The events of the day that followed—Sunday—I shall pass over as briefly as may be. It was for me a day of disappointment, culminating in despair, and, looking back at it, I remember it as a grey day, windy, and with gusts of rain.
Dr. Hinman stopped for us, and Godfrey and I accompanied him to the service over the body of the murdered man. We were the only outsiders there, besides the undertaker and his assistants, and they were not admitted to the ceremony. This was witnessed only by Miss Vaughan, Mahbub and us three. The servants were not there, and neither were Miss Vaughan's nurses.
I have never seen a more impressive figure than Silva made that morning. His robes were dead black, and in contrast to them and to his hair and beard, his face looked white as marble. But, after the first moments, the ceremony failed to interest me; for Silva spoke a language which I supposed to be Hindustani, and there was a monotony about it and about his gestures which ended in getting on my nerves. It lasted half an hour,and the moment it was over, Miss Vaughan slipped away. The yogi and Mahbub followed her, and then we three stepped forward for a last look at the body.
It was robed all in white. The undertaker had managed to compose the features, and the high stock concealed the ugly marks upon the neck. So there was nothing to tell of the manner of his death, and there was a certain majesty about him as he lay with hands crossed and eyes closed.
We left the room in silence, and Hinman signed to the undertaker that the service was ended.
"I am going with the body to the crematory," he said, and presently drove away with the undertaker, ahead of the hearse. Godfrey and I stood gazing after it until it passed from sight, then, in silence, we walked down the drive to the entrance. The gardener was standing there, and regarded us with eyes which seemed to me distinctly unfriendly. He made no sign of recognition, and, the moment we were outside, he closed the gates and locked them carefully, as though obeying precise instructions.
"So," said Godfrey, in a low tone, as we went on together, "the lock has been repaired. I wonder who ordered that done?"
"Miss Vaughan, no doubt," I answered. "She wouldn't want those gates gaping open."
"Perhaps not," Godfrey assented; "but would she want the barrier intact? Remember, Lester, it's as much a barrier from one side as from the other."
"Well, she won't be inside it much longer," I assured him. "I'm going to get her out this afternoon."
The words were uttered with a confidence I was far from feeling, and I rather expected Godfrey to challenge it, but he walked on without replying, his head bent in thought, and did not again speak of Miss Vaughan or her affairs.
He drove into the city shortly after lunch, and it was about the middle of the afternoon when I presented myself again at the gates of Elmhurst and rang the bell. I waited five minutes and rang again. Finally the gardener came shuffling down the drive and asked me what I wanted. I told him I had an appointment with his mistress; but, instead of admitting me, he took my card and shuffled away with it.
I confess that I grew angry, as I stood there kicking my heels at the roadside, for he was gone a long time, and all these precautions and delays were incomprehensible to me. But he came back at last, unlocked the gate without a word, and motioned me to enter. Then he locked it again, and led the way up the drive to the house. The housemaid met us at the door of the library, as though she had been stationed there.
"If you will wait here, sir," she said, "Miss Vaughan will see you."
"I hope she is well," I ventured, thinking the girl might furnish me with some clue to all this mystery, but she was already at the door.
"Quite well, sir," she said, and the next instant had disappeared.
Another ten minutes elapsed, and then, just as I was thinking seriously of putting on my hat and leaving the house, I heard a step coming down the stair. A moment later Miss Vaughan stood on the threshold.
I had taken it for granted that, relieved of her father's presence, she would return to the clothing of every day; but she still wore the flowing white semi-Grecian garb in which I had first seen her. I could not but admit that it added grace and beauty to her figure, as well as a certain impressiveness impossible to petticoats; and yet I felt a sense of disappointment. For her retention of the costume could only mean that her father's influence was still dominant.
"You wished to see me?" she asked; and again I was surprised, for I had supposed she would apologise for the delay to which I had been subjected. Instead, she spoke almost as to a stranger.
"I had an appointment for this afternoon," I reminded her, striving to keep my vexation from my voice.
"Oh, yes," and she came a few steps into the room, but her face lost none of its coldness. "I had forgotten. It is not to speak of business?"
"No," I said; "it is to speak of your going to friends of Mr. Swain and me—for a time, at least."
"You will thank your friends for me," she answered, calmly; "but I have decided to remain here."
"But—but," I stammered, taken aback at the finality of her tone, "do you think it wise?"
"Yes—far wiser than going to people I do not know and who do not know me."
"And safe," I persisted; "do you think it safe?"
"Safe?" she echoed, looking at me in astonishment. "Certainly. What have I to fear?"
I had to confess that I myself did not know very clearly what she had to fear, so I temporised.
"Are you keeping the nurses?"
"No; I do not need them. They left an hour ago."
"But the servants," I said, in a panic, "they are here? They are going to stay?"
Again she looked at me.
"Your questions seem most extraordinary to me, Mr. Lester. Of course the servants will stay."
"And—and the Hindus?" I blurted out.
"Yes, and the Hindus, as you call them. This is their home. It was my father's wish."
I gave it up; her manner indicated that all this was no concern of mine, and that my interference was a mere impertinence. But I tried one parting shot.
"Mr. Swain is very anxious you should not stay here," I said. "He will be deeply grieved when he learns your decision."
To this she made no answer, and, finding nothing more to say, sore at heart, and not a little angry and resentful, I started to leave the room.
"There is one thing more," I said, turning back at the threshold. "I shall have to go in to the city to-morrow, but I shall come out again in the evening. Would it be convenient to have our business conference after dinner?"
"Yes," she agreed; "that will do very well."
"At eight o'clock, then?"
"I shall expect you at that time," she assented; and with that I took my leave.
It was in a most depressed state of mind that I made my way back to Godfrey's; and I sat down on the porch and smoked a pipe of bitter meditation. For I felt that, somehow, Miss Vaughan was slipping away from me. There had been a barrier between us to-day which had not been there before, a barrier of coldness and reserve which I could not penetrate. Some hostile influence had been at work; in death, even more than in life, perhaps, her father's will weighed upon her. I could imagine how a feeling of remorse might grow and deepen, and urge her toward foolish and useless sacrifice.
And just then Mrs. Hargis came out and told me that someone wanted me on the 'phone. It was Swain.
"They let me come out here to the office to 'phone to you," he said, as he heard my exclamation of surprise. "Simmonds happened in and told them it would be all right. He's here now."
"And they're treating you all right?"
"They're treating me like the star boarder," he laughed. And then his voice grew suddenly serious. "Have you seen Miss Vaughan?"
"Yes," I answered; for I knew of course that the question was coming.
"Well?"
"Miss Vaughan refuses to go to the Royces', Swain."
There was a moment's silence.
"Then where will she go?"
"She won't go anywhere."
"You don't mean," he cried, panic in his voice, "that she's going to stay out there?"
"Yes; she laughed when I mentioned danger. There's one consolation—the servants will stay."
"Did you tell her how anxious I was for her?"
"Yes; I did my best, Swain."
"And it made no difference?"
"No; it made no difference. The fact is, Swain, I fancy she's a little remorseful about her father—his death has unnerved her—and there was the funeral to-day—and, as a sort of atonement, she's trying to do what she imagines he would wish her to do."
"He wished her to become a priestess," said Swain, his voice ghastly.
"Oh, well, she won't go that far," I assured him cheerfully; "and no doubt in a few days, when the first impression of the tragedy has worn off, she will be ready to go to the Royces'. I'll keep suggesting it, and I'm going to have Mrs. Royce call on her."
"Thank you, Mr. Lester," he said, but his voice was still shaking. "I—this sort of knocks me out—I hadn't foreseen it. I'll have to think it over. But there's one thing youcando."
"What is it?"
"Watch the house!" he cried. "Watch the house! And be ready if she screams again."
"All right," I said, soothingly, "I'll do that. But tell me, Swain, what is it you fear?"
"I fear Silva!" said Swain, in a voice husky with emotion. "It isn't remorse for her father—it's Silva who's working on her. I feel it, some way—I'm sure of it. God knows what he'll try—any villainy. You must watch the house, Mr. Lester—day and night you must watch the house!"
"All right," I said, again, strangely impressed by his words. "You may count on me."
"Thank you," he said. "Remember, we've only you. Good-bye."
Swain's words gave me plenty to think over, and left me so troubled and uneasy that I made a trip to the top of the ladder to take a look over Elmhurst. But everything appeared as usual. Perhaps Swain was right—perhaps itwasSilva who was using every minute to increase his influence; but what could I do? So long as he committed no overt act, there was no excuse for interference, and Miss Vaughan would undoubtedly resent it. As Swain had said, there was nothing that I could do but watch.
Two hours later, just as I was getting up from a dinner to which, in my perturbed condition, Ihad done small justice, I heard a ring at the bell, and presently Mrs. Hargis entered to tell me that there was a gentleman asking for me. I went out to meet him, and was astonished to find that it was Simmonds.
"I don't wonder you're surprised," he said, as we sat down. "Fact is, I'm surprised myself, for I don't know exactly what I'm to do out here. But Swain, after he got back to his cell, was like a crazy man; he was sure something dreadful was going to happen to Miss Vaughan if she stayed in the house with those Hindus. In the end, he got me kind of scared, too, and made me promise to come out and help you keep watch. I went down to theRecordoffice and had a talk with Godfrey before I started. I half expected him to laugh at me; but he seemed to think I'd better come. The fact is," concluded Simmonds, shifting his cigar to the other side of his mouth, "he was so serious about it, that I brought two men along. One of them's patrolling the road in front of the house, and the other the road along the side. I've arranged for two others to relieve them at midnight. Now, what's it all about, anyway?"
"Well," I said, "in the first place, neither Godfrey nor I believes that Swain strangled that man."
"I can't hardly believe it myself," agreed Simmonds, "for he seems a nice young feller; but it'sa clear case: there's the motive, he was on the ground, and there's the finger-prints. How can you explain them away?"
"I can't explain them away. But, just the same, Godfrey believes the murder was committed by one of those Hindus."
"He intimated something of the sort to me," said Simmonds; "but there's no evidence against them."
"No," I conceded; "that's what we've got to find."
"Where are we going to look for it?"
"There's only one place to look for it, and that's in the house where the murder was committed. I only wish we could get Miss Vaughan out of it—that would give us a freer hand."
"What's the matter with the fool girl, anyway?" demanded Simmonds. "I should think she'd jump at a chance to get away."
"So should I—but she isn't reasonable, just now. I can't make her out. Perhaps she'll come round in a day or two, but meanwhile, if she should happen to need help, I don't see how your men out on the road, on the other side of a twelve-foot wall, could do any good."
Simmonds rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"What would you suggest?" he asked, at last.
"Why not put them in the grounds, as soon asit is dark, and let them conceal themselves near the house? They can get over the wall on this side. We've got ladders. Besides," I added, "it would be a great mistake to give Silva any reason to suspect he's being watched. He'd see the men out on the road, sooner or later; but they could keep out of sight among the shrubbery."
Simmonds considered this for a moment.
"I don't know but what you're right," he agreed, at last. "We'll arrange it that way, then," and he went away presently to call in his men. He soon came back with them, and gave them careful and detailed instructions as to what he wanted them to do, dwelling especially upon the importance of their keeping carefully concealed. Then we got the ladders and put them in place.
"Be careful not to touch the top of the wall," I cautioned them; "there's broken glass on top, and the merest touch may mean a bad injury."
"When you get down on the other side," Simmonds added, "take down the ladder and hide it in the shrubbery at the foot of the wall. Somebody might see it if you left it standing there. But for heaven's sake, don't get mixed up so you can't find it again. Be back here at eleven-thirty, and your relief will be ready. You've got your whistles? Well, blow them good and hard ifthere's any trouble. And be mighty careful not to let anyone see you, or you may get snake-bit!"
The men mounted the ladder, crossed the wall and disappeared on the other side, and Simmonds and I turned back to the house. I felt as though a great load had been lifted from my shoulders. With those two men so close at hand, surely nothing very serious could happen to Miss Vaughan!
Simmonds and I spent the remainder of the evening in discussing the case, but neither of us was able to shed any new light upon it. Shortly after eleven, the two men who were to form the relief arrived, and just as we started for the wall, Godfrey drove in from the highway. It needed but a moment to tell him of our arrangements, which he heartily approved. He joined us, and we were soon at the foot of the ladder. While we waited, Simmonds gave the new men the same minute instructions he had given the others; and presently we heard a slight scraping against the wall, and the men who had been on duty recrossed it.
They had nothing of especial interest to report. The yogi and Miss Vaughan had taken a stroll through the grounds early in the evening; and my heart sank as the detective added that they seemed to be talking earnestly together. Then they had re-entered the house, and Miss Vaughan had remained in the library looking at a book, while her companion passed on out of sight. At the end of an hour, she had closed the book, shut and locked the outer door, and turned out the light. Another light had appeared shortly afterwards in a room upstairs. It, too, had been extinguished half an hour later, and the detectives presumed that she had gone to bed. After that, the house had remained in complete darkness. The servants had spent the evening sitting on a porch at the rear of the house, talking together, but had gone in early, presumably to bed.
When the men had finished their report, Simmonds dismissed them, and the two who were to take up the watch crossed the wall and passed from sight.
"And now, Simmonds," said Godfrey, "come along and I'll show you what started me to watching that house, and caused me to get Lester out here."
Simmonds followed him up the ladder without a word, and I came along behind. We were soon on the limb.
"Of course," Godfrey added, when we were in place, "it is just possible that nothing will happen. But I think the show will come off as usual. Look straight out over the trees, Simmonds—ah!"
High in the heavens that strange star sprang suddenly into being, glowed, brightened, burned steel-blue; then slowly and slowly it floated down, straight down; hovered, burst into a thousand sparks....
And, scarcely able to believe my eyes, I saw standing there against the night two white-robed figures, with arms extended and faces raised; and then they vanished again into the darkness.
For an instant we sat there silent, still staring. Then Godfrey drew a deep breath.
"I feared so!" he said. "Miss Vaughan has become a convert!"
And he led the way down the ladder.
I was honestly glad to get back to the office, next morning, for I felt the need of work—absorbing work—to take my mind off the problem of Worthington Vaughan's death, and especially to relieve me from the depression into which his daughter's inexplicable conduct had plunged me. When I thought of her, it was with impatience and aversion, for I felt that she had deserted to the enemy and turned her back upon the man who loved her, in the hour of his utmost need.
As I saw it, her conduct was little short of heartless. She had summoned her lover to her side, and he had come; instantly and without hesitation, without pausing to consider the danger to himself, he had answered her call; in consequence of that high devotion, he was now in prison, charged with a dreadful crime; but, instead of hastening to him, instead of standing by his side and proclaiming to the whole world her belief in his innocence, she deliberately stood aloof. It was almost as if she herself believed in his guilt! The world, at least, could draw no other inference.
But she had done more than that. She had abandoned herself to the fate from which he had tried to save her. Her presence at Silva's side could have only one meaning—she had become his disciple, had accepted his faith, was ready to follow him. The thought turned me sick at heart, for her as well as for Swain, but for Swain most of all, for he had done nothing to merit such misfortune, while she, at least, had chosen her road and was following it with open eyes. Small wonder that I thought of her with anger and resentment, yes, and with a vague distrust, for, at the very back of my mind was the suspicion that she had been a decoy to lure Swain to his destruction.
I threw myself feverishly into the work which had accumulated at the office, in order to tear my mind away from thoughts like these; but when Mr. Royce arrived, I had to go over the case with him, and I have seldom seen a man more puzzled or astonished.
"I shall defend Swain, of course," I concluded, "and I'm hoping that something in his favour will turn up before long, but I haven't the remotest idea what it will be. He can't be tried till fall, and meanwhile I'm afraid he'll have to stay in jail."
"Yes; I see no way of getting him out," agreedmy partner. "But the girl's danger is much more serious. Can't we do something for her?"
"It's difficult to do anything against her will," I pointed out. "Besides, I've lost interest in her a little."
"Don't blame her too much—we must do everything we can. Since she isn't of age, she'll have to have a guardian appointed. He might do something."
"I had thought of that; I'll suggest to her to-night that she let me arrange for a guardian. But if we wait for a court to take action, I'm afraid we'll be too late. Swain seems to think that the danger is very pressing."
"At least we can make one more effort," said Mr. Royce. "I'll have my wife drive out to see her this afternoon. Perhaps she can do something," and he went to the 'phone to make the arrangements.
I turned back to my work, but found myself unable to take it up, for my conscience told me that I ought to see Swain, make sure that he was comfortable, and do what I could to relieve his anxiety. It was not a pleasant task, for I should have to admit my failure, but at last I put my work aside, made my way reluctantly to the Tombs, and asked to see him.
They had given him a well-lighted cell on theupper tier, and some of his own things had been brought in to soften its bareness, but my first glance at Swain told me that he was in a bad way.
"Is she all right?" was his first question, and his eyes seemed to burn into me.
"Yes," I answered a little testily, "she's all right—that is, if you mean Miss Vaughan. For heaven's sake, Swain, be a little sensible. What's the use of working yourself up into a state like this! Did you sleep any last night?"
"No," said Swain, after thinking a minute. "No, I believe not."
"How about breakfast?"
"I don't seem to remember about breakfast," he answered, after another moment's thought.
I stepped to the door, called the guard, and, putting a bill into his hand, asked him to send up the prison barber and to have a good meal sent in in the course of half an hour. When the barber arrived, I had him take Swain in hand, give him a shave and shampoo and general freshening up. Then I saw that he got into clean things; and then the breakfast arrived, and I made him sit down and eat. He obeyed passively, and I could see the food did him good. When he had finished his coffee, I handed him a cigar.
"Now, Swain," I began, sitting down opposite him, "I'm going to talk to you seriously. In thefirst place, Miss Vaughan is in no danger. Simmonds had two men in the grounds watching the house all last night, ready to interfere at the least sign of anything wrong. That watch will be kept up as long as Miss Vaughan remains there."
"That's good," he said. "I didn't know that. But just the same, she mustn't remain there. Even with the men on guard, you may be too late."
"Just what is it you're afraid of?" I asked him, curiously. "Do you think her life's in danger?"
"Worse than that!" said Swain thickly, his face suddenly livid. "Oh, worse than that!"
I confess that I caught something of his horror; but I shook myself impatiently.
"I can't believe that," I said. "But, in any case, our men will be at hand. At the least outcry they will burst into the house. And remember, the three servants are there."
"They cut no figure. If they didn't hear those screams the other night, do you think they would hear any others? You must get her away from there, Mr. Lester," he went on rapidly. "If she won't come of her own accord, you must use force."
"But, my dear Swain," I objected, "I can't do that. Do you want me to kidnap her?"
"Just that—if it's necessary."
"Then I'd soon be occupying a cell here, too. I don't see what good that would do."
"It would save her," he asserted, doggedly. "It would save her. That's the only thing to consider."
But I rose to my feet in sudden impatience; what consideration was she showing for him or for me or for anyone?
"You're talking foolishly," I said. "You'd much better be thinking of your own danger; it's much more real than hers." I had an impulse to add that, since she had chosen her path, it was folly to waste pity upon her, but I managed to check the words. "Has any new light on the case occurred to you?"
"No," he answered, listlessly, "I haven't thought about it. When do you see her again, Mr. Lester?"
"I'm to see her to-night."
"Will you give her a note from me?"
"Yes," I agreed.
His face lighted again at that, and he cleared a corner of his table and sat down to write the note. It was evidently difficult to compose, for he tore up two drafts before he got one to suit him. But at last it was done, and he folded it, rummaged an envelope out of a pile of papers on achair, slipped the note into it, and handed it to me.
"There," he said, and his face was bright with hope. "I think that will settle it."
I was far from sharing his certainty, but I put the envelope in my pocket, assured myself that there was nothing more I could do for him, and returned to the office. Just as I was getting ready to leave, Mr. Royce came in, a chagrined look on his face.
"Mrs. Royce just telephoned me," he said. "She drove out there, as I asked her to, but Miss Vaughan refused to see her."
I had expected it, but the certainty that we had failed again did not add to my cheerfulness.
"Swain wants us to kidnap her," I said, with a twisted smile.
"I'm not sure but that he's right," said my partner, and went thoughtfully away.
I went to my rooms, changed, had dinner at a quiet restaurant, and then took the elevated for the long trip to the Bronx. It was after eight o'clock when I pulled the bell beside the tall gates to Elmhurst. The gardener was evidently expecting me, for he appeared almost at once and admitted me. Without waiting for him, I walked up the drive toward the house. Thelights were on in the library, and I stepped up to the open door.
Then I stopped, and my heart fell. For there were two white-robed figures in the room. One was Miss Vaughan and the other was Francisco Silva. The girl was sitting at his feet.
They had evidently heard my footsteps, for they were looking toward the door, and Miss Vaughan arose as soon as I came within the circle of light. But if I expected her to show any embarrassment, I was disappointed.
"Come in, Mr. Lester," she said. "I believe you have not met Señor Silva."
The yogi had risen, and now he bowed to me.
"Our encounters heretofore have been purely formal," he said, smiling. "I am happy to meet you, Mr. Lester."
His manner was friendly and unaffected, and imperceptibly some of my distrust of him slipped away.
"I have told Señor Silva," Miss Vaughan continued, when we were seated, "that you have consented to act as my man of business."
"And it is my intention," broke in Silva, "to beseech Mr. Lester to consent to act as my man of business also. I am sure that I shall need one."
I was not at all sure of it, for he seemed capable of dealing with any situation.
"It would not be possible for me to represent divergent interests," I pointed out.
"My dear sir," protested the yogi, "there will be no divergent interests. Suppose we put it in this way: you will represent Miss Vaughan, and will dispose of my interests from that standpoint. There could be no objection to that, I suppose?"
"No," I answered, slowly; "but before we go into that, let me understand exactly what these interests are. Mr. Vaughan's estate I understand, is a large one."
Silva shrugged his shoulders.
"I have understood so," he said, "but I know nothing about it, beyond what Mr. Vaughan himself told me."
"What was that?"
"That it was his intention to give this place as a monastery for the study of our religion, and to endow it."
"Did he mention the amount of the endowment?"
"He asked me, not long ago, if a million dollars would be sufficient."
"Had he drawn up a deed of gift?"
"I do not know."
"Or made a will?"
Again Silva shrugged indifferently to indicate that he was also ignorant on that point, and I turned to Miss Vaughan.
"If there is a will," I asked, "where would it probably be?"
"There is a safe here," she said, "in which my father kept his papers of value," and she went to the wall and swung out a hinged section of shelving. The door of a safe appeared behind it.
I approached and looked at it, then tried the door, but it was locked.
"To open this, we must know the combination," I said; "or else we shall have to get an expert."
"I know the combination," she broke in; "it is ..."
But I stopped her.
"My dear Miss Vaughan," I laughed, "one doesn't go around proclaiming the combination of a safe. How do you happen to know it?"
"My father often had me open the safe for him."
"Does anyone else know it?"
"I do not think so."
"Well, suppose we see what is in the safe," I suggested, and, as she knelt before it, turned away. I, at least, did not wish to know the combination. That Silva already knew it I accepted as certain.
I heard the twirling of the knob, and a sharp click as the bolts were thrown back. Then I walked to Miss Vaughan's side and knelt beside her. The interior of the safe was divided into the usual compartments, one of them equipped with a Yale lock. The key was in the lock, and I turned it, swung the little door open, and drew out the drawer which lay behind it.
"If there is a will, it is probably here," I said; "let us see," and I carried the drawer over to the light.
Miss Vaughan followed me, but Silva had sunk back into his chair, and was staring abstractedly through the open door out into the darkness, as though our proceedings interested him not at all. Then, as I looked into the drawer, I gave a little gasp of astonishment, for it was almost filled with packets of bills. There were five of them, neatly sealed in wrappers of the National City Bank, and each endorsed to contain ten thousand dollars.
"Why did your father require all this money?" I asked, but Miss Vaughan shook her head.
"He always kept money there," she said, "though I never knew the amount."
"Oh, Master, receive me!""Oh, Master, receive me!"
"Oh, Master, receive me!""Oh, Master, receive me!"
I glanced at the yogi, but his revery remained unbroken. Then I laid the packets on the table and dipped deeper into the drawer. There weretwo bank-books, some memoranda of securities, a small cash-book, and, at the very bottom, an unsealed envelope endorsed, "Last will and testament of Worthington Vaughan."
"Here we are," I said, took it out, and replaced the rest of the contents. "Shall we read it now?"
"Yes, I should like to read it," she answered quietly.
The document was a short one. It had evidently been drawn by Vaughan himself, for it was written simply and without legal phrases. It had been witnessed by Henry and Katherine Schneider, and was dated only a week previously—but three days before the murder.
"Who are these witnesses?" I asked.
"They are the cook and the gardener."
"Do you recognise your father's writing?"
"Oh, yes; there can be no question as to that."
It was a peculiar writing, and a very characteristic one; not easy to read until one grew accustomed to it. But at the end of a few minutes I had mastered it. The provisions of the will were simple: Elmhurst and the sum of one million dollars in negotiable securities were left absolutely to "my dear and revered Master, Francisco Silva, Priest of the Third Circle of Siva, and Yogi of the Ninth Degree, to whom I owe my soul's salvation," the bequest to be used for the purpose of founding a monastery for the study of the doctrines of Saivaism, and as an asylum for all true believers. The remainder of his estate was left absolutely to his daughter, to dispose of as she saw fit. "It is, however, my earnest wish", the will concluded, "that my daughter Marjorie should enter upon the Way, and accept the high destiny which the Master offers her as a Priestess of our Great Lord. May the All-Seeing One guide her steps aright!"
There was a moment's silence as I finished; then I glanced at Miss Vaughan. Her eyes were fixed; her face was rapt and shining.
She felt my gaze upon her, and turned to face me.
"As your attorney, Miss Vaughan," I said, "it is my duty to advise you that this will would probably not hold in law. I think it would be comparatively easy to convince any court that your father was not of sound mind when he drew it. You see, Señor Silva," I added, "that there is at once a conflict of interests."
But Silva shook his head with a little smile.
"There is no conflict," he said. "If Miss Vaughan does not approve her father's wishes, they are as though they were not!"
"I do approve them" the girl cried passionately, her hands against her heart. "I do approve them!"
"All of them?" I asked.
She swung full upon me, her eyes aflame.
"Yes, all of them!" she cried. "Oh, Master, receive me!" and she flung herself on her knees by Silva's chair.
Silva laid a hand tenderly upon the bowed head, as though in benediction, but I could have sworn there was unholy triumph in his eyes. I caught but a glimpse of it, for he veiled them instantly and bowed his head, and his lips moved as if in prayer. The kneeling figure was quivering with sobs; I could hear them in her throat; and my heart turned sick as I saw how she permitted his caressing touch. Then, suddenly, she sprang, erect, and, without a glance at me, hurried from the room.
There was silence for a moment, then Silva arose and faced me.
"You see how it is, Mr. Lester," he said.
"Yes," I answered drily, "I see how it is."
I refolded the will, slipped it back into its envelope, restored it to the drawer, made sure that all the packets were there, too, replaced the drawer in the safe, closed the door, twirled the knob, swung the shelves into place in front of it, and finally, my self-control partially regained, turned back to Silva.
"Well," I said, and my voice sounded very flat, "let us sit down and talk it over."
He wheeled his chair around to face me and sat down. I looked at him in silence for a moment. The man was virile, dominant; there was in his aspect something impressive and compelling. Small wonder this child of nineteen had found herself unable to stand against him!
"I know what is in your mind," he said, at last. "But, after all, it was her father's wish. That should weigh with you."
"Her father was mad."
"I deny it. He was very sane. He found the Way, and he has set her feet upon it."
"What way?" I demanded. "Where does it lead?"
"The Way of life. It leads to peace and happiness."
He uttered the words as with finality; but I shrugged them impatiently away.
"Don't float off into your mysticism," I said. "Let us keep our feet on the earth. You may be sincere, or you may not—it is impossible for me to say. But I know this—it is not fair to that child to take her at her word. She doesn't realise what she is doing. I don't know what it is you plan for her, but before you do anything, she must have a chance to find herself. She must be taken out of this atmosphere into a healthier one, until she has rallied from the shock of herfather's death, and emerged from the shadow of his influence. She must have time to get back her self-control. Then, if she chooses to return, well and good."
"To all your 'musts,' Mr. Lester," retorted Silva, "I can only say that I am willing. I have not lifted a finger to detain her. But what if she will not go?"
"Then she must be made to go."
"Another 'must'!" he rejoined lightly. "I would remind you that she is mistress of her own actions. Neither you nor I can compel her to do anything she does not wish to do. It has been a great happiness to me that she has chosen as she has; it would have been a great sorrow to me had she decided differently. But I should have acquiesced. Now it is for you to acquiesce. After all, what claim have you upon her?"
"I admit that I have no claim," I said, more calmly. "But there is one who has a claim, and to whom she is bound to listen."
"You refer, no doubt, to that misguided young man who is now in prison."
"I refer to Frederic Swain, yes," I retorted hotly. "It is true he is in prison. And how did he get there? By coming when she called him; by trying to assist her."
"Was it assisting her to kill her father?"queried Silva, and his lips were curled with scorn.
I paused a moment to make sure of my self-control, for it seemed to be slipping from me.
"Señor Silva," I said, at last, "how her father came to his death I do not know; but I do know that Swain had no hand in it."
"Yet he is in prison," he reminded me.
"Innocent men have been in prison before this. I will get him out."
"By what means?"
"By finding the real murderer!" I said, and looked at him with eyes which I know were bloodshot.
He returned my gaze steadily.
"So you think I am the murderer?" he asked, quietly.
I got a grip of myself—I saw that I had gone too far.
"I do not know what to think," I answered. "I am seeking light. In any event, Swain merits some consideration. Miss Vaughan should, at least, listen to what he has to say. She promised to marry him."
"She has withdrawn that promise."
"She has never said so."
"She has withdrawn it in choosing as she has chosen. They who serve in the temple of Siva turn their backs on marriage."
I put the words away from me with a gesture.
"That means nothing to me," I said. "I know nothing of the temple of Siva. I wish to know nothing, for mysticism repels me. But I do know that she gave her word; I do know that she loved him."
"Earthly love fades and passes," said the yogi, solemnly. "She has given her heart to the Master," and he made his gesture of reverence.
There was anger in my eyes as I looked at him. How was one to reply to such jargon?
"I would point out to you, Señor Silva," I said, "that Miss Vaughan is not yet of legal age, and so not quite her own mistress."
"Does your law interfere in matters of the heart?" he inquired blandly; "or in matters of religion?"
"No," I said, flushing at his irony; "but the law demands that, until she is of age, she have a guardian to protect her interests. I shall ask that one be appointed at once."
"To that," said the yogi, mildly, "I have not the least objection. In fact, Mr. Lester, I do not know why you should tell me your plans. But, for some reason, you seem to regard me as an adversary. I am not—I am no man's adversary. I object to nothing; I have no right to object to anything. I am simply Miss Vaughan's friend andwell-wisher, and seek her happiness. I should like to be your friend also."
"And Swain's?" I queried, a little brutally.
"The friend of all men," said the yogi, simply. "They are all my brothers. We are children of the same Great Spirit."
I was silent for a moment. Then I took Swain's letter from my pocket.
"If you are sincere," I said, "you can easily prove it. I have a letter here from Swain. He gave it to me to-day, and I promised to give it to Miss Vaughan to-night."
Without a word, he crossed to the bell and rang it. The maid answered.
"Mr. Lester has a letter which you will give to your mistress," he said.
"And you will wait for an answer," I added.
The girl took the letter and went away. Silva sat down again, and when I glanced at him, I saw that his eyes were closed. Five minutes passed, and the girl appeared again at the door.
"Miss Vaughan says there is no answer, sir," she said, and let the curtain fall into place again.
I made a gesture of despair; I felt that the game was lost.
"After all, Mr. Lester," said Silva, kindly, "what is this fate that you would prepare for her? You seek her marriage with a young man who,when I saw him, appeared to me merely commonplace. Admitting for the moment that he is innocent of this crime, you would nevertheless condemn her to an existence flat and savourless, differing in no essential from that of the beasts of the field."
"It is the existence of all normal people," I pointed out, "and the one which they are happiest in."
"But Miss Vaughan would not be happy. She has too great a soul; that young man is not worthy of her. You yourself have felt it!"
I could not deny it.
"Few men are worthy of a good woman," I said lamely.
"Faugh! Good woman!" and he snapped his fingers. "I abhor the words! They are simply cant! But a great woman, a woman of insight, of imagination—ah, for such a woman the Way that I prepare is the only Way. There she will find joy and inspiration; there she will grow in knowledge; there she will breathe the breath of life! Mr. Lester," and he leaned forward suddenly, "have you the courage to consult the sphere?"
"What do you mean?"
"You saw how I spent the White Night of Siva," and he made his gesture of reverence."Will you gaze for an hour on the crystal?"
"For what purpose?"
"I do not know what may be revealed to you," he answered. "That is in the keeping of the Holy One. Perhaps nothing; perhaps much. Will you make the trial?"
His eyes were distended with excitement, his lips were trembling with eagerness.
"I feel that it will not be in vain!" he added.
There was something compelling in his gaze. After all, why not? I struggled to my feet.
With a strange smile, he held back the curtain, and I passed before him into the hall and up the stairs. As I hesitated at the top, he opened the door into the entry, and again my senses were assaulted by a heavy, numbing odour. In the middle of the room the crystal sphere glowed softly.
"Take your place upon the couch," he said; "sit thus, with your legs crossed, and your hands folded before you. But first, listen to me. There is in this no magic; this sphere is merely a shell of crystal, in which a small lamp burns. It serves only to concentrate the mind, to enable it to forget the world and to turn in upon itself. The visions which will come to you, if any come, will come from within and not from without. They will be such visions as the Holy One may will; and by the Holy One I mean that Spirit whichpervades the universe, even to its farthest bound; the Spirit which is in all of us alike; the Spirit which is in good men and in bad, men like you and me, and men like the one who slew my pupil. It is with this Spirit, if the Holy One so wills, that you will commune, so that you will see no longer with the poor eyes of the body, but with eyes from which nothing is concealed, either in the past or in the future. Do you understand?"
"I think so," I murmured, unable to take my eyes from the glowing circle.
"Then to the Holy One I commend thee!" said the yogi, and sat down on the couch opposite me.
I felt that his eyes were upon me, but mine were upon the sphere, and in a moment I was no longer aware of him. I was aware only of the glowing circle, which seemed to widen and widen until the whole universe revolved within it. The sun and the moon and the stars were there, and I gazed at them as from a great distance. I saw stars glow and fade; I saw great nebulæ condense to points of light, and disintegrate to dust; then, slowly, slowly, a single planet swung into view, a million miles away, at first, but growing clearer and more clear, until I was looking down upon its seas and continents; and suddenly, as it turned before me, I recognised the earth.Europe, Asia, the broad Pacific swung below me; then land again—America! I saw great mountains, broad plains, and mighty rivers.
The motion ceased. I was gazing down upon a great city, built upon a narrow spur of land between two rivers, a city of towering buildings and busy streets; then upon a single house, set in the midst of lofty elms; then I was in a room, a room with books against the walls, and a door opening upon a garden. From the garden the light faded, and the darkness came, and a clock somewhere struck twelve. Then, suddenly, at the door appeared two white-robed figures, an old man and a girl. The man was talking violently, but the girl crossed the room without a backward glance, and passed through a door on its farther side. The man stood for a moment looking after her, then flung himself into a chair, and put his hands before his face.
With creeping flesh, I looked again at the outer door, waiting who would enter. And slowly, slowly, the drapery was put aside, and a face peered in. I could see its flashing eyes and working mouth. A hand, in which a knife gleamed, was raised cautiously to the cord, and when it was lowered, it held a piece of the cord within its grasp. I could see the eager fingers fashioning a knot; then, with head bent, the figure crept forward, foot by foot; it was at the chair-back, and even as the old man, conscious at last of the intruder, raised his head, the cord was cast about his throat and drawn tight. There was a moment's struggle, and I saw that the hand which held the cord was red with blood. From the wrist, a stained handkerchief fell softly to the floor.
And then the assassin turned to steal away; but as he went, he cast one awful glance over his shoulder. The light fell full upon his face—and I saw that it was Swain's!
I opened my eyes to find myself extended full length on the divan, with Silva standing over me, a tiny glass of yellow liquid in his hand.
"Drink this," he said, and I swallowed it obediently.
It had a pungent, unpleasant taste, but I could feel it running through my veins, and it cleared my mind and steadied my nerves as though by magic. I sat up and looked at the crystal. The other lights in the room had been switched on, and the sphere lay cold and lifeless. I passed my hand before my eyes, and looked at it again; then my eyes sought Silva's. He was smiling softly.
"The visions came," he said. "Your eyes tell me that the visions came. Is it not so?"
"Yes," I answered; "strange visions, Señor Silva. I wish I knew their origin."
"Their origin is in the Universal Spirit," he said, quietly. "Even yet you do not believe."
"No," and I looked again at the crystal. "There are some things past belief."
"Nothing is past belief," he said, still more quietly, "You think so because your mind is wrapped in the conventions amid which you exist. Free it from those wrappings, and you will begin really to live. You have never known what life is."
"How am I to free it, Señor Silva?" I questioned.
He took a step nearer to me.
"By becoming a disciple of the Holy One," he said, most earnestly.
But I was myself again, and I rose to my feet and shook my head, with a smile.
"No," I said. "You will get no convert here. I must be going."
"I will open the gate for you," he said, in another tone, and led the way down the stairs, through the library, and out upon the gravelled walk.
After the drugged atmosphere of his room, the pure night air was like a refreshing bath, and I drew in long breaths of it. Silva walked besideme silently; he unlocked the gate with a key which he carried in his hand, and pulled it open.
"Good-night, Mr. Lester," he said. "The sphere is at your service should you desire again to test it. Think over what I have said to you."
"Good-night," I answered, and stepped through into the road.
The gate swung shut and the key grated in the lock. Mechanically I turned my steps toward Godfrey's house; but I seemed to be bending under a great burden—the burden of the vision.