"But," objected Julie, "then why will it work so much better when Carly has her hands on?"
"Just because I'm impassive," Carlotta said, "and sit quietly while the other one gets the message she wants. Without effort the message desired comes, merely because nobody stops it."
"Then," said Julie, "none of the help we get from Ouija means anything at all?"
"No, and it isn't help," said Zizi.
Kit Shelby's play was a wonderful success. Though a motion picture, it was one of the finest ever produced, and no expense had been spared to make it the sensation of the season. It was called "Labrador Luck."
The Crane family attended the opening night, as, indeed, all Shelby's friends did, and the verdict was unanimous that never had such a beautiful and finished play been screened. The scenes of ice-bound Labrador were picturesque and fascinating, while the plot was ingenious and thrills plentiful. The audience applauded continuously, for so real was the acting that it seemed as if the performers were actually there.
Benjamin Crane had helped Shelby finance the production, and he realized at once that he would get his money back with interest.
"It's a gold mine, boy!" he said to Shelby, as they were all at the Crane home afterward, "and it must be made into a spoken drama. There's scope for a great play in that plot."
"Marvelous plot," commented Pennington Wise. "All your own, Mr. Shelby?"
"Yes," Kit replied, with frank pride; "it did turn out well, didn't it?"
"And you're going to make a book of it, too, aren't you?" asked Julie.
"Yes, a book, and a serial story and, oh, I'm going to do lots of things with it!"
"Grand opera, maybe!" chaffed Julie.
"Why not?" said Shelby, seriously. "Slighter plots than that have been put into grand opera. It may yet come about."
Without undue conceit Shelby was quite conscious of his great success, and as he walked home with Carlotta from the Crane house, he begged her to consent to his repeated proposals of marriage.
"This thing will make me rich, dear," he said, "and while that sounds mercenary, it does make me glad to have a fortune to offer you."
"But I don't love you, Kit," and Carlotta smiled carelessly at him.
"You will, Carly. You'll have to, 'cause I love you so. Oh, sweetheart, I love you just desperately— I must have you, my little girl, I must!"
"Now, Kit, you wouldn't want a wife who didn't care for you as a woman ought to care for the man she marries. Truly, my heart is still Peter's. I sometimes think I'll never marry, his memory is so vivid and so dear to me."
"Weren't you beginning to care for Blair?"
"N-no; not that way. Of course I was fond of Gilbert, and I'm fond of you, but there's always the thought of Peter between us."
"But, Carly, there's no one you care more for than for me, is there?"
"No, I'm sure of that."
"Then say yes, darling. Even though you won't marry me quite yet, let's be engaged, and truly you'll soon learn to love me. I'll make you!"
But Carlotta wouldn't consent, and Shelby had to be content with her promise to think about it.
"Kit," she said, suddenly, "are those queer detectives going to find out who killed Gilbert?"
"Oh, I suppose they'll fasten it on Mac. Poor chap, to think of his being in jail while we're having all this excitement over my play. But I don't see any other direction for Wise to look. What a funny little thing that Zizi is."
"Yes, but I like her a lot. And she's nobody's fool! Her black eyes take in everything, whether she remarks on it or not. You should have seen her watch you to-night."
"When?"
"At the Cranes', when you were talking about the play."
"She's dramatic herself. She ought to be in the Moving Pictures!"
"Yes, she'd be a film queen at once."
Zizi must have had something of the same ideain her own mind, for the next day she went to see Shelby at his office and asked him if he could give her a chance at film work.
"But you're a detective," Shelby said, amusedly, "what would Mr. Wise do without you?"
"He'd get along all right," Zizi said earnestly. "He's willing I should have a try at a screen career, if you'll take me on."
"I'm not sure I could use you," Shelby returned, "at least not at present. If I do another picture I'll try you out in it."
"Oh, you are going to do another, aren't you?"
"Probably, but not until I've exhausted all the different possibilities of this one."
Zizi showed her disappointment at the failure of her plan, but, after some further talk on general subjects, she went back to the Cranes'.
"Well, Ziz," Wise said to her, as they discussed the case alone, "we're not making our usual rapid headway this time. Rather baffling, isn't it?"
"Everything seems to point to Thorpe, except that I can't think he had motive enough. That foolish jealousy of the plans and suspicion of Blair's stealing his ideas isn't enough to make him commit murder."
"I don't think he did do it, but I can't agree with you that it wasn't a big enough motive. You don't know how the artistic temperament resents anything like that. Nor how it imagines and exaggerates the least hint of it. I think his motive is the strongestpoint against Thorpe. Who else had any motive at all?"
"That's what we have to find out. And we're going to do it. And, I say, Penny, I want to go to see that medium person the Cranes are so fond of."
"Think she'll help you?"
"Yes, though not by her spiritism. But I suspect she's one big fraud, and I want to be sure."
"Come along, then. No time like the present. Mr. Crane can arrange a session for us."
To Madame Parlato's they went, and soon had the pleasure of seeing that lady in one of her trances.
The room was dimly lighted but not in total darkness. After a silence a faint, low-pitched voice said, "I am here."
"Are you Peter Crane?" asked Zizi, who chose to be spokesman.
"Yes."
"Will you talk to us?"
"Yes, for a short time only."
"Very well, then tell us who killed Gilbert Blair."
"His friend, McClellan Thorpe. Good-by."
"Wait a minute. I own up to being skeptical, is it too much to ask for some proof of your identity, Peter Crane? Will you, can you give some material proof?"
"It is not easy."
"I'm sorry for that, but, oh, I do so want to beconvinced. And I can't, unless I have something tangible to take away with me. Do give me something."
There was a silence, and then, apparently from nowhere, a handkerchief fluttered through the air and fell at Zizi's feet.
Amazed, the girl picked it up, and though she could not see it distinctly, she discovered it was a large one, evidently a man's.
Suddenly the medium sat up straight, came out of her trance, and putting on the lights, said, eagerly, "Did you get any message?"
"I should say I did!" Zizi returned, "and a material proof, too. Look!"
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Madame Parlato, as she looked at the white square of linen. "Initialed, too."
"Yes, P. C.," and Zizi scrutinized the embroidery.
Pennington Wise expressed a polite admiration for the medium who could bring about such marvelous results, and theséanceover, the two departed, Zizi carrying the handkerchief in her bag.
"One of a set of Peter's," Wise said, confidently.
"Of course. Julie or Mrs. Crane will recognize it. Funny, how she thought a crude performance like that would convince us!"
"Mighty well done though."
"Pooh, in a darkened room one can do anything."
"Well, where did she get the handkerchief?"
"Dunno, yet. Maybe the Cranes left it there by chance."
"Oh, no, that won't do. Guess again."
"I think I could if I tried. But we'll see what the family say about it."
Both Mrs. Crane and Julie declared the handkerchief to be one of Peter's own, and, moreover, that it was one of a set Carlotta had embroidered for him just before he went to Labrador. And he had taken the whole dozen with him, of that they were both sure. It had been Carly's parting gift, and Peter had been delighted with it.
"It's too wonderful!" Julie said, amazed. "Now, how do you explain it, Zizi? We know this to be Peter's own handkerchief. We know he took it to Labrador with him. How did it get back here? How get into Madame Parlato's possession? And how appear to you, out of nothingness?"
"Yes," said Benjamin Crane, smiling happily, "answer those questions satisfactorily, or else admit that it is real materialization!"
Wise looked a little nonplused. Positive though he was of the medium's trickery, he could not tell Mr. Crane exactly how it had come about. Materialization was easy enough for a charlatan, but, as had been said, where could she get the handkerchief to do the trick with?
Convinced of the Cranes' honesty, of course, Wise couldn't doubt that Peter had taken all the handkerchiefs with him. His luggage had neverbeen sent home, therefore how did the handkerchief get to New York, and more especially how did it get to Madame Parlato?
"I can't explain it yet," Wise said, frankly, "but I'll find out all about it. To you, Mr. Crane, it seems additional proof of your son's communication through that medium. To me it is additional and very strong proof of her fraud. Now, we'll leave it at that for the present, but I promise to explain it to you soon."
"All right, Mr. Wise, you'll not be offended, I trust, if I say I don't believe you can make good your word. But I'm not surprised at your attitude. Some minds are almost incapable of belief in the occult, and will accept the most absurd and far-fetched explanations rather than the simple and plausible one of spirit communication. I can't understand such a mental attitude, but I've met so many like you that I'm obliged to recognize its existence."
"Oh, Mr. Wise," Mrs. Crane said, "it does seem so strange that a clear-headed, deep-thinking man like yourself prefers to believe that Madame Parlato could get Peter's handkerchief and could produce it so mysteriously for you rather than the rational belief that Peter sent it himself."
Zizi looked at the speaker with kindly eyes.
"Dear Mrs. Crane," she said, "what will hurt me most when we expose that medium's fraud is the fact of your disappointment."
"Don't worry about that," smiled Benjamin Crane, "you haven't exposed her yet! Meantime, I shall incorporate this experience of the handkerchief in my next book."
"Oh, don't!" cried Zizi, involuntarily. "You'll make yourself a laughing-stock——"
She paused, unwilling to hurt his feelings.
But so assured of his beliefs was Benjamin Crane that he shook his head and said:
"No fear of that, child. I'll take all risks. Have you any idea how my book has been received? It's just gone into another big edition, and my publishers are clamoring for my second book, which is nearly finished. But to return to the case of McClellan Thorpe. Did Peter tell you——"
"Yes," Wise said, "according to Madame Parlato, the spirit of your son said that Thorpe is the criminal, and it was as proof of identity that Zizi received the handkerchief."
"Fine," said Crane, nodding his satisfaction, "I think I'll use thatséancefor the finale of my book, and get it in press at once."
"Do, dear," said his wife, "as far as the handkerchief is concerned. But don't put in the book that Mac killed Gilbert."
"Oh, no, certainly not. In the first place, we're all agreed that though Peter believes that, it is a mistake on his part; that is, it may be a mistake. Don't let it influence you too much, Mr. Wise."
Penny Wise laughed outright. He couldn't help it.
"No, sir," he promised, "I won't!"
"But have you any other suspect?"
"I'd rather not answer that question quite yet, Mr. Crane."
"All right, take your own time. I've confidence you'll do all you can, but my hopes of your success are dwindling."
"Don't feel that way, on the contrary, I'm beginning to see at least a way to look for another suspect."
"Look hard, then. For I want to get Mac cleared as soon as it can be brought about."
"We'll hope to do that. I'm going over to the Studios now, and I've a notion I'll discover something."
Accompanied by Zizi, Wise went to the home that Blair and Thorpe had occupied, and which was now in charge of the police.
The detective set himself to the task of looking over old letters and papers in hope of finding out some secret of the dead man's past.
Zizi flitted about the rooms, looking for nothing in particular, and everything in general.
"I've sized up his medicines," she said, coming from Blair's bedroom into the studio where Wise sat at the desk.
"His cough syrup hasn't been touched lately. The dried up stickiness of the cork shows that. And one or two other bottles are in the same condition. But in the waste basket in his bedroom I found this."
She held up an empty bottle that was labeled soda mints.
"There's a new full bottle in the medicine chest," she went on, "and as this was in the basket, mayn't it be that he took the last ones, and——"
"And they were poisoned!"
"One of them was. See, somebody had put a poisoned one in among the others."
"That leads back to Thorpe, who else could do that?"
"And we don't know that anybody did, only it might have been."
"Can you smell any prussic acid in the vial?"
"No," and Zizi sniffed at it, "I seem to think I do, but I daresay it's my vivid imagination. Do you suppose a chemist could discern any?"
"Probably not, but we might make a try at it. Pretty slim clue, anyway, Ziz."
"I know it, but I have a hunch it's the real thing. You see, Blair was in the habit of taking these things——"
"How do you know?"
"Carlotta Harper told me. I've quizzed her a lot about Mr. Blair's personal habits, and he always carried soda mints in his pocket, and took one now and then. So, as there was no soda mint bottle found in his pockets, and this was in the basket, it's a logical deduction that he finished this bottle that night that he died. And they all think the poisonwas given to him through some simple trick, so why not this?"
"It may be. It very likely is. But where does it get us?"
"Dunno yet. But, say it was done that way, it needn't have been done here. Maybe the murderer put a poisoned mint in the bottle when they were somewhere together."
"How could he?"
"Oh, lots of ways. Say Blair had his coat off, playing golf or billiards, or——"
"He'd carry such a bottle in his waistcoat pocket, I think."
"Well, it's all surmise. The thing to do is to begin from the other end. Who had a motive?"
"That's what I'm trying to trace. Nothing doing as yet. Hello, here's that old letter from Joshua, the guide. Look at it! It is in a small, cramped hand, and you know the one purporting to be from him later was in a big, sprawly hand. Somebody faked that letter!"
"Well, there's something to work on, then."
"But maybe Thorpe did it."
"Not he. Why should he? He had nothing to do with that Labrador trip."
"What was the letter about, the other Joshua letter?"
"Advising him not to try to bring Peter Crane's body down to New York, or to postpone the matter, or something like that."
"Queer business, that. Why should anybody want to fake a letter like that?"
"I don't believe anybody did. More likely some one else wrote for the guide. They're an ignorant lot, and writing is an unwelcome task to them."
They were still looking at the guide's letter when Shelby came in.
"I heard you were here," he said, "and thought it would be a good time to come around. I want to see if there's anything in Blair's papers that would help to turn suspicion away from Mac Thorpe. I don't believe that man did it, and I wish we could free him."
"That's what we're after," and Wise made room for Shelby to sit beside him at Blair's desk.
But though they made systematic search of all letters they found none other than friendly. There were some from his mother and sister, pathetic ones, telling of their ill health, for both were invalids.
They had not come East on learning of Blair's death, for they could not well stand the trip, and, too, there was no real reason for their coming. After the police investigation was over Blair's effects were to be sent to them, but for the present everything remained as it was found at his death.
"Let me help you, if I can," Shelby went on to Wise. "You know Blair and I were chums. Poor Gilbert, and Peter Boots, too, both gone, and bothby such tragic means. I don't know which death was the worse."
Zizi showed him the small bottle she had found, and asked his opinion of her theory about it.
"What an ingenious notion," Shelby exclaimed; "yes, it might be the truth, of course, but a dozen other ways might have been used either."
"Such as what?" asked Wise, "it's always a help to talk these things over."
"Well, granting that some one administered poison to Blair, secretly, mightn't he have put it in anything that Blair was about to eat or drink?"
"Not this poison," objected Wise. "It acts too quickly. Whatever plan was adopted, it was some scheme by which Blair would take the poison unknowingly, but naturally. As Zizi says, if it had been put in some one of his bottles of medicine, he must take it, sooner or later."
"Yes; well, then say it was put in a cigarette, no that's foolish; why, hang it all, Wise, don't you see there's no plausible theory except that some one put it in a drink Blair took just before going to bed, or even after he was in bed."
"Where's the glass, then?"
"That's just the point. What's the answer, except that Thorpe washed it and put it away? Of course, Blair would take a drink Thorpe offered him."
"Also, he might have taken a soda mint just as he went to bed or after," said Zizi.
"Yes," agreed Shelby, thoughtfully. "He might have done so, but could one introduce poison into one of those things? They're quite hard, you know."
"Yes, it could be done," Wise declared. "I've heard of such a thing before. The little pellet could be soaked in the poison——"
"That would make it taste, and he wouldn't swallow it," Shelby said.
"True. Well, I think, with a hypodermic needle, the poison could be got into the mint."
"Maybe, but I doubt it. However, I don't know much about such things. You're doubtless experienced."
"Yes, I've had a lot of poison cases. And, if we give up all thought of the soda mint, it does come back to a drink of some sort mixed by Thorpe."
"Or Blair might have mixed his own drink, and Thorpe added the poison, unnoticed."
"But I want to get away from Thorpe," Zizi said, her eyes anxious and worried.
"So do we all," returned Shelby gravely. "But where can we look?"
"Where, indeed?" echoed Penny Wise.
Among the passengers disembarking from a steamer at a Brooklyn pier was a tall, gaunt man, who walked with a slight limp.
He was alone, and though he nodded pleasantly to one or two of his fellow passengers, he walked by himself, and all details of landing being over, he took a taxicab to a hotel restaurant, glad to eat a luncheon more to his taste than the ship's fare had been.
He bought several New York papers, and soon became so absorbed in their contents that his carefully selected food might have been dust and ashes for all he knew.
Staring at an advertisement, he called a waiter.
"Send out and get me that book," he said, "as quick as you can."
"Yes, sir," returned the man, "it's right here, sir, on the news-stand. Get it in a minute, sir."
And in about a minute Peter Boots sat, almost unable to believe his own eyes, as he scanned the chapter headings of his father's book, detailing thedeath and the subsequent experiences of him who sat and stared at the pages.
He looked at the frontispiece, a portrait of himself, but bearing little resemblance to his present appearance. For, where the pictured face showed a firm, well-molded chin, the living man wore a brown beard, trimmed Vandyke fashion, and where the expression on the portrait showed a merry, carefree smile, the real face was graven with deep lines that told of severe experiences of some sort.
But the real face grinned a little at the picture, and broke into a wider smile at some sentences read at random as the pages were hastily turned, and then as further developments appeared, the blue eyes showed a look of puzzled wonder, quickly followed by horror and despair.
Peter closed the book and laid it aside, and finished his luncheon in a daze.
One thing stood forth in his mind. He must take time to think—think deeply, carefully, before he did anything. He must get away by himself and meet this strange, new emergency that had come to him.
What to do, how to conduct himself, these were questions of gravest import, and not to be lightly settled.
He thought quickly, and concluded that for a secure hiding-place a man could do no better than choose a big city hotel.
Finishing his meal he went to the desk and asked for a room, registering as John Harrison, whichwas the name by which he had been known on the ship that had brought him to port.
Once behind the locked door of his room he threw himself into an armchair and devoured the book he had bought.
Rapidly he flew through it; then went over it again, more slowly, until Peter Boots was familiar with every chapter of the book that his father had written in his memory.
Memory! And he wasn't dead!
The book, he saw, had gone through a large number of editions, wherefore, many people had read the tale of his tragic fate in the Labrador wild, and of his recrudescence and communications with his parents, and now, here he was reading it himself.
It is not easy to realize how strange it must seem to read not only one's own death notices but the accounts of one's return to earth in spirit form, and to be informed of the astonishing things one said and did through the kind offices of a professional medium!
A medium! Madame Parlato! And she "got in touch" with him! She succeeded in getting messages from him—and materializations!
Peter's chicory blue eyes nearly popped out of his head when he read of the "materialization" of his tobacco pouch.
"Jolly glad I know where it is," he thought; "I've missed the thing, but how did it waft itself to aprofessional medium! Bah! the stuff makes me sick!
"But Dad wrote it! Dad—my father! And mother's in the game! Got to read the book all over again."
And again he delved into the volume, seeming unable to take in the appalling fact of what had been done.
"They believe it!" he said at last, reaching the final page for the third time; "they believe it from the bottom of their blessed souls!
"Who is that medium person? Where'd she get the dope to fool the old folks? Let me at her! I'll give her what for! Messages to mother from her departed son! 'Do not grieve for me,' 'I am happy over here,' Oh, for the love o' Mike! whatamI going to do first?"
Followed a long time of thought. At first, chaotic, wondering, uncertain, then focussing and crystallizing into two definite ideas.
One, the astonishing but undeniable fact of his father's belief and sincerity, the other, what would happen if that belief and sincerity were suddenly stultified.
"Good Lord!" he summed up, "when I appear on the scene that medium will get the jolt of her sweet young life— I assume she's young still, and Dad——
"H'm, where will he get off?"
That gave him pause. For Benjamin Crane tohave written such a book as this, for it to have achieved such a phenomenal success and popularity, for it to have been the means, as it doubtless was, of converting thousands to a belief in Spiritism, then, for the whole thing to be overturned by the reappearance in the flesh of the man supposed dead, would mean a cataclysm unparalleled in literary history.
And his father? The dear old man, happy in his communications from his dead son, how would he be pleased to learn that they were not from his dead son at all, but the faked drivel of a fraudulent medium?
It was a moil, indeed.
Peter Crane had come home incognito, because he doubted the wisdom of a sudden shock to his parents. Unable to send or get news, and making his voyage home at the first possible opportunity, he had intended to learn how matters stood before making his appearance.
He had intended telephoning Blair and Shelby, and if they said all was well at home he would go there at once. But if there had been illness or death he would use care and tact in making his presence known.
For Peter Boots had had no word of, or from his people for half a year—all the long Labrador winter he had lived in ignorance of their welfare and had suffered to the limit, both mentally and physically.
And he had thought they would probably assume his death—as, by reason of this astonishing book he now knew they had done—and, what was he to do about it?
Impulse would have sent him flying home—home to his mother, Dad and Julie, and—and dear little Carly.
But—when he thought of the possibility of his reappearance being the means of making his father's name a by-word of ridicule, of heaping on the old man's fame obloquy and derision, of shocking his mother, perhaps fatally, or at least into a nervous prostration, he was unable to shape a course.
Could he tell Carly first? He glanced at a telephone book at his elbow.
No, that would never do. To hear his voice on the telephone would throw her into a convulsion. He didn't believe she stood for that spirit foolishness, but if, by any chance, she had been won over, his voice would surely give her some sort of a shock.
The boys, then. Yes, that was the only thing. He must see them, but he must telephone first and learn their whereabouts.
He could, he concluded, call in a disguised voice, and get a line on things anyhow.
So, still in a haze of doubt and uncertainty, he looked up the number and called Shelby.
As he rather expected, Shelby was not at his home, but the person who answered could give nodirections save to say that Mr. Shelby would probably be home by six o'clock, and would he leave a message?
"No," returned Peter shortly, and hung up.
Getting next the number of the Leonardo Studios, he asked for Gilbert Blair.
"W-what—who?" came a stammering response.
"Mr. Blair—Mr. Gilbert Blair," repeated Peter.
"Why—why, he's dead—Mr. Blair's dead."
"No! When did he die?"
"Coupla months ago. Murdered."
"What!"
"Yep, murdered."
Peter hung up the receiver from sheer inability to do anything else.
Of course it couldn't be true. Blair couldn't have been murdered, and he must have misunderstood that last word. But his arm seemed paralyzed when he tried again to take hold of the telephone.
He sank back in his chair and tried to think.
His subconscious mind told him that he had not misunderstood—that Gilbert was murdered. He knew he had heard the word correctly, and people do not make such statements unless they are true.
His thoughts gradually untangled themselves and he began to grapple with the most important problems.
It was clear that he must learn what had happened in his absence. He wanted to get hold of Shelby and ask about Blair. He wanted to go rightover to Blair's place—but if—ifithad occurred two months ago there was small use going there now.
Also, he must preserve his incognito for the present, at least. His return would be blazoned in the papers as soon as it was known, and the effect on his father's reputation would be most disastrous.
He must learn more facts—the facts he had already discovered were so amazing, what else might not be in store for him?
Concentrating on the subject of Blair's death he concluded his best course would be to get a file of newspapers covering the past two months and read about it.
In a big newspaper office he accomplished this, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading up the case.
Of late the subject was not a principal one in the papers.
McClellan Thorpe was in prison, awaiting his trial, and the police, while still on the job, were not over aggressive.
Pennington Wise was not mentioned, so Peter had no means of knowing that that astute person was connected with the matter.
But the news of Thorpe's arrest struck Peter a new blow. While not as chummy with Thorpe as with Shelby and Blair, Peter had always liked him and found it difficult to believe him guilty of Blair's death.
Back to his hotel went the man registered as JohnHarrison, and, going to the restaurant for dinner, he ate and enjoyed a hearty meal.
After all, strange and weird as was the news he had heard, his parents were alive and well—and, strangest of all, they were not grieving at his death.
He was relieved at this, and yet, he was, in an inexplicable way, disappointed. Itisa blow in the face to learn that your loved ones are quite reconciled to your death because, forsooth, they get fool messages from you through the services of a fool medium!
Peter's ire rose, and he was all for going to his father's house at once, and then, back came the thought, how could he put that dear old man to the blush for having written that preposterous book?
From the papers, too, Peter had learned of the furor the book had made, of the great notoriety and popularity that had come to Benjamin Crane from its publication, of the enormous sales it had had, and was still having, and of the satisfaction and happiness the whole thing had brought to both Mr. and Mrs. Crane.
So, stifling his longing to go home and to see his people, Peter decided to sleep over it before taking any definite steps.
He had small fear of recognition. Nobody in New York believed him alive, or had any thought of looking for him. His present appearance was so different from the portrait in the book that, after he had changed his looks still further by a differentbrushing of his hair, he felt there was no trace of likeness left save perhaps his blue eyes. And only one who knew him well would notice his eyes, and he had no expectation of running up against one who knew him well.
So, after dinner, he sat for a time in the hotel lobby, not wishing to mingle with his fellow men, yet not wishing to seem peculiar by reason of his evading notice.
Worn with the succession of shocks that had come to him, and weary of meeting the big problems and situations, he thought of diversion.
"Any good plays on?" he asked the news-stand girl, and his winning smile brought a chatty response.
"Plays—yes. Nothing corking, though. But say, have you seen the big movie?"
"No; what is it?"
"'Labrador Luck,' oh, say, it's a peach! Go to it!"
"Where?" and Peter stopped himself just in time from exclaiming, "Labrador anything would interest me!"
"Over in N'York. Hop into the sub and you're there."
Peter hopped into the sub and shortly he was there.
"Labrador Luck," he read from the big posters. "Monster production of the Tophole ProducingCompany. Thrilling scenes, thrilling plot, thrilling drama."
There was more detail as to the names of the Film Queen who was starred, and the Film King who supported her, but without stopping to read them Peter bought a ticket and went in.
The picture was under way, and as he sank into his seat he saw on the screen the familiar scenes of the Labrador wild.
Not quite true to nature were they, this Peter recognized at once, but he knew they were taken in a studio, not in Labrador itself, and he had only admiration for the cleverness with which they were done.
With a little sigh of pleasure he gave himself up to a positive enjoyment of the landscape, and, as the story went on, he was conscious of a vaguely familiar strain running through it.
Suddenly a scene was flashed on, and an episode occurred which was one of his own invention.
"Why," he smiled, "that's my very idea! Now how'd they get that? Oh, I know, of course, such things often occur to various minds without collusion, but it's sort of queer. If he follows up that lead, it will be awful queer!"
The lead was followed up, and, a bit bewildered, Peter sat gazing while the whole story was unrolled.
Greatly changed it was, greatly elaborated; the main plot side-tracked by a counter-plot; the numberof characters multiplied by a score; yet, the mystery interest, the suspense element, the very backbone of the piece was the plot he and Blair had worked out while up in the Labrador wild.
"Labrador Luck!" he mused. "Fine name for it, too. The 'Luck' being that old heirloom—just as I planned it. Wonder how it all came about?"
Then he realized how long he'd been away from Blair. How Blair, doubtless, supposed him dead, and, most naturally, the boy had gone on with the story, and here was the splendid result.
He sat through the thing enthralled, and when the finale came, so exactly as he had planned that smashing great scene, he could have yelled his applause. But he didn't, he simply sat still in glad anticipation of seeing it all over again.
But he was disappointed. It was not a continuous performance—the long play was a whole evening's entertainment, and opening and closing hours were like those of a regular theater.
So Peter determined to come the next night to see it again, and to see the first part that he had missed.
"Great old play," he thought, delightedly. "Wonder if Blair put it on before he died, or if it's posthumous."
He picked up a stray program as he left the place—he had had none before—and put it in his pocket to look over at home.
"At least, I'm not suffering from lack of interestsor diversion," he said, "but, by Jingo, I've just thought of it! What about money!
"I've enough to hang out at that hotel about a week and that's all. I'll have to tell Dad I'm here, or get a job or rob a bank. And what can I do to turn an honest penny? And I can't go to work under an assumed name! Oh, hang it all, I've got to come to life! Much as I love Dad and much as I want to save him from all ridicule and disaster about that abominable book, I've simply got to live my own life!
"But I won't decide till my cash gets lower than it is now. I'll go a bit further in my investigations and then we'll see about it."
Comfortably seated in his room he drew out the program to look over.
To his unbounded amazement he learned from the title page that the author of the play and also the producer, or, at least, the president of the producing company was—Christopher Shelby!
"Kit! Good old top!" he cried aloud.
"Oh, I must see him," he thought, "I just must see him! So Kit wrote the thing—well, I suppose he and Blair did it together— I recognize Kit's hand more especially in the producing element—and then, old Gilbert, bless him, was killed, and Kit went ahead alone— I can't think Mac Thorpe did for Gil—oh, I must seesomebodyor I'll go crazy!"
And because he was afraid to trust himself tokeep away from the telephone any longer, Peter Boots went to bed.
The night brought counsel.
Clarifying his thoughts, Peter tried first to see where his duty lay.
To his parents, first of all, he decided, for he was a devoted son, and all his life he had loved and revered both father and mother more than most boys do. Julie, too, but, so far he had no reason to think she had any special claim on him.
Well, then, what did his duty to his parents dictate?
Common sense said that they would far rather have their son with them alive than to rest secure in the success of the book his father had written.
But the book itself was, to his mind, quite outside the pale of common sense, and could not be judged by any such standards.
Certain pages, special paragraphs in that book, stood out in his mind, and he knew that never had there been such a fiasco as would ensue if the long lost and deeply mourned hero of it should return! His return in the spirit was so gloatingly related, so triumphantly averred, that his return in the flesh would be a terrific anti-climax.
He remembered the gypsy's prophecy—how it had come true!
But the return, foretold by the second gypsy, was now verified in the flesh and put to naught all the fake returns narrated in the book.
Much stress was laid, in his father's story, on the spiritual return being what the gypsy meant. Now, Peter had proved that that prophecy meant, if it meant anything at all, his return in the flesh.
Anyway, here he was, very much alive, and very uncertain what to do with his live self.
Should he go away, out West, or to some distant place and start life anew, under an assumed name, and leave his father to his delusion? Was that his duty?
He was not necessary to his parents, either as a help to their support or as a comfort to their hearts.
He did not do them the injustice to think that they had never mourned for him, or that they had not missed him in the home. All this was fully and beautifully set forth in the book.
But they had been compensated by the comfort and enjoyment afforded them by theirséances, and by the messages they continually received from him!
And he could see no way, try as he would, that he could inform them of his return without causing them dismay and distress.
For if they knew him to be alive he must take again his old place in the home—and then what would his father be?
A laughing-stock, a crushed and crestfallen victim of the most despicable sort of fraud!
It would never do. He couldn't bring positive trouble into his father's life on the off chance of removing a sorrow, which, though real, was softenedand solaced by the very fraud that he would expose.
No; the more he thought the more he saw his duty was to eliminate himself for all time from his home and friends.
And Carly?
He tried not to think about her, for his duty must be his paramount consideration. He would wait a day or so, and then disappear again, and forever.
"Well, Mr. Douglas, what can I do for you?"
Benjamin Crane spoke cordially, and smiled genially at the young man who had called on him in his home.
"You can turn me down, sir, if you like, or, if you'll be so kind, you can give me a few details of these strange experiences of yours in occult matters."
"Are you a reporter?"
"I am, but also I want to be something more than that. And in this case I want to write up these things for a special article, and a personal interview would help a lot."
"Well, my boy, you impress me pleasantly, and, as I like nothing better than to talk on my favorite subject, I'll give you a fifteen-minute chat. More than that I cannot spare time for."
"Then let's confine our talk to the phase that interests me most. I can get your beliefs and experiences from your book, you know. And your personality," Douglas gave him a humorously appraising glance, "I am gathering as we go along. First,will you tell me your attitude, mental and spiritual, regarding the loss of your son? I mean, though I fear I put it crudely, are you entirely reconciled to his death because of the comfort you receive from his—er—communications and all that?"
"A difficult question to answer," Crane paused a moment, "but I think I may say yes. I bow to the will of a Higher Power in the death of my son, and I am grateful to that same Higher Power for the comfort that is mine in the communion I have with my boy."
"Then you do not really grieve over his loss?"
"Not now—no. At first, of course, both his mother and I were crushed, but when he came to us, in the spirit, we took heart, and now we are perfectly satisfied—more than satisfied to accept our life conditions just as they are."
"You have frequent communication with the spirit of your departed son?"
"Almost daily."
"With the same medium always?"
"Nowadays, yes. I tried various ones, but I rely on Madame Parlato. She has had the greatest success, and now can readily get into communication with my son at almost any time."
"Excuse me, Mr. Crane, if I am indiscreet, but have you never felt that she might be—not entirely—honest?"
Benjamin Crane smiled benignly. "Don't hesitate to put your doubt into words. I am quite readyto answer that question. I have no doubts of any sort concerning the medium's honesty, sincerity and genuineness. I have no doubt that the communications she obtains are really from my son Peter. That his spirit speaks to me through her. This has been proved to me in many ways, but a far greater proof is the conviction in my soul of the reality of it all. My wife believes as implicitly as I do, and no amount of scoffing from outsiders can in any way shake our faith."
"You have had material proofs?"
"Yes; here is a letter from my son himself. Here is a tobacco pouch that I know was his. Here is his handkerchief."
With a calm pride Benjamin Crane took these articles from a table drawer and showed them.
Douglas was deeply impressed, examined the articles and watched Crane as he returned them to the drawer.
"You see," said Crane, "it is not only difficult but impossible to account for those things except by supernatural explanation, so why refuse the logical truth?"
"That's so. And, I understand now, why you are so happy in your beliefs, for it all gives your life a continual and absorbing interest. You are writing another book, are you not?"
"Yes; it contains the detailed account of myséances, and will, I trust, prove an additional sourceof information and education on the great subject of survival."
"And your daughter? Does she, too, subscribe to all your theories?"
"Almost entirely. She is not so absorbed in the subject as Mrs. Crane and myself, but she has become persuaded of many truths."
"And now, my time is nearly up, may I ask you a word regarding the Blair case. Do you think McClellan Thorpe is the guilty man?"
"No! a thousand times no! I am trying by every means in my power to prove that he isn't. I hope to succeed, too. But we mustn't go into that subject, as I have an important appointment to keep. Come to see me again, Mr. Douglas, if you like. I'm not unaccustomed to such calls, and I'll be glad to see you again. By appointment, though, for I'm a busy man."
Tom Douglas went back, over to Brooklyn, and, going to a hotel, asked for one John Harrison.
In a short time Peter Boots was eagerly listening to the report of the messenger he had sent to his father.
"I learned a lot, Mr. Harrison," the visitor began. "I think I can give you quite a bit of the local color you need for your novel."
"Not so much local color as mental attitude," Peter returned. "You see, in writing a psychological novel the author has to be careful of shades of feeling in his delineation of the characters. And asthis Mr. Crane seemed to be just the type I want to study, I'm glad to have you tell me all the things he said, as nearly as you can recollect his own language."
"Yes, I know. And I was mighty interested on my own account, too."
"He was willing you should write an article about him?"
"Oh, yes, and asked me to come again."
"Go on, tell me all he said—how he looked and acted and everything that happened."
And so the young reporter and free-lance writer told Peter Boots all about his father, under the impression that he was talking to one who had never seen Benjamin Crane.
"He's a wonderful man, Mr. Harrison," the other said, enthusiastically. "He must be fifty-five at least, maybe more, but he's so alert and quick-witted, and so full of his subject, that he seems a much younger man."
"And he seems happy?"
"Happy! I should say so! Perfectly reconciled to his son's death, because of these communications he gets from him! I say, Mr. Harrison, I can't stand for it! It gets me to see how that man is gulled, and he such a clear-headed, sane sort! Had proofs, too—all sorts of things. Do you believe it, Mr. Harrison? Do you believe that the spirit of Mr. Crane's dead son talks to him through a medium?"
"I do not," said Peter Crane, endeavoring not to speak too emphatically. "I didn't want you to get that interview in the interests of Spiritism at all, but to tell me of the condition, mentally and physically, of Mr. Crane."
"Yes, I know. Well, the old guy is O.K. physically, fit as a fiddle. And sound mentally, you bet, except that he's nutty on the supernatural. Why, he showed me the tobacco pouch—you know he tells about that in his book——"
Peter nodded.
"Showed me, too, a handkerchief of his dead son's——"
"That's not so remarkable."
"Yes, it is; 'cause it's one of a set that the chap took away with him, embroidered by his best girl, I believe."
Peter started. One of those handkerchiefs Carly gave him! Where in the world could that fool medium have got hold of that?
"Also a note from son, in his own handwriting," Douglas went on.
"Did you see it?"
"Yep. Commonplace looking note, advising his sister to drop acquaintance with Thorpe—he's the man they arrested in the Blair case."
"Where did the note come from?"
"Materialized—out of thin air."
"At aséance?"
"No; the brother kindly left it on sister's bureau, I believe."
Peter Crane was bewildered indeed. What sort of performances were going on, anyhow. And who was at the bottom of all this?
Clearly, he must look into things a little more before he did his final disappearance!
"Well, Mr. Douglas, you've helped me a whole lot. Now, as I say, I want mental impressions. Tell me everything you can think of about the atmosphere of the whole house, the—did you see Mrs. Crane?"
"No, only the old man. There seemed to be quite a lot of people about, coming and going. We had our interview in Mr. Crane's study, or library——"
"I know, the small room at the back of the house——"
"Been there?" Douglas looked up quickly.
"Read of it in the book," said Peter, quietly, annoyed at himself for the slip.
"Yes. Well, there's a table in the middle of the room, and in the drawer of that table Mr. Crane keeps all the things' materialized by the medium. I think he expects to get a big collection."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Peter, "whata mess!"
"Yes, isn't it?" Douglas assumed that the whole subject of Spiritism was thus referred to.
"Suppose anything happened to shake Mr. Crane's faith?"
"I don't think anythingcoulddo that. He's absolutelygullible. He'd swallow anything. I say, howdoyou explain it? Why is it that big-brained, well-balanced men fall for this rot?"
"They can't be really well-balanced,—and then, too, it's largely the eagerness to believe, the desire for the comfort it brings them that makes them think they do believe. And a clever medium can do much."
"Sure. But those materializations! Where'd she get the goods?"
"Give it up. Tell me more about Mr. Crane."
So Douglas patiently recounted and repeated all the words of Peter's father and told of his appearance and manner, under the impression that he was helping an author with data for a psychological story.
Peter had found Douglas by merely making inquiry for a bright young reporter, and had made an agreement, satisfactory to both, for him to try to get the interview with Benjamin Crane, and they would both profit by it.
He was delighted that Crane had asked the young man to call again, and when they parted it was with the understanding that there should be another interview arranged.
Peter Boots had much food for thought.
He sat thinking for hours after the food had been given to him.
What was the explanation? Whatcouldbe the explanation?
How could communications from a dead man be received when the man was not dead?
How he longed to go home, disclose himself, and run to earth that fearful fraud! How gladly he would do so, except that it would ruin his father's reputation. What would the public think of a man who had been so taken in by fraud, and had blazoned it to the world.
To be sure it was no reflection on Benjamin Crane's sincerity, yet he would be the butt of derision for the whole country, and his discredited head would be bowed for the rest of his life.
Peter couldn't bring himself to do that, especially now that he had discovered that his loss was not a source of hopeless grief to his parents.
"I'm not wanted in this world," he told himself, sadly, "I'm a superfluous man. I've got to dispose of myself somehow," and he gave a very realizing sigh.
And the thought of Carly,—that tried to obtrude itself, he put resolutely from him.
"She's probably forgotten me," he assured himself, "and anyway I must do the right thing by Mother and Dad first. If I decide that I can't demolish their air castle, so carefully built up, I must light out,—that's all."
Trying hard to be cheerful, but feeling very blue and desolate he ate a solitary dinner and went again to the theater to see "Labrador Luck."
Douglas' graphic description of his home and hisfather had given him a great longing to go there, to see the dear old place, the dear old man,—and his mother, and Julie.
He felt hemustgo. Then, he knew he couldn't go, without breaking his father's heart and life.
"I broke his heart when Ididn'tgo home," he thought whimsically, "now, I mustn't break it again by going home!"
He sat through the moving picture performance again, and marveled anew at the beauty of the production. It was far above the rank and file of moving pictures, it was adjudged by all critics the very greatest production ever put upon the screen.
Shelby's name had become famous, his work was applauded everywhere, and Peter yearned to see him and renew their friendship.
But he knew he mustn't think of those things. First of all he had to decide whether or not he was to come back to life, and if not,—and he had a conviction that that would be his decision,—he must not dally with tempting thoughts and hopes of any sort.
But it was hard! Blair dead, Shelby famous, and he, Peter, unable to talk things over with any relative, chum or friend.
He must talk to somebody, and on his way out of the theater he spoke to the box office man.
"Wonderful show," he said, smiling at him. "Who's this Shelby?"
"He's the big push of to-day," was the enthusiasticreply. "He's a marvel of efficiency and generalship. And a big author, too."
"He wrote the play as well as produced it, I see."
"Yes. Oh, he can do anything."
"Married man?"
"No; but I've heard he's engaged to a girl,—a Miss Harper, I believe."
Peter choked. The last straw! But he might have known,—he, himself, supposed dead, Blair dead, what more natural than that Carly should turn to old Kit?
With a mere nod to the man who had unwittingly dealt him this final blow, Peter walked out into the night.
And he walked and walked. Up Broadway to the Circle, on up and into Riverside Drive, and along the Hudson as far as he could go.
Thinking deeply, planning desperately, only to be confronted with the awful picture of his father's consternation at the shattering of his beliefs and the collapse of his celebrity.
At times he would tell himself he was absurdly apprehensive, that any parents would rather have their lost son restored than to have the applause and notoriety of public fame. And, then, he would realize that while that might be generally true, yet this was a peculiar case. His father was a proud, sensitive nature. Perhaps—Peter shuddered,—perhaps he wouldn't love a son who by his return made him the most laughed at man in the whole world!
Peter longed to go to some one for advice. Shelby, now,—his big efficient mind would know at once what was best to do.
But he couldn't disclose himself to Kit and not to any one else. Kit couldn't keep that a secret, even if he wanted to do so.
And— Kit was engaged to Carly! He never wanted to see either of them again!
Poor, lonely, troubled Peter. Only one plain, sure truth abided. Hemustdo his duty, and he felt pretty sure he knew what that duty was. It was to stay out of the life he had lost.
There was no other possible course.
He turned and retraced his steps southward, and finally went across town, drawn as by a magnet to his own home.
Home! What a mockery the word was!
It was two o'clock in the morning now; he had been walking or sitting on a Drive bench for hours.
He was not conscious of fatigue, he only wanted to see his old home and then go away forever. He didn't plan his future. He was sure he could make a living easily enough, he felt he could build up a new life for himself over a new name. But oh, how he longed for the old life!
He stood in front of the house and stared at it.
He walked round and round the block it was on, pausing each time he passed the front door, and walking on, if there chanced to be a passer-by.
At last, he concluded to give up the painfulpleasure of gazing at the closed windows and go back to Brooklyn.
His gaze traveled over the windows at the various rooms,—how well he knew what they all were,—and at last he found himself looking at the front door. How often he had let himself in with his latchkey.
Involuntarily his hand went to his pocket, where that latchkey even now was,—and hardly knowing what he was doing, he had the key in his hand and was mounting the steps of his old home.
Still as one in a daze, and with no intention of making his presence known, but with an uncontrollable desire to see for the last time those dear rooms, he silently fitted the key into place.
Noiselessly he turned it and pushed the door open.
The house was still, there were no lights on, save a low glimmer in the front hall.
He remembered that had always been left on.
But the street lights faintly illumined the living-room, and he went in. With a wave of desperate homesickness he threw himself on the big davenport and buried his face into a pile of cushions.
He couldn't go away,—hecouldn't.
But—he must!
And so, he forced himself to put aside his emotion, he bravely fought down his nostalgia, and promising himself one look into his father's study he vowed to go directly after.
He stepped into the little room where Douglas had been received. He couldn't resist the temptation to look about it, and, cautiously he snapped on the desk light.
There was the table with the drawer in it.
Carefully, Peter opened the drawer and saw for himself the tobacco pouch, the handkerchief, and the letter, signed "Peter."
He stared at it, amazed at the similarity to his own penmanship.
"I'd like to stay, if only to ferret out the mystery of this rascally fake!" he thought "But—oh, hang it! this rascally fake is the very breath of life to Dad and Mother. No, Peter Boots, it can't be done! You're out of it all and out of it all you must stay. Clear out of here now, before you get in any deeper."
He fingered the old tobacco pouch.
"Heavens and earth!" he exclaimed to himself, as a sudden thought struck him. "That's so!"
Again he took up the letter, looking closely at the formation of the words, studying the tenor of the message, and then, with a sigh, laid all back in the drawer and gently closed it.
"That way madness lies," he told himself, and turned to leave the room and the house.
As he reached for the light switch, a small hand laid on his own detained him.
Startled, he looked up and saw a witch-like, eerie face smiling at him.
"Must you go?" whispered a mocking voice, and Peter Boots, for once in his life was absolutely stricken dumb.
Who or what was this sprite, this Brownie? What was she doing in his father's house? Were materialized spirits really inhabiting the place?
"Hush!" Zizi warned him, "don't speak above a whisper. Are you a burglar?"
Peter shook his head, unable to repress a smile, and his smile made the same impression on Zizi that it had always made on everybody,—that of absolute pleasure.
"Who are you?" she asked, scarce breathing the words.
"John Harrison," he returned, still smiling. "I'll go now, please."
"Without further explanation?"
"Yes, please."
"All right, I'll let you out. I know all about you. You sent a chap here to interview Mr. Crane,—and you're getting follow-up literature."
"Right! Good night."
And with a swiftness and silence born of the dire necessity of the moment, Peter went to the front door, out of it and down the street in record time.
He turned the first corner, and walked rapidly many blocks, before turning to see if he were followed.
He was not, and he went on his way to Brooklyn, his life tragedy still ahead of him, but relieved by the touch of comedy added by that mysterious and wonderfully attractive girl.