigating Blair's death, without any real authority, save that of a friend."
"Of course your reason is that Julie cares for him."
"Of course. And I do hope he can be cleared, but if not, it would better be proved against him, and let Julie know it, and get over it."
"Yes," Mrs. Crane sighed. "Poor child, it would go hard with her."
"But she must bear it, if it's the truth. I've hopes of Wise's discovering another criminal."
"Then what about Peter's message?"
"I don't know,—but it's possible Peter may himself be misinformed. You know we've discovered that the disembodied spirits are not omniscient."
In the meantime Carlotta Harper was endeavoring to use her occult powers to solve the mystery of Blair's death.
Carlotta herself was a mystery. Disavowing any especial clairvoyant ability, she yet achieved marvelous results from the Ouija Board.
She scoffed at it herself, yet whenever her finger-tips were on the board it spelled words rapidly and gave messages that were acclaimed as truth by the audience.
One afternoon Shelby was with her, and he, a little timidly, suggested a trial of the Board.
"Why, Kit, I thought you detested it," said Carly, surprised.
"I do; but you're a witch at it, and—suppose it should tell us something about Blair,—something we don't know——"
"You think Mac did it, don't you?" Carly spoke hesitantly, for the two had discussed the subject very little.
"I don't say so, Carly, yet where else is there to look? If you had seen, as I did, how much at odds the two chaps were that evening I dropped in——"
"The night of the dinner?"
"Yes, in the late afternoon. They were rowing no end! Then I went off, but I called for them onthe way to the feast,—we always go together,—and Blair was in a regular stew. Nervous,—couldn't get his tie right,—and all that. And—Carly,—what do you think? He asked me if I'd drop you! Think of that! As if I were a sort of man to interfere with a friend's interests! Why, if he'd told me there was anything between you two, of course I should have stepped down and out at once. Was there, Carly?"
"Nothing definite,—no." The girl spoke wearily, pushing back her thick mass of dark, wavy hair. "No, Kit, nothing promised. If he had lived—oh, I don't know. You see, I loved Peter. And I sometimes think I never can care at all for any one else."
"But, dear, Peter's dead and Blair's dead,—and you can't live all your life alone: Just give me a ray of hope, Carly. I won't bother you about it,—only tell me that some time,—maybe——"
"Let it stay at that, Kit. Some time it may be—and now come on,—if you like we'll try the Ouija."
The session was interesting. Carly never, in any circumstances, pushed or guided the board in the very least,—nor did she ever sit with any one whom she suspected of doing so. But with her friends in whom she had perfect confidence, or with acquaintances who, she knew were eagerly wanting to learn, not anxious to tell, she often tried the uncanny thing.
Lightly they rested their finger-tips on the little wooden heart, and after a short wait it began to move.
At Carly's questions, replies came that there was a spirit present and that it was Peter Boots.
Neither of the inquirers was surprised at this, for they had fully expected it. Moreover, both had watched most closely the other's muscles and fingers and wrists, and each was positive the messages, whatever their source, were not the result of human deceit.
After some preliminary talk, Carly said, "You put the questions, Kit."
So Shelby said, "Peter, you know Blair's gone?"
"Yes," returned the board.
"Have you seen him—or I mean, is he with you—in spirit?"
"Yes" came the answer.
"Will he talk to us?"
"No."
"Well—then can you give us a message from him?"
"Yes."
Yes and No are designated on the Ouija Board as words. The movement of the Board toward these was quick, almost jerky.
But when the message was asked for,—when Shelby said, "Will he tell us how he died?" there was a pause and the Board moved aimlessly about.
At last, Carly said, "Peter, was Gilbert killed?"
"Yes," came the quick reply.
"Do you know who killed him?"
"Yes."
"Who was it?"
Carly shot out the question quickly, and immediately the board moved to T. From that, as the two breathlessly waited, the pointer very slowly spelled Thorpe.
The word did not go smoothly,—the board swung round in large loops, but paused positively at each letter, and then started slowly to the next.
"You didn't push, Kit?" Carly asked, but more from force of habit than any doubt of him.
"Of course not. Nobody could push with you watching, nor was there any reason why I should. Did you?"
"Of course not. Don't let's ask each other that. We're both honest. But you know, Kit, Mr. Crane had a communication from Peter and he said Thorpe did it. But Mr. Crane thinks maybe Peter doesn't know."
"Let's try to get Blair's spirit."
They tried,—if receptive waiting can be called trying,—and at last they succeeded in receiving the information that Gilbert Blair's spirit was present.
"Will you tell us who killed you?" Carly asked at once, fearing lest he go away.
Slowly the pointer moved away from the letter T. But after a series of swirls it stopped definitely at M.
"Go on," said Carly, in a whisper.
A long swing of aimless motions and then a stop at A.
The next stop was at C, and then the board would move no more.
Carly sighed, and took her hands off.
"Well, there's the message, Kit. You know Gilbert always called him Mac,—now what do you think of Ouija?"
"I don't know what to think, Carly. Mayn't it be only that Thorpe was in both our minds, and that we subconsciously——"
"Oh, well, if you're going to take that tack, there's no more to be said. It's easy enough to say that,—but how can the dead send messages if the human beings always say,—oh, subconscious pushing!"
"But, are you so anxious to believe in Thorpe's guilt?"
"Not that,—but I want to know. Julie's devoted to him, and if he's a—a murderer, Julie must be saved from him. If he isn't,—we must find it out, and give him to Julie free and clear of suspicion."
"We! Are you responsible for Julie's affairs?"
"Yes, in so far as I can help. You say, everybody says, that I have occult powers. If so, I must use them to help,—if they really do help. But how can I be sure?"
"I don't know. But I think, perhaps, you'd betterleave the whole occult business alone. It's uncanny if it's real, and it's foolishness if it's faked."
"I think Mr. Crane is going to get a special detective," Carly said, "but, oh, my gracious, I forgot I promised not to tell that. So don't tell anybody else. I don't suppose they'd mind you knowing."
"Who's the man?"
"I think his name is Wise,—good name for a detective!"
"Never heard of him. But, let's hope he clears Mac."
"Yes, and finds the real murderer. Do you know I can't realize Gilbert's gone,—even yet."
"Don't think about him, Carly. It can't do any good, and it only makes you sad and morbid. Let me tell you of my hopes and fears, mayn't I?"
"Of course, go ahead."
"Well, I'm getting up a big,—a really big enterprise."
"What?"
"I hope you won't disapprove, but it's in the Moving Picture business."
"Why should I disapprove?"
"Oh, some people sniff at M. P's. But this is a really big, fine production."
"Are you the producer?"
"Yes; don't tell it outside, yet. You see, I've written a big story,—a picturesque thriller,—and critics who've read it, think it's a wonder. Now, it's too big to give to anybody,— I mean, it wouldbe foolish for me merely to get a royalty,—so I'm going to put it on, myself."
"Good, Kit, I'm glad to hear it. I always thought you had it in you to be some sort of an organizer or producer, in some important way."
"Yes, I've always had that ambition. Well, this is a great yarn! I want to read it to you some time. Marvelous pictures,—they're being made now. And that's not all of it,— I mean to make it into a book——"
"You can't write a book!"
"If I can't I'll get it written,—but the plot is such a wonder,—and the scenes!"
"Up in Labrador, I'll bet!"
"Yes, they are, Carly. And corkers! Well, I figure to have the book and the pictures sprung on an unsuspecting public simultaneously,—and afterward,—maybe, it will be made into a real play!"
"And after that, into a Light Opera,—and after that, into Grand Opera?"
Carly's tone was mocking, but her smile was sweet and approving, and Kit beamed at her.
"I knew you'd be interested! I want you to hear the plot soon,—and would you like to go to the studios?"
"Where they're making the Labrador pictures?"
"Yes; they're faked, of course. No sense in going up there to take them. I know the stuff so well, I can get it up right here."
"Oh, Kit, you ought to have the real scenes."
"No; it isn't necessary. Snow's easy enough to manage. But the plot's the thing! Carly, it's a peach! And then, it's all done up with real artistry. No crude, raw scenes. All softened with lights and shades and colors; and everything,—even realism, sacrificed to beauty. It will be the success of the season, the talk of the town, and it will make my reputation forever."
"When will it be put on?"
"Soon, now, I hope. Well, I mean in a month or so. I'd like to say the middle of May, and think perhaps I can. It will run all summer and doubtless longer."
"And you don't want me to tell of this?"
"Not quite yet, Carly. I'll let you know when you may."
And so, when, after Shelby had gone, and Julie and Thorpe came, Carly said nothing of the plans for the great Moving Picture.
Nor did she tell of the Ouija Board experiences she and Shelby had had. In fact, Carly said little, preferring to let her guests talk.
And they did.
"We're detecting," Julie began, and Thorpe, his eyes harassed and gloomy, had to smile at Julie's enthusiasm.
"Can I help?" Carly asked, with a loving glance at her friend.
"I hope so,—but not with your old Ouija Board. I hate it!"
"Wait till I suggest it," Carly smiled, for she saw Julie was in no mood for argument. "What can I do?"
"Only advise. I don't think you're a medium, Carly, but I do think you have sort of queer powers. Now a queer thing has happened to me. This morning, on my bureau, there lay a note,—here it is." She handed a folded paper to Carlotta.
It read: "Dear little sister. Youmustgive up old Mac. He did for Gilbert. Peter Boots."
Carly stared at the note.
"It's in Peter's own writing!" she said; "what can it mean?"
"It means fraud!" Julie exclaimed. "I know that's no note from Peter! It is in his writing——"
"But so exactly his writing!" Carly said, "nobody could have written that but Peter himself. Oh, Julie!"
"Now, stop, Carly! Don't you say it's really a materialization of a note from Peter! It can't be! I'm afraid to show it to mother or Dad, for I know they'll say it's really from him,—and I won't believe it."
"You won't believe it's from Peter, because you don't want to believe what it says,—isn't that it?"
Carly looked at Thorpe, though she spoke to Julie.
"Partly," Julie admitted; "but anyway, I can'tbelieve that Peter,—my dead brother,—put that real, paper note on my dresser!"
"If it had said Mac didn't kill Gilbert, would you believe it then?" Carly asked.
Julie stared at her, as she took in the question.
"Yes," she said at last, "in that case, I'd want to believe,—but I don't see how I could——"
"Oh, you could, all right," Carly said, "if it meant Mac's innocence was thereby established."
"I'm out for justice," Thorpe said; "I hate to hurt Julie's feelings, but that note doesn't interest me at all,—one way or the other. You see, if it's a fake,—and I can't help thinking it is, it's somewhat in my favor, for if faked must it not have been done by the real murderer, trying to put the blame on me? And if it's real—but, I never discuss that sort of thing at all. I'm not a believer,—as the Cranes believe, and yet, feeling toward the Crane family as I do, I refuse to combat their beliefs or principles. So, as I say, I leave the note out of my consideration. And, yet, Carlotta, I do want your opinion as to the genuineness of the handwriting, because you know Peter's fist so well,—and you're even less likely to be deceived than his family."
Carly scrutinized the note again.
"It seems to me it must be Peter's writing," she said at last. "Those long tails to the filial letters of the words, those are characteristic. And it's—yes, it's unmistakably his."
"All right," Thorpe sighed. "I just wanted to know, for Mr. Crane will know of it sooner or later, and I'm sure he'll identify it as Peter's writing.
"And it surely is," Julie added, again staring at the paper.
"But, Julie, it'stooabsurd!" Second thoughts convinced Carly of this. "How could such a thing happen?"
"I don't know how it could, but it did," Julie said, doggedly. "And so, Carly, I feel, as Mac says, there's no attention to be paid to this note. If—mind I sayif—Peter sent it, why then Peter thinks Mac did something that he didn't do, that's all. I know Mac is innocent, and so I shall say nothing of this note to any one, and you mustn't either."
"I won't," Carly smiled to herself as she realized how many secrets she was accumulating, "but you will, Julie. You can't keep that from your father, even though you mean to."
"Yes, I can, if to tell of it would cast a straw of evidence against Mac! You see, Carly, we've got to find the real criminal, and I'd rather do it myself than get a new detective on the job."
Carly knew this was because Julie feared the astuteness of the new detective. Which, in turn, meant that Julie, herself, feared Mac's guilt. Oh, it was a tightly closing net round Mac, as she saw it!
"I wish I could help," she found herself saying,most unconsciously, so deeply was she thinking. "But, Julie, you two can do nothing. What are you expecting to accomplish?"
"Success," Thorpe made reply. "Complete success. It may sound absurd, but I think that note is a help to my cause rather than hindrance!"
"I think so, too," said Carlotta.
"Well, Julie, my little girl, the jig is up."
Thorpe spoke despairingly, and Julie knew only too well what he meant.
"They're—they're going——"
"Yes, they're going to arrest me. This is the last call I can pay you."
Julie didn't break down and cry, nor indeed did she show great emotion of any sort. She set her curved red lips firmly and said, with an air of determination:
"I'm not sure, Mac, that it isn't better so. I mean now we've something definite to work against. Father's going to get that Mr. Wise, and he'll soon get you out of—out of—oh, Mac, will they put you in prison? In a cell?"
"Yes, dear, until the trial. You see, that little bottle did it for me."
"And somebody put that in your old paint-box! Who did it, Mac?"
"Hastings is the only one I can think of. That man never liked me— I don't know why, but he never did. And he adored Gilbert——"
"You don't think he killed Gilbert, then?"
"Oh, Lord, no! He was always fond of him. But he wants to get me in bad, and so I think he planted that bottle. It must have been planted, Julie, I never put it there. I never had it in my possession."
"Who did kill Gilbert?"
"I've no idea, but I don't think it was anybody we know. I'm inclined to the belief that it was some enemy, of long standing. You know Gilbert Blair's past life was by no means an open book to his friends. He had turned-down pages that we never knew about or inquired into. It would not have been impossible for some one to get into his room in the night——"
"And give him poison? Not likely!"
"But it must have been something of the sort, Julie. Blair never killed himself."
"No, I suppose not. Oh, Mac, how unfortunate that you and he quarreled so much. Otherwise they wouldn't have suspected you at all."
"Yes, they would. It's opportunity they consider, exclusive opportunity."
"And that empty bottle! I should think they'd see that's a plant!"
"They don't see anything an inch away from their noses! I'm the nearest suspect to hang a charge on, so they choose me."
Thorpe wasn't pettish, but he was discouraged and unstrung. He knew that his arrest, which wasimminent, was, in part, due to the assertions of the medium and the Ouija Board. These secrets had leaked out somehow, and though the detective, Weston, would have scorned to acknowledge it, he had been more or less biased in his estimates of other evidence by what he had heard of supernatural communications.
But of this Thorpe hesitated to speak to Julie. For it was her father who had brought those things about, and while Thorpe had no use for the whole mediumistic business, he rarely said so to the Crane family.
And the note that purported to be from Peter, he believed a bare-faced fraud. He couldn't understand it, nor imagine how it had been managed, but he would not believe that it was the work of the dead Peter Crane.
And so, he submitted helplessly to arrest, for there was no way to prove his innocence. He had tried "detective work" on his own account, but it amounted to nothing. The police held that it was an "open and shut" case, and that Thorpe must have been the murderer.
Benjamin Crane, though all unwilling to condemn Thorpe, was, of course, greatly swayed by the supernatural messages, and couldn't help his belief in them. But, for Julie's sake, and to give Thorpe every possible chance, he had engaged Pennington Wise, and had invited him to stay at the Crane house while conducting his investigation.
So Wise came, and with him came his queer little assistant, the girl called Zizi.
There was ample room in the big city house, and the two were treated as honored guests.
Wise was alert, quick-witted and tactful, but Zizi was even more so. She made friends with the Cranes at once, and they all admired the odd, fascinating girl. Small of stature, dark of coloring, Zizi was not unlike a gypsy, and the mention of this brought about the tale of the gypsy's prophecy regarding Peter Boots.
"What an interesting story," the girl said, after hearing Benjamin Crane tell it. "It is wonderful how you dear people bear your loss so bravely."
"But it isn't really a loss," said Mrs. Crane, "you see, we have our boy with us continually."
It was only by desperate effort that Zizi kept from laughing, for of all fads or whims, spiritism seemed to her the worst and most foolish. But she was there on business, and part of her business was to gather all the information she could regarding this same spiritism, so she showed only deep interest and apparent sympathy with their beliefs.
"You do believe in these things, don't you?" Mrs. Crane asked, and, being thus confronted, Zizi had to answer directly.
"It's hard to say," she replied, "for, you see, I've had so little real experience. Practically none. But I'm eager to learn, and most interested in what you tell me."
"I'm a frank unbeliever," declared Pennington Wise. He had considered the matter and concluded it was better to state this fact and thereby rouse the others to defense.
"You wouldn't be, Mr. Wise," Benjamin Crane said, "if you'd had the experiences we're continually enjoying. You've read my book?"
"Yes, Mr. Crane, and an able, well written work it is. But you must number some among your friends who find difficulty in accepting it in just the way you do."
"Certainly, and though I do what I can to convince them, I think none the less of them for their honest unbelief. But with you right here in the house, Mr. Wise, it will, I'm sure, be an easy matter to make a convert of you."
"We'll see; at any rate, I'm ready to be converted if you can do it. Now, let's begin with that note your daughter received from—ah, shall I say from your son?"
"Of course, it was from my son. You may compare the writing with Peter's own—we've lots of his letters, and I think you'll be convinced it's no forgery."
"And it doesn't seem illogical to you," Wise went on, as he took the papers Crane handed to him, "that your son should materialize this paper, this note, and leave it for you, when, if he can do such things, he doesn't write a letter to his mother or to you?"
"From the average mortal's point of view there is much that seems illogical in spiritism," Crane said, easily, as if quite accustomed to answering such arguments; "we who believe, never question why or why not. We merely accept."
"Yes," said Mrs. Crane, "and when we are granted such wonderful boons as we are, it seems ungrateful and ungracious to ask for anything we do not get. When I hear my son's voice——"
"Do you recognize his voice?" asked Zizi.
"I can hardly say that, my dear, but we have heard Peter talk so often, through the medium, that it almostseemslike his voice."
"And he told you that Mr. Thorpe was responsible for Mr. Blair's death?" Zizi went on, wanting a plain statement.
"Yes, he told us that."
"Then how can you have any doubt of it?"
"Spirits do not know everything. It is quite as likely for them to be misinformed as for earthly people to be. It may be that my boy doesn't know who killed Gilbert Blair, but has some reason to think it was Mr. Thorpe."
"Do you think it was?"
"I can't say that," Mrs. Crane looked very serious, "nor can I deny it. We are all so fond of Mr. Thorpe that we can scarcely bring ourselves to believe ill of him——"
"But if he is a criminal, we want to know it," her husband interrupted her. "Mr. Thorpe is engagedto my daughter, and if he is an innocent man, I want it made clear to the world. If not, then, of course, the engagement must be broken."
"Heisan innocent man," Zizi said, quietly.
"Oh, you darling!" cried Julie, running across the room to embrace her. "How do you know?"
"By that letter," and Zizi pointed to the note from Peter, which she had been scrutinizing and comparing with some old letters of Peter's.
"You think it isn't from my brother?"
"I know it isn't. I've made a study of handwriting, and whoever wrote that wrote it in imitation of your brother's writing. I mean the writer was disguising his own hand and imitating your brother's."
"How can you tell? They are very much alike."
"That's just it. The salient points are imitated, the long terminal strokes, the peculiarities of the capitals, but the less conspicuous details, such as slant and spacing, are not so carefully copied. It is a forgery, and though well done enough to deceive the average observer, it would not deceive an expert."
"What a lot you know!" and Julie looked at the other girl in surprised admiration.
"'Course I do. It's my business to know things. Am I right about this, Penny Wise?"
"Yes," he said, smiling at her. "I thought you'd see it. Moreover, Mr. Crane, this note was written by a man, or by a person capable of deep, evenvenomous hatred. If, as may well be the case, it was written by the murderer of Mr. Blair, and with an intent to throw suspicion on Mr. Thorpe, then we must look for a criminal of great cleverness and of patience and perseverance in the workings of his nefarious plans. I mean a nature of inborn evil, capable of premeditated wrong. This murder of Gilbert Blair was no impulsive or suddenly brought about job. It was carefully planned and carefully carried out. If you will show me some of Mr. Thorpe's writing I will tell you if he forged this note."
"No, he did not," Wise asserted, after a study of a letter of Thorpe's, which they gave him; "we cannot say this note signed with your son's name was written by the criminal we're looking for, but we can be sure it was not written by McClellan Thorpe. You see, Mr. Crane, penmanship is a very exact science. Some one forged your son's writing, but he or she was utterly unable to omit the personal characteristics that are in every one's hand."
"And you can deduce character even from a forged hand?"
"Absolutely. It is those inevitable and unmistakable signs that make the individual writing a true mirror of character."
"But it is often impossible to determine the sex of a writer," Zizi informed them. "Frequently, to be sure, penmanship is undoubtedly that of a man or a woman, but sometimes it is not definitely evident.In this case, I think we have the work of a man, but I can't be sure."
"Who would do it, anyway?" queried Mrs. Crane.
"Any one interested in concealing the identity of the murderer and desiring to have Mr. Thorpe suspected. A clever person, because, knowing of Miss Crane's love of her brother and also knowing of your interest in the occult, it would doubtless seem to you a strong bit of evidence."
"It did," Benjamin Crane admitted, "at least, until you proved to us that it is not a note from my son at all. But you must remember, Mr. Wise, that we are in no way doubting my son's communications with us in other ways. If this is not from him, that does not cast doubt on other communications we have had from him. And, as he has repeatedly told us that Mr. Thorpe is responsible for Blair's death, I can only say that my boy may be mistaken, and I sincerely hope he is."
"Of course, he is," Julie cried. "Peter has sent us other messages that turned out to be untrue, but he was mistaken."
"You believe in the mediums, then?" asked Zizi, flashing her big dark eyes at the girl.
"Oh, I don't know. I didn't at first, and I was unwilling to, but I've heard so much and seen so much, and, of course, I can't help being influenced by Dad and Mother."
"Of course not," agreed Zizi. "It's all so interesting to me. I'm only afraid I'll become so absorbedin the spirits that I'll neglect the detective work."
"It may be they're interdependent," Wise observed.
"They are, I'm sure," said Julie. "You see, Mr. Wise, it's not only father and the medium that have told us things against Mr. Thorpe, but we have a friend who is an expert on the Ouija Board——"
Zizi rolled her eyes skyward.
"Oh," she groaned, "I thought you people were real honest-to-goodness Spiritists!"
"We are," defended Crane.
"Not if you fool with an Ouija Board!"
"But Carly, Miss Harper, can make it tell wonderful things," Julie went on, "things of which she really knows nothing."
"But the other person at the Board knows them?"
"Well, maybe; but they can't get Ouija to tell them without Miss Harper has her fingers on, too."
"And Ouija is against Mr. Thorpe?"
"Yes; at least it has said he was guilty, but, as you say, an Ouija Board means nothing."
"It means something, indeed, but not the thing it says."
"A brilliant remark, Zizi!" Wise smiled at her.
"But I mean just that, Penny. I'm getting a line on this thing, and I think that the criminal or the criminal's friends or accomplices are utilizing occult forces in their own behalf. I think, Miss Crane, the more messages you get telling you of Mr.Thorpe's guilt the more you may believe in his innocence!"
"Look out, Ziz, don't go too fast," Wise counseled her. "You've only begun this thing—there's a lot yet to be learned."
"I'll learn it, and I'm sure I'm headed in the right direction. And I'd like very much to see this Miss Harper. The Ouija witch! Has she told you to suspect Mr. Thorpe?"
"Don't put it that way," Julie begged. "Miss Harper is my dearest friend, and whatever she does with the Ouija Board is absolutely honest on her part, absolutely free from deceit."
"Then she's a unique case," declared Zizi. "Never has such a thing been known to science." Her smile robbed the words of invidious intent, and though Julie stood up for Carlotta's innocence, she had always wondered whether there was not some involuntary, even unconscious helping along done to the little board.
"Let's go to see her now," she suggested, and Wise agreeing, the two girls started off.
"This is Miss——?" Julie looked inquiringly at the girl she was about to introduce to Carlotta, remembering she didn't know her last name.
"Just Zizi," was the smiling reply, and the slim little dark hand was held out in greeting. "I'm so glad to know you, Miss Harper. For, though Iadmit I don't believe in Ouija, I am interested, and Miss Crane tells me you never 'push'."
"No, I never do that," Carlotta smiled, "but don't think I believe in the thing, for I don't at all. It amuses me, and it puzzled me, at first, but now I understand it, and it's beginning to lose interest for me."
"Understand it?" Zizi looked bewildered. "You mean——"
"I mean I know what makes it work, why it tells the truth, when it does tell the truth, and why it fibs when it does fib."
Carly Harper's face was frank and honest; she had no effect of mystery or clairvoyant power, and Zizi was bewildered.
"I am indeed glad to know you!" she exclaimed, "will you impart this knowledge to me, or is it a secret?"
"It's not a secret, perhaps it isn't knowledge, it's, after all, only my own theory, or rather, discovery, based on long and wide experience."
Zizi was enchanted.
"Oh, goody!" she cried, her black eyes dancing. "I'm crazy to know just what you mean! Will you give me a session with the board?"
"Will you promise not to push?"
"Of course, and, anyway, you'd know it if I did."
So Carly got the board, and the two sat at it, while Julie looked on.
The usual routine followed, and at last the professed spirit of Peter Crane was "present."
On being asked if Thorpe killed Gilbert Blair, the Ouija Board promptly replied "No."
"Oh, Peter, the other day you said he did!" Carlotta exclaimed, but again the Board flew to the corner where "No" was printed.
Julie, watching closely, was sure neither of the girls in any way cheated or helped things along. She was an acute observer, and she was certain both the manipulators were strictly sincere.
"Well, then," Zizi said, her thin, dark fingers merely touching the little wooden heart, "who did?"
There was no reply. Motionless the board remained, and no persuasion would induce it to move.
Other subjects were brought up, questions were asked to which only Carlotta knew the answer, or to which only Zizi did, and they were answered, if not always definitely, at least in a general way. But when they returned to the question about Blair there was no response.
"Don't you know?" Carlotta demanded of Peter's "spirit," which obligingly announced its presence when requested.
But the board remained stationary, and they finally gave it up.
"All of which goes to prove my theory the true one," Carlotta declared, and then Zizi begged her to disclose her discoveries.
"Why, you see, it's this way," Carlotta began,"you get out of the Ouija Board exactly what you bring to it, no more, no less."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"That nobody gets any information from the board unless it is already in his mind. When we ask questions, to which one of us knows the answer, that answer comes. Mind you, I don't mean that one of us pushes the board in the right direction, at least not consciously, but it is inevitable that the mind leaps ahead, and when a word is started we know, usually, what letter is coming next, and we receptively await it. You see, unless you hold your hands still purposely, the board is bound to move. Naturally it goes to the words you have in mind, and unless you purposely check it, the message is bound to come. If it is something I know and you don't, the board starts off, and as the words form, you don't stop them nor do I, yet we don't really force them, it's more as if we thought on the board. This is proved, to my mind, by the fact that if either party knows the answer, it always comes; if neither knows it, you can't get it. Usually the message is something that can't be verified anyway, and often the message is untrue. But people notice and remember the few times the truth is told, and quickly forget the other times. In no case are they messages from the dead. It is not Peter's spirit talking to us at all. It is merely our minds, subconsciously or not, that impel involuntary muscular action in the slightest degree, and our eagerness to get a certainword or phrase, brings it about. Tradition and habit ascribe the messages to the dead, and the universal desire to get such communications is responsible for the belief that they are such. Now, here's proof. Whenever I have asked the Board who killed Gilbert it has responded with the name of the person whom my companion thought guilty. I have no idea who is the criminal, neither, I take it, has Zizi; consequently, as we are both open-minded and waiting for the answer, we get nothing."
"Right," and Zizi nodded her head. "People fool themselves into believing they get information from Ouija. But, if they were honest, they would have to admit that never has it told a truth that was not known to at least one person present. Of course, I except coincidences, which must happen occasionally."