She listened attentively to the tale of adventure, and with obvious disapproval.
“In my opinion, that’s what comes of midnight skiing parties!” she interrupted the story. “I hope you stay away from Knob Hill and the monastery after this.”
“Oh, Mrs. Weems!” Penny’s elfin face lost a little of its excited glow. “This wonderful skiing weather can’t last many days! I simply must go back there!”
“To ski or to investigate the monastery?” asked the housekeeper. “If I know the signs, you’re hot on the trail of another mystery!”
“Naturally I want to learn more about that strange cult,” grinned Penny. “Who knows, I might track down a bang-up story for Dad’s paper!”
“Skiing always seemed a wholesome sport to me,” interposed Mr. Parker, winking slyly at his daughter. “Of course, I don’t approve of late hours.”
Mrs. Weems sighed as she set the egg platter down hard on the table. “You two always conspire against me!” she accused.
“Why, Mrs. Weems!” Penny observed innocently. “Don’t you approve of skiing?”
“Skiing is only an excuse and you know it, Penelope Parker! Oh, dear, I try so hard to raise you properly.”
“And you’re doing a magnificent job, if I do say so myself,” chuckled Penny. “Don’t give the matter any further thought!”
“Penny always has proven she uses her head and knows how to take care of herself,” added Mr. Parker. “An inquisitive mind is an asset—especially in the newspaper business.”
With an injured sniff, Mrs. Weems retreated to the kitchen to wash the dishes.
Alone with her father, Penny grinned at him affectionately. His defense of her conduct meant only one thing! He did not disapprove of her interest in the monastery at Knob Hill.
“He’s giving me the ‘go’ signal!” she thought jubilantly. Aloud she said. “Dad, don’t you think Jay Highland and the monastery might be worth a feature story in theRiverview Star?”
“Possibly,” he agreed, getting up from the table. “Well, I must move along to the office.”
A little disappointed because her father had brushed the subject aside so lightly, Penny spent the morning helping Mrs. Weems with household tasks. However, directly after luncheon she packed her skis and prepared to set off for Knob Hill.
Unwilling to go alone, Penny stopped at the Sidell home. To her disappointment, Louise had gone shopping and was not expected back for several hours.
“Maybe I can induce Dad to go with me!” she thought. “He spends entirely too much time indoors. An outing will do him good!”
At theStarplant in the heart of downtown Riverview, Penny wandered through a nearly deserted editorial room to her father’s office. For a morning paper the hour was early, and few reporters had as yet unhooded their typewriters.
Through the glass door Penny observed that her father had a visitor, a middle-aged, intelligent looking man she had never seen before. She would have slipped away had her father not motioned for her to enter.
“Penny, this is James Ayling, an investigator for the Barnes Mutual Insurance Co.,” he said. “My daughter, Mr. Ayling.”
The visitor arose to grasp the girl’s hand firmly.
“Mr. Ayling is from Boston,” explained the newspaper owner. He turned to the investigator. “Do you mind if I tell my daughter why you are here?”
“Not at all.”
“Mr. Ayling is trying to locate an elderly woman whose family jewels are heavily insured with his company.”
“Mrs. Hawthorne isn’t actually our client,” explained Mr. Ayling. “Originally, old Nathaniel Hawthorne, her late husband, insured a $100,000 star sapphire with us. The policy remains in effect until the gem becomes the possession of a granddaughter, Rhoda.”
“Who has the sapphire now?” asked Penny, slightly puzzled.
“Mr. Hawthorne’s will allows his wife the use of it during her lifetime. Upon her death it passes to the sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Rhoda Hawthorne.”
“And you are searching for Mrs. Hawthorne now?” Penny inquired politely.
“Yes, so far as we know Mrs. Hawthorne has the gem. We are afraid it may be stolen from her or that she will dispose of it for a trifling sum. Mrs. Hawthorne hasn’t been well and in her present state of mind she might act very foolishly.”
“Tell Penny about the gem’s history,” suggested Mr. Parker.
“Oh, yes! The sapphire once was set in a necklace worn by a king who met violent death. Since then, there is a superstition that bad luck pursues the owner.
“The gem passed through many hands. Three times it was stolen. Several owners died strange or violent deaths.”
“Not Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Well, he fell from a cliff while touring the West,” explained the investigator. “Of course it was an accident, but Mrs. Hawthorne unfortunately became convinced his death resulted from ownership of the sapphire.
“She pleaded that the gem be sold for what it would bring, fearing that harm would come upon her grandchild when eventually the sapphire is turned over to her. According to terms of the will, the gem cannot be sold, and our firm must remain responsible for it in case of theft or loss.”
“Mrs. Hawthorne still has the gem then?”
“We hope so,” Mr. Ayling replied. “She went South on a vacation trip with her granddaughter, taking the sapphire with her. That was over a month ago. Nothing since has been heard from them.”
“But what brings you to Riverview?” questioned Penny.
“I went South searching for Mrs. Hawthorne. At Miami only a week ago she bought two tickets for Riverview. From that point on, I’ve been unable to trace her.”
“Does she have relatives or friends here?”
“Not so far as I’ve been able to learn. Perhaps our company is unduly concerned, but the truth is, Mrs. Hawthorne is a very foolish, gullible woman. Should she dispose of or lose the gem, our firm must pay a large sum of money.”
“We’ll be glad to run a picture of Mrs. Hawthorne in the paper,” offered Mr. Parker. “If she has arrived in Riverview, someone will have seen her.”
“I certainly appreciate your interest,” said Mr. Ayling. “Unfortunately, I have no photograph of Mrs. Hawthorne with me. I’ll wire my office tonight for one.”
“In the meantime, we’ll run a little story,” the publisher promised. “No doubt you can describe the woman.”
“Oh, yes, in a general way. She’s 68 years of age and walks with a cane. Her hair is white and she weighs about 150 pounds. She’s deeply interested in art. Also in spiritualism and mystic cults, I regret to add.”
“Mystic cults!” Penny’s blue eyes began to dance with interest. She knew now why her father had made a point of calling her in to meet the investigator.
“Mrs. Hawthorne is very gullible and easily influenced. Since her husband died, she has been prey for one sharper after another. I judge a third of her fortune already has been squandered.”
After a thoughtful pause, Penny hesitantly asked Mr. Ayling if he thought it possible Mrs. Hawthorne could have come to Riverview to join a cult.
“That’s what I’m here to find out. Mrs. Hawthorne and her granddaughter have not registered at any of the leading hotels. Yet I know they came to the city.”
“Have you tried the monastery at Knob Hill?” Penny suggested. “A new society has been established there in the last few days. I don’t know much about the order yet, but its members are supposed to dedicate themselves to a life of charity and poverty.”
“Why, that’s exactly the sort of thing to attract Mrs. Hawthorne—for a few weeks,” the investigator replied. “Then after the novelty wore off, she would flit on to something else. Where is this place?”
“I plan to drive out there in a few minutes,” Penny told him eagerly. “Why not come with me, Mr. Ayling?”
The investigator glanced inquiringly at Mr. Parker.
“Go ahead if you think it’s worth while,” urged the publisher.
“I suppose the chance of finding Mrs. Hawthorne there is very remote,” Mr. Ayling said, thinking aloud. “But I can’t afford to overlook any possibility. Thanks, Miss Parker, I’ll gladly accept your invitation.”
“Want to come along, Dad?” Penny asked.
“No thanks,” he declined. “I’m certain you’ll be in good hands. Just let Mr. Ayling take the lead in any investigation.”
“Why, Dad!” Penny protested. “You know me.”
“I do, indeed,” said Mr. Parker, smiling as he resumed his desk work. “That’s why I feel confident Mr. Ayling may look forward to a very interesting afternoon.”
Pine trees and bushes hung in frozen arches along the winding road which led to the ancient monastery.
Parking the automobile near the iron boundary fence, Penny was quick to note that the big ornamental gate now was locked and securely fastened with chain and padlock.
“Are you sure this place is occupied?” Mr. Ayling asked as he alighted and followed Penny to the gate. “Why, the property is a wreck!”
“The gate was unlocked last night,” the girl replied. “We may have trouble getting inside.”
Pressing her face against the rusty iron spikes, she gazed hopefully toward the gatehouse. The door was slightly ajar. Winkey, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Mr. Ayling rattled the gate chain several times.
“No one seems to be around,” he said in disappointment.
“Yes, there is!” Penny corrected.
Just then she caught a fleeting glimpse of a face at the tiny circular window of the gatehouse. She was convinced it was Winkey, who for some reason, intended to ignore their presence at the gate.
“Let us in!” she called.
“Open up!” shouted Mr. Ayling.
Still there was no rustle of life from the gatehouse.
“Disgusting!” Penny muttered. “I know Winkey is watching us! He’s only being contrary!”
Mr. Ayling’s angular jaw tightened. “In that case,” he said, “we’ll have to get in the best way we can. I’ll climb over the fence.”
The words purposely were spoken loudly enough to be overheard in the gatehouse. Before the investigator could carry out his threat, the door of the circular, stone building swung back. Winkey, the hunchback, sauntered leisurely out.
“Want somethin’?” he inquired.
“Didn’t you hear us trying to get in?” Mr. Ayling demanded.
“Sure,” the hunchback shrugged, “but I was busy fixin’ the bell that connects with the house. Anyhow, visitors ain’t wanted here.”
“So we observe,” said Mr. Ayling. “Where is your master?”
“Inside.”
“Then announce us,” the investigator ordered. “We’re here to ask a few questions.”
Winkey’s bird-like eyes blinked rapidly. He looked as if about to argue, then changed his mind.
“Go on to the house then,” he said crossly. “I’ll let ’em know by phone you’re comin’.”
The driveway curled through a large outer courtyard where a cluster of small and interesting buildings stood in various stages of ruin.
Near the gatehouse was the almonry, a shelter used in very early days to house visitors who sought free lodging.
Beyond were the ancient brewhouse, bakehouse, and granary. The latter two buildings now were little more than heaps of fallen brick. None of the structures was habitable.
In far better state of preservation was the central building with gabled roof and tall hooded chimneys. However, front steps long since had fallen away from the entrance doorway. Bridging the gap was a short ladder.
“What a place!” commented Mr. Ayling offering Penny his hand to help her across. “Looks as if it might cave in any day.”
The visitors found themselves facing a weather-beaten but beautifully carved wooden doorway. Before they could knock, it opened on squeaky hinges.
A woman with heavily lined face, who wore a gray gown and white lace cap, peered out at them.
“Go away!” she murmured in a stage whisper. “Go quickly!”
“Julia!” said a voice directly behind her.
The woman whirled around and cringed as a brown-robed monk took her firmly by the arm.
“Go and light a fire in the parlor, Julia,” her master directed. “I will greet our guests.”
“Yes, Father Benedict,” the woman muttered, scurrying away.
The master now turned apologetically to the visitors.
“I trust my servant was not rude,” he said. “Poor creature! Her twisted mind causes her to believe that all persons who do not dwell within our walls are evil and to be feared.”
As the monk spoke, he smiled in a kindly, friendly way, yet his keen eyes were appraising the two visitors. Though it was cold and windy on the door step, he did not hasten to invite Penny and Mr. Ayling inside. He stood holding the half-opened door in his hand.
“You must excuse our lack of hospitality,” he said, fingering a gold chain which hung from his thin shoulders. “We have much cleaning and remodeling to do before we are ready to receive visitors.”
Mr. Ayling explained that his call was one of business, adding that he represented the Barnes Mutual Insurance Co.
“Such matters must be discussed with me later,” the monk said, slowly but firmly closing the door.
“I’m not selling insurance,” Mr. Ayling assured him. Deliberately he leaned against the jamb, preventing the monk from shutting the door.
Father Benedict bit his lip in annoyance. “May I inquire your business with me?” he asked frostily.
“I’m seeking to trace a client—Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
“I know of no such person. Deeply I regret that I cannot help you, sir. If you will excuse me—”
“The woman may have used an assumed name,” Mr. Ayling cut in. “She has a weakness—er, I mean a liking for cult practices.”
“You are suggesting this woman may have joined my little flock?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Absurd!” The monk’s gaze rested briefly on Penny as he added: “I greatly fear you have been led astray by loose gossip as to the nature of the order I am founding here.”
“I told Mr. Ayling about your work because I think it’s so interesting,” Penny said quickly. She slapped her mittened hands together. “My, it’s cold today! May we warm ourselves at your fire before we start back to town?”
A frown puckered Father Benedict’s eyebrows. Plainly the request displeased him. But with a show of hospitality, he said:
“Our abode is very humble and poorly furnished. Such as it is, you are welcome.” Bowing slightly, he stepped aside to admit the visitors.
Penny and Mr. Ayling found themselves in a long, barren, and very cold hallway.
“Follow me, please,” bade the monk.
Moving on the bare boards with noiseless tread, he led them through an arched doorway cut in the thick wall, across a wind-swept pillared cloister and into a parlor where a fire burned brightly in a huge, time-blackened fireplace.
The sheer comfort of the room surprised Penny. Underfoot was a thick velvet carpet. Other furnishings included a large mahogany desk, a sofa, two easy chairs, and a cabinet filled with fine glassware, gold and silver objects, and a blue glass decanter of wine.
Black velvet curtains were draped in heavy folds over an exit door, and similar hangings covered the windows. To Penny’s astonishment, the ceiling, painted black, was studded with silver stars.
However, the object which held her roving gaze was a large crystal ball supported on the claws of a bronze dragon.
“You are a crystal gazer!” Mr. Ayling exclaimed as he too noted the curious globe.
“I have the power to read the future with reasonable accuracy,” replied the monk. He dismissed the subject with a shrug, motioning for his guests to seat themselves before the fire.
“You spoke of searching for a Mrs. Rosenthorne—” he remarked, addressing the investigator.
“Mrs. Hawthorne,” corrected Mr. Ayling.
“To be sure, Mrs. Hawthorne. Apparently you were under the misapprehension that she is in some way connected with this establishment.”
“It was only a hope. My client has a deep interest in cults. I traced Mrs. Hawthorne and her granddaughter to Riverview, and thought possibly they might have been attracted to your place.”
“My little flock is limited to only twelve members at present. All are very humble people who have sworn to live a life of poverty, devoted to charity and faith. We have no Mrs. Hawthorne here.”
“Mightn’t she have given another name?” suggested Penny. She stretched her cold fingers to the leaping flames on the hearth.
“I hardly think so.” Father Benedict’s lips curled in a superior smile. “Describe the woman, please.”
Mr. Ayling repeated the description Penny had heard earlier that afternoon.
“We have no such person here,” the monk said. “I regret I am unable to help you.”
He arose, a plain hint that he considered the brief interview at an end. Somewhat reluctantly, Penny and her companion also turned their backs upon the crackling fire.
“You have made a comfortable place of this room,” the girl said. Her gaze fastened admiringly upon a porcelain decanter in a wall cabinet. “And such interesting antiques!”
For the first time since the visitors had arrived, Father Benedict’s eyes sparkled with warmth.
“Collecting art treasures is a hobby of mine,” he revealed. Crossing to the cabinet, he removed the decanter.
“This is a piece of Ching-Hoa porcelain and very rare,” he said. “And here is a Byzantine amulet—priceless. The golden goblets came from a European church destroyed a century ago.”
“You’re not afraid to keep such treasures in the monastery?” Mr. Ayling inquired.
“Afraid?” Father Benedict’s dark eyes glittered with a strange light. “I must confess I know not the meaning of the word.”
“You are so far out, I don’t suppose you can expect much police protection,” Mr. Ayling added.
“Winkey, my gateman, is quite dependable. While he is on duty, no thief or unwanted stranger will enter our grounds.”
“Winkey is good at keeping folks out,” agreed the investigator dryly. In walking toward the door, he paused to gaze again at the crystal ball.
“My glass interests you?” inquired the monk.
“I’ve seen those things before, but never took stock in them,” rejoined Mr. Ayling. “One can’t actually conjure up pictures by gazing into that globe?”
“Would you care to see for yourself?”
“Well, it’s a little out of my line,” Mr. Ayling laughed.
“I’d like to try it!” cried Penny. “May I?”
“Certainly. The principle is very simple. One merely gazes deeply into the glass until the optic nerve of the eye becomes fatigued. As it ceases to transmit impression from without, one sees events of the future.”
“I’ve heard it explained a little differently,” said Mr. Ayling. “As the optic nerve becomes paralyzed, it responds to the reflex action proceeding from the brain of the crystal gazer. One sees what one wishes to see.”
“I do not agree!” Father Benedict’s voice was sharp. “The ball accurately foretells the future. Shall we test and prove its powers?”
“Let me try it!” pleaded Penny again.
Smiling a bit grimly, the monk extinguished an overhead light and touched a match to the wick of two tall white candles.
Placing the crystal ball in front of a black screen, he set the burning tapers at either side. Penny suddenly began to lose zest for the adventure.
But before she could think of a graceful way to announce that she had changed her mind, the monk took her firmly by the arm.
“Place your hands on either side of the crystal ball,” he directed. “Gaze deep into the glass. Deep—deep.And now my little one, what do you see?”
As Penny peered down into the highly polished surface of the crystal clear glass, a multitude of dancing points of light drew and held her attention.
“Gaze deep—deeper,” intoned the monk. “Do you not see a picture forming?”
“The glass has become cloudy.”
“Ah, yes. In a moment it will clear. Now what do you see?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Father Benedict tapped the toe of his slipper impatiently. “You are resisting the glass,” he muttered. “You do not believe.”
Penny continued to stare fixedly into the crystal ball. “It’s no use,” she said finally, pulling her eyes away. “Guess I haven’t enough of the witch in me!”
She stepped back from the dragon standard on which the globe stood, and for a minute was stone blind.
“I can’t see a thing!” she gasped in alarm.
“The optic nerve is paralyzed,” said the monk, steadying her as she swayed slightly. “Vision will be normal in a moment.”
“I’m beginning to distinguish objects now,” Penny admitted, reassured.
The monk released her arm. Seating himself before the crystal globe, he placed his hands on the polished surface.
“Now shall I try?” he suggested. “What would you like to know about the future?”
“You might find Mrs. Hawthorne for me,” the investigator said in jest.
In the darkened room, Father Benedict’s hooded face looked grotesque as light from the tall tapers flickered upon his angular jaw bones.
The moment was impressive. A tomb-like silence had fallen upon the three, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
Then, quite suddenly, Penny was certain she heard another noise. Though the occasion should not have been one for alarm, she felt her skin prickle. A tiny chill caused her to shiver.
Or was it a chill? Against her cheek she felt a breath of icy wind. Somewhere beyond the room a door had opened. Unmistakably, she heard the creak of old wood.
Penny’s startled gaze roved to Mr. Ayling. Oblivious to all else, the investigator was watching Father Benedict closely.
Every sense now alert, the girl listened intently. Had someone stepped on a loose board as he crept along the passageway? Or had she merely heard the old house groaning to itself?
The creaking sound was not repeated.
Trying to throw off the pall which had fallen upon her, Penny centered her full attention upon the monk. As one hypnotized by the glass into which he peered, he mumbled words difficult to understand.
“Now the ball is clearing,” he muttered. “What is this? I see a resort city on the sea coast—the rush and roar of waves. Ah, a beach! On the sand are two bathers—one a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen with dark hair. She wears a green bathing suit. Upon her third finger is a black cameo ring.”
A startled look came upon Mr. Ayling’s face, but he made no comment.
“Her companion is an elderly woman,” continued the monk as if speaking in a trance. “Over her shoulders is flung a dark blue beach cape. The picture is fading now—I am losing the vision.”
Penny’s attention, wandering again, was drawn as if by a powerful magnet to the curtains covering the exit.
In fascination, she watched. An inch at a time, the door moved outward. Then a hand appeared between the black velvet draperies, cautiously pulling them apart.
Penny wondered if her eyes were playing tricks upon her. She felt an overpowering impulse to laugh or call out. Yet her throat was dry and tight.
The scene seemed fantastic. It couldn’t be real, she told herself. Yet those curtains steadily were moving farther apart.
An arm came into view, then the side of a human figure. Last of all, a face, ghostly pale against the dark background, slowly emerged.
For one fleeting instant Penny saw a girl only a little older than herself, standing half wrapped in the folds of the velvet curtain. Their eyes met.
In that moment, through Penny’s brain flashed the message that the one who crouched in the doorway was the same girl she and Louise had picked up on the road only the previous night.
“But that’s crazy!” she thought. “It couldn’t be the same person! I must be dreaming!”
The one behind the curtain had raised a finger to her lips as if commanding silence. Then the draperies were pulled together with a jerk and the figure was gone.
Another cold breath of air swept through the room, causing candles on either side of the crystal ball to flicker. Again Penny heard the softcreak,creakof wood as footsteps retreated.
She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. Had her imagination played tricks upon her?
Slowly she turned her eyes upon Father Benedict, whose back had been toward the curtained door.
“Another picture is forming in the crystal ball,” he muttered. “I see a man walking through a lonely wood. But what is this? Evil persons lie in wait behind the tall pine trees. Now they are waylaying him!
“They fall upon him and beat him with their cudgels. Woe is me! They leave him lying on the ground. The man is dying—dead. Oh, evil, evil! I can read no more in the glass today!”
Arising quickly, and brushing a hand over his glazed eyes, Father Benedict leaned for a moment against the damp plaster wall.
“Excuse me, please,” he apologized. “What I saw was most unnerving.”
The monk poured himself a drink of water and lighted a lamp on the center table.
“Now I can see again,” he said in a more natural tone. “A reading always is an exhausting experience.”
“Your demonstration was most impressive,” said Mr. Ayling. “How would you interpret your vision of Mrs. Hawthorne?”
“I should say the woman and her granddaughter at this very moment are enjoying a pleasant vacation in a sunny climate. California perhaps, or Florida.”
“Mrs. Hawthorne was in Florida, but she bought a ticket to Riverview.”
“Obviously, she never arrived here,” replied the monk. “You see, the crystal glass never lies.”
“Then your advice would be to resume my search in Florida?” the investigator asked.
“I do not presume to advise you.” From a cabinet, Father Benedict removed a black cloth which he used to polish away an imaginary speck on the crystal globe. Then he covered the standard with a cloth hood and added impressively: “However, I consider it my duty to warn you of danger.”
“Warn me?” exclaimed Mr. Ayling. “Of what danger?”
“My second vision was most disturbing,” Father Benedict said gravely. “As I interpret it, great harm—perhaps death, will pursue the man who walks alone in the woods, unless he alters his present course. You came to Riverview for a definite purpose, Mr. Ayling?”
“Why, yes, to find Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Mr. Ayling, for your own well being, you must abandon the search.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said the monk very low, “the vision was sent to me that you may be saved from disaster. The man attacked in the woods was yourself, Mr. Ayling!”
If Father Benedict’s words disturbed the investigator, he gave no sign. Smiling, he said:
“I fear I am not a firm believer in the art of crystal gazing—all respect to your remarkable talent.”
The monk frowned as he carefully laid another log on the dying fire. “You will be unwise to disregard the warning,” he said. “Most unwise.”
“Warning?”
“I should interpret the picture as such, dear Mr. Ayling. Apparently, if you pursue your present course, you are certain to meet misfortune.”
“To what ‘present course’ do you refer?”
“That I would not know,” replied the monk coldly. “Now may I thank you for coming to our humble abode and bid you good afternoon? I have a formal meeting soon with members of my little family of believers and must nap for a few minutes. You will excuse me?”
“We were just leaving,” said Penny. “I’m really deeply interested in your society here. May I come sometime soon to watch a ceremony?”
The monk gazed at her sharply but answered in a polite voice:
“Later, when we are better organized and have our house in order, we shall be most happy to have you.”
On the way out of the building, through the chilly cloister and gloomy hall, Penny looked carefully about for the girl who so stealthily had opened the door of the monk’s study.
She saw no one. Mr. Ayling and Father Benedict, she was certain, were unaware of the incident which had so startled her.
“It wasn’t imagination,” she thought. “I did see the door open. But it may not have been that girl Louise and I met last night. Probably it was a member of Mr. Highland’s cult.”
Deeply puzzled, Penny decided that if an opportunity presented itself, she would revisit the monastery another day.
At the front door of the building, Father Benedict turned to bid his guests goodbye. Before he could retreat, a loud commotion was heard near the gatehouse.
The monk listened intently and with evident annoyance. “My! My! What now?” he sighed. “Are we to have no peace and quiet within our walls?”
Near the front gate, Winkey could be seen arguing with a stout, middle-aged man in a racoon coat who carried an easel and a palette under his arm.
“My orders are to keep folks out o’ here!” Winkey shouted. “I don’t care who you are! Ye ain’t settin’ foot inside here, unless the boss says so! Now get out!”
“Try to put me out!” the visitor challenged.
“Okay, I will!” retorted the hunchback.
He would have seized the visitor by the arm, had not Father Benedict called to him from the doorway: “Winkey!”
“Yes, Father,” the hunchback mumbled.
“Now tell me what is wrong,” the cult leader bade as he went down to the gate, followed by Penny and Mr. Ayling. “Who is this gentleman?”
“My name is Vernon Eckenrod,” the visitor introduced himself. “I’m an artist. I live down the road a quarter of a mile.”
“He wants to come in and paint a picture,” interposed Winkey. “I told him nothin’ doing.”
“Your man doesn’t understand,” said Mr. Eckenrod, glaring at the hunchback. “I am doing a series of pictures of the monastery for a national magazine. The sketches are finished and now I’m starting to paint.”
“You mean you wish to do exterior scenes?”
“Exterior and also interior. I want to do the arch to the chapter house today, and if I have time, either the stone-hooded chimneys or the window of the guest hall.”
“You show remarkable familiarity with the monastery.”
“I’ve been coming here for more than a year,” the artist said, shifting his easel to a more comfortable position. “This building is one of the oldest in the state. See, I have a key.” He held it before the startled gaze of the monk.
“Indeed!” Father Benedict’s voice became less friendly. “And may I inquire how you came into possession of a key to my property?”
“Your property?”
“Certainly, I have rented these premises from the owner, with an option to buy.”
“I’ve been trying to buy the place myself,” the artist said, “but couldn’t pay the amount asked. I’d like to restore the buildings and make it into a real show place.”
“How did you obtain a key?” the monk reminded him.
“Oh, the owner gave me one. He lets me paint here whenever I like.”
“The monastery now is exclusively mine,” said Father Benedict. “Kindly turn the key over to me!”
“Surely,” agreed Mr. Eckenrod, giving it up. “But you won’t mind if I come here to finish my paintings? I’m under contract to complete the work by the fifteenth of the month.”
Father Benedict secreted the key in the folds of his robe. “I appreciate your position,” he said. “Nevertheless, we cannot have strangers intruding upon our privacy.”
“Why, everyone around here knows me! Ask anyone about my character and work!”
“I do not question your character, my good man. But I must request you not to come here again.”
“Now see here!” the artist exclaimed, losing his temper again. “You don’t get the idea! My pictures are half done. If I don’t complete the order, I’ll stand to lose months of work.”
“Complete them from the sketches.”
“I can’t do that—the color and feeling would be lost.”
Father Benedict turned as if to leave. “I am sorry,” he said firmly.
“Listen—” Mr. Eckenrod began furiously.
The monk coldly walked away, entering the house.
“You heard him!” cried Winkey, triumphantly. “Now git going and don’t come back!”
“All right, I’ll go,” the artist retorted. “But I’ll be here again. You can’t get away with this even if you have rented the property!”
Scarcely aware of Penny and Mr. Ayling, who followed him to the gate, Mr. Eckenrod stomped off with easel and palette.
“They can’t get away with it!” he stormed, addressing no one in particular. “I’ll come back here with the sheriff!”
“I’m afraid Father Benedict is within his rights,” remarked Mr. Ayling. “He’s taken over the property.”
“What’s that?” the artist became aware of his presence. “Oh yes,” he admitted grudgingly, “legally he is within his rights, I suppose. But what of justice?”
“It would seem only decent of him to allow you to complete your paintings.”
“I’ve been coming to the monastery for months, off and on,” the artist revealed in an aggrieved tone. “Always figured I’d buy the place. The owner, Peter Holden, picked it up at a foreclosure sale for a mere nothing. He’d have sold to me too, if this fellow hadn’t come along. Who is he, anyhow?”
“I wonder myself,” said Mr. Ayling.
“His gateman looks like a thug!”
“I’m afraid your unfortunate encounter with Winkey prejudiced you,” smiled the investigator. “After all, the man apparently was acting under orders.”
“I didn’t like that monk either!” the artist scowled. “He acted as religious as my Aunt Sara!”
“His real name is Jay Highland,” Penny contributed. “He’s a crystal gazer.”
“Humph! A fine calling! If the authorities are smart, they’ll look into his business here!”
The trio now had reached the roadside where Penny’s car was parked. Politely, she offered to give the artist a lift to his home.
“Thanks, but I’ll walk,” he declined the offer. “I live only a short distance. I’ll just cut through the fields.”
His dark eyes still snapping like firebrands, the artist strode off through the snow.
“Quite a character!” remarked Mr. Ayling, once he and Penny were in the car. “An eccentric!”
“I’ve heard Mr. Eckenrod really is a fine artist,” Penny replied. “Too bad Father Benedict wouldn’t let him complete his paintings. By the way, what did you think of him?”
“Well, if I’m any judge of character, he’ll soon be back to make more trouble.”
“No, I mean Father Benedict.”
“He seemed pleasant enough,” Mr. Ayling said slowly. “However, I can’t say I went for the crystal ball demonstration.”
“Oh, anyone could tell that was the bunk!”
“Frankly, it gave me quite a jolt.”
“Oh, you mean the monk’s warning!”
“Not that,” replied Mr. Ayling. “His description of Mrs. Hawthorne and her daughter. Of course, I’ve never seen either of them, but the picture he conjured up seemed to fit them.”
“Oh, he probably made it up.” Penny started the car which rolled with creaking tires over the hilly, snow-packed road toward the city. “You described Mrs. Hawthorne to him earlier, you know.”
“So I did. Except for one small detail, the reading would not have impressed me.”
“And that detail?”
“In describing the girl on the beach, Father Benedict said she was wearing a black cameo ring.”
“So he did! You certainly never mentioned that to him!”
“It rather jarred me,” admitted Mr. Ayling. “Because, when Rhoda Hawthorne last was seen, she was wearing just such a cameo ring!”