Mrs. Joyce's house was a stone structure of rather characterless design which stood at the intersection of a wide boulevard and one of the narrower crosstown streets, but it seemed very palatial to Victor as he wonderingly entered its looming granite portal. His mother tripped up the stairs with the air of one who feels very much at home.

A man in snuff-colored livery took his hat and coat and ushered him into a large reception-room on the left, and there his hostess found him some ten minutes later. "Come and meet my brother from California," she said, and led the way across the hall into the library, where a tall man with gray hair and mustache was talking with a dark, alert and smoothly shaven man of middle age. The one Mrs. Joyce introduced as her brother, Mr. Wood, and the other as Mr. Carew.

Victor was relieved to have Miss Wood enter and greet him cordially, for the men did not seem to value him sufficiently to include him in their conversation. Mr. Wood was reserved and the tone of Carew's voice was cynical.

Leonora Wood was of that severe type of beauty which requires stately gowns, and Victor confessed that she was quite the finest figure of a girl he had ever met, but when Mrs. Joyce said, "You are to take Leo out to dinner" he merely bowed, resenting her amused smile.

His seat at table brought him next a very old lady—Mrs. Wood, senior—who beamed upon him with cheerful interest. There were several other women of that vague middle age which does not interest youth.

Miss Wood talked extremely well, and he became interested in spite of himself.

"I wonder how much longer we're going to believe in 'luck' and 'coincidence,'" she said, after some remark of his. "Maybe it's all thought transference or telepathy or something."

"Don't tell me you really believe in such things. Professor Boyden says they are all a part of the spineless mysticism which is sweeping over the country."

She assumed a patronizing air. "It's natural for undergraduates to quote their teachers. I wonder how long it will be before you will consider them all old fogies."

He rose to the defense of his hero. "Boyden will never be an old fogy. He's the most up-to-date man in America. He really is the only experimentalist along these lines. He's out for the facts."

"Your mother's Voices say he is as blind as the rest, wilfully blind."

"Do you really hold stock in my mother's Voices?"

She gazed upon him in large-eyed wonder. "Yes, don't you?"

"No. How can they be anything but a delusion?"

"I don't know. I only know they are profoundly mysterious and that they tell me things which convince me. They seem to know my most secret thought. I have been forced to believe in them. My aunt's fortune has been doubled and my own income greatly augmented by their advice."

He took this up. "Tell me more about that. What did they advise you to do?"

"They advised buying certain stocks in a machine for making paper boxes and recommended the Universal Traction Company."

At this moment Mrs. Wood, senior, plucked at his sleeve. "Louise tells me you're the son of our dear medium, Lucy Ollnee."

"I am, yes," he replied, rather ungraciously, for he was eager to revert to Leo.

"Perhaps you're a medium yourself," the old lady pursued.

"Thank the Lord, no! I haven't the ghost of a Voice about me."

She chuckled. "At your age one thinks only of love and dollars. When you are as old as I am the next world will interest you a great deal more than it does now. Besides, you must believe in spirits after they have made you rich. They've made Louise and Leo rich—I suppose you know that?"

He soon turned back to Leo. "I wish people would not talk my mother's Voices to me. I hear nothing else now."

"It's your mother's 'atmosphere.' No one thinks of anything else when in her presence."

"Don't you see how intolerable all that is going to be for me?" he asked, with bitter gravity. "I can see that she isn't exactly human even to you. She's just a sort of a freak. No one loves her or seeks her for herself alone, only for what she can do. That's another reason why I must insist on her getting away from this. I will not have her treated like a wireless telephone."

Her eyes expressed more sympathy than she put into her voice. "I see what you mean; but, believe me, I had not thought of her in just that light, and I think you're quite wrong about my aunt. She is really very fond of your mother."

He was eager to know more of what this clear-sighted girl had seen, but her neighbor, Mr. Carew, claimed her, and he was forced back upon Grandmother Wood, who talked of her new faith to him for nearly half an hour.

After dinner, while the ladies were in the drawing-room and the men were smoking their cigars, the perturbed youth expected to be freed from any further inquisition, for Philo Wood was apparently of that type of man who has no interest in the things he cannot turn into hard cash. The merits of a new strawboard box-machine was engaging his attention at this time, but, after a few minutes of polite discussion of the weather and other general topics, Carew, the lawyer, turned to Victor and began an interrogation which made him wince. Carew was very nice about it, but he pursued such a well-defined line of inquiry that it amounted to a cross-examination. He soon possessed himself of the fact that Victor did not approve of his mother's way of life and that he was trying to secure employment in order to stop all further "fortune-telling" on his mother's part. "I don't believe in it," he reiterated.

"The amazing thing to me," interposed Wood, with quiet emphasis, "is that her predictions come true. I 'play the ponies' a bit"—he smiled—"and I have tried to draw Mrs. Ollnee into partnership with me. 'You have the spooks point out the winning horse to me,' said I to her, 'and I'll share the pot with you.'"

"And she wouldn't do it?" asked Carew.

Wood seemed to be highly amused. "No, she says her guides do not sanction gambling of any sort. And yet she advises Louise to buy into a new transportation scheme that looks to me like the worst kind of a gamble. My advice counts for nothing against these Voices."

"That's true," admitted Carew. "You might as well be the west wind so far as influencing her goes. Since 'Mr. Astor' butted into the game my services are good only in so far as they drive tandem with his! Now you say you have no belief in the thing," he said, turning again to Victor. "How is that? How did that come about?"

"Well, in the first place, I've given some study to what Professor Boyden calls delusional hysteria," Victor responded.

Wood smiled cynically. "My sister won't mind what you call it so long as it enables your mother to designate the winning stocks."

The attitude of each of these men was that of watchful tolerance, and Victor chafed under their assumption of superior wisdom. He plainly perceived that Wood was using the psychic for his own ends, and this angered him. He shut up like a clam and left the room as soon as he could decently do so.

He made his way to where Leonora was sitting on a sofa in the library and took his seat beside her, with intent to continue the conversation which they had begun at the dinner, but he forgot his problems as he looked into her merry, candid eyes.

Her first word was a compliment to his mother. "How pretty she looks to-night! No one would suspect her of being 'the dark and subtle siren' of yesterday's Star. Her face is positively angelic at this moment. How beautiful she must have been as a girl! I must say you do not resemble her."

"Thank you," he said.

She laughingly explained. "I mean you are so tall and dark. You must resemble your father."

"I believe I do, although I cannot remember him."

"I wonder if he had your absurd pride. Aunt Louise tells me you absolutely refuse to accept any favor from her, and that you were practically forced into coming to dinner to-night. Is that true?"

He leaned toward her with intense seriousness. "How would you feel if you had suddenly learned that all your clothing, your food, your theater tickets—everything had been paid for in money drawn from strangers by means of—well—hypnotism."

"If I believed that I should feel as you do, but I don't. It is not so simple as all that. Your mother's power seems very real to me, and so far as I can now see she has given us all value received for every dollar. By rights one-half of all our profits belongs to her, or, if you prefer, to her Voices. Do you know that these Voices will not permit her to retain more than a scanty living out of all the wealth she makes for others? Did you know that?"

"I know she lives in a shabby apartment, and she tells me that she is entirely under the control of these 'guides.'"

"Yes, they refuse to let her keep anything beyond what she actually needs for herself and your education. I think all that should be counted in on her side, don't you? The fact that she is not enriching herself surely makes her part in the transaction a clean one."

He sank away from her and brooded over this thought for a minute or two before he replied. "But the whole thing is so preposterous. Have you seen her slate-writing 'stunt'?"

"Many times; but I don't think you should call it a 'stunt.'"

"Come, now, give me your honest opinion. Do you think my mother unconsciously cheats?"

She faced him with convincing candor. "No, I don't. I think she is perfectly simple and straightforward, and I believe the writing is supernormal."

"How can you believe that? You're a college girl, mother tells me. Don't the belief in these things wipe out everything you have been taught at school? It certainly rips science into strips for me, or would—if I believed it. It makes a fool of a man like Boyden, that's a sure thing."

Mrs. Joyce, looking across the room, smiled in delight at the charming picture these young people made in their animated conversation. Doubtless they were glowing over Tennyson's position in modern poetry or the question of Meredith's ultimate standing in fiction.

What the youth was really saying to the maid was this: "What did you get out of it all? What did The Voices give you?"

"They told me to study composition, for one thing. They told me I would compose successful songs, with the aid of—of Schubert." She was a little embarrassed at the end.

"And you took all that in?"

She colored. "I'm afraid I didn't really believe the Schubert part. However, I'm studying composition on the chance of their being right."

"You say they advise you on money matters. How do they do that?"

"They advise my uncle through me to sell stock in a certain company and buy in another. They told me to withdraw my money from my California bank and put it into this Universal Traction Company."

"Did you do that?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I wish you wouldn't take their advice. I wish you would put your money back where it came from at once."

"Why?"

"Because it scares me to think of your going into anything on my mother's advice."

"But it wasn't your mother's advice. It was the advice of a great financier."

"You mean a dead financier?"

"Yes."

He did not laugh at this; on the contrary, his face darkened. "I've heard about that. Did he advise your uncle to go into this same transportation company?"

"Yes; all our friends are in it."

"You mean everybody that went to my mother for advice?"

"Yes."

"Do many go to her for help of this kind?"

"No, not many; she gives sittings only to my aunt and her friends now. There were several big business men of the city who went regularly. Why, Mr. Pettus, the president of the Traction Company, relies upon her."

The absurdity of these great capitalists going to his mother's threadbare little apartment for counsel in ways to win millions made Victor smile. He said, with a mock sigh, "I wish these Voices would tell me where to find a job that would pay fifteen dollars a week."

"They will—if you give yourself up to them. You must have faith."

"Oh, but the whole thing is dotty. Why should a poor farmer like my grandfather by just merely dying become a great financier?" Again his brow darkened and his voice deepened with contempt. "It's all poppycock! If he knows so much about the future why didn't he warn my mother against that reporter that came in the other day to do her up? Why didn't he permit me to stay on at Winona and get my degree?"

The girl was troubled by his questions and evaded them. "It must have been hard to leave in the midst of your final term."

"It was punishing. It was like being yanked out of the box in the middle of an inning, with the game all coming your way."

She knew enough of baseball slang to catch his meaning and she smiled as she asked, "Why don't you go back?"

"Simply because I couldn't stand the chinning I'd get from my classmates."

"Can't you go on with your studies here and pass your examination?"

"I might do that if I could get a job that would pay me my board and leave me a little time to study."

She looked up at him with smiling archness. "Why not drive an automobile? You could carry your books around under the seat and study while waiting outside the shops or the theaters."

"Good idea!" he exclaimed, responding to her humor. "I'm pretty handy with the machine. One of my friends up at Winona had one. I hope you own a car." He said this with intent to indicate his growing desire to be near her.

Mrs. Joyce came over at this moment to inquire what they were so jolly about.

Leo answered: "I was just suggesting that Mr. Ollnee become a chauffeur. He could go on with his studies—"

"Capital!" exclaimed Mr. Joyce. "The man I have is liable to drink and very crusty in the bargain. You may have his place."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't do," he responded. "I might get crusty, too."

"I hope you are not liable to drink," said Leo.

"No, sarsaparilla is my only tipple. But this is all Miss Wood's joke," he explained.

"I'm not joking, indeed I'm not," the girl retorted. "I don't know of any skill that is more in demand just now than that of a chauffeur. I know of one who is studying the piano. I don't see any reason why Mr. Ollnee should not take it up temporarily. It's perfectly honorable. Witness Bernard Shaw's play."

"Oh, I'm not looking down on any job just now," he disclaimed. "All I ask is a chance to earn a living while I'm finding out what my best points are."

Mr. Wood beckoned and Leo rose to meet him. "We must be off," he said.

Victor bade Leo good-night with such feeling of intimacy and friendliness as he had not hoped to attain for any one connected with Mrs. Joyce. There was something in the pressure of her hand and in the sympathetic tone of her voice at the last that he remembered with keen pleasure.

Mr. Carew was deep in conversation with Mrs. Ollnee, and Victor drew near with intent to know what was being said. The lawyer was very gentle, very respectful, but Mrs. Ollnee was undergoing a thorough investigation at his hands. He represented the calm, slow-spoken, but very keen inquisitor, and the psychic was already feeling the force of his delicate, yet penetrating sarcasm.

"I would advise you not to trust your Voices in matters that relate to life, limb, or fortune," he said, suavely, and a veiled threat ran beneath his words. "These Voices may be deceiving you."

Mrs. Ollnee protested with vehemence. "Mr. Carew, I am content to put my soul into their keeping."

He bowed and smiled. "Your faith is very wonderful." Then he added, with a glance at Mrs. Joyce, who was listening, "For myself, I would not put my second-best coat in their keeping."

Mrs. Joyce intervened at this point, and, after some little discussion of a conventional topic, offered to send Victor and his mother home in her car. Victor was not pleased by her offer. It was only putting him just that much deeper into her debt, but he could not well refuse, especially as his mother accepted it as a matter of course.

On the way he took up the question of Carew's warning. "He's right, mother. You must stop advising people to buy or sell."

"Why so, Victor?"

"Suppose you should advise buying the wrong thing?"

"But they don't advise the wrong thing, Victor. They are always right."

"Always?"

"Nobody has ever reported a failure," she declared.

"Well, it's sure to come. Why should father or grandfather know any more about stocks now than he did before he died?"

She was a little nettled by his tone. "They have the constant advice of a great financier on that side."

"So Miss Wood told me. Who is this great financier who is so willing to help you decide what to do with other people's money?" he asked, cuttingly.

She hesitated a little before saying "Commodore Vanderbilt."

He could not keep back a derisive shout. "Vanderbilt! Well, and you believe 'the great commodore' comes to our little hole of a home to advise us? Oh, mother, that's too ridiculous."

"My son," she began with some asperity, "we've been all over that ground before. You don't realize how you hurt, how you dishonor me when you doubt me and laugh at me."

He felt the pain in her voice and began an apology. "I don't mean to laugh at you, mother. But you must remember that I have been a student for four years in the atmosphere of a great university, and all this business—I've got to be honest with you—it's all raving madness to me. You certainly must stop advising in business matters. Mr. Carew to-night intended to give you warning."

"I know he did," she quietly responded.

"He meant to be kind. He meant to say that you were liable at any moment to be held accountable for advice that went wrong. He told me that the courts were full of cases where mediums had led people into willing their property away, or where they had juggled with somebody else's fortunes. He told me of having convicted one woman of this and of having sent her to jail."

"But have I prospered from these advices?" she asked, indignantly. "Can any one accuse me of getting rich out of my 'work'? Please consider that."

"That does puzzle me. I can't see why 'they' help others and leave us with a bare living. And, most important of all, why do 'they' permit you to be hounded this way? Why didn't 'they' warn you? Why don't 'they' help me?"

She sighed submissively. "Of course they have their own reasons. In good time all will be revealed to us. They are wiser than we, for all the past and all the future are unrolled before their eyes."

This reply silenced him. Small and gentle as she was, Victor realized that she could resist with the strength of iron when it came to an assault upon her faith.

Above the knob of their own door they found a folded newspaper, and this Victor seized with misgiving. "I wonder what is coming next?" he said.

She paled with a definite premonition of trouble. "Open it at once," she commanded.

He was as eager as she, for he, too, foresaw some new attack upon their peace. Lighting the gas, he opened the paper with trembling hands. On the first page was his own photograph and the story of his leaving college to defend his mother. Everything, even to the parting with Frenson, was set down, luridly, side by side with the report of a celebrated murder trial.

At sight of this new indignity his sense of youth and weakness came back upon him and, crumpling up the paper, he flung it upon the floor in impotent rage.

"That ends the fight here," he said. "How can I go about this town seeking work to-morrow? Everybody will know my story, and, what's more, here is your address given in full. Don't you see that makes it impossible for either of us to remain here another day?"

For the first time in her life the indomitable little psychic quailed before the persistent malice of her foes. The splintered altar of her faith lying in a disordered heap upon the floor symbolized the estrangement which she felt between her invisible guides, her son, and herself. Her maternal anxiety had developed swiftly in these few hours of blissful companionship, and the world of wealth and comfort—for her boy's sake—had become suddenly of enormous importance to her. She wished him to be a happy man, and this desire weakened her abstract sense of duty to the race. She spoke aloud in a tone of entreaty, addressing herself to the intangible essences about her. "Father, are you here? Speak to me, help me, I need you."

Victor turned upon her with darkened brow. "Oh, for God's sake, stop that! I don't want any advice from the air."

She persisted. "Paul, come to me! Tell me what to do. Please come!"

Her voice was thrilling with its weakness and appeal, but Victor was furious. He refused to listen. His brow was set and stern.

At last she cried out, poignantly, "They are not here. They have deserted us. What shall I do?" She turned toward the table. "Rebuild my altar. You said you would. Restore that and perhaps they will come to us again. They are angry with me now. They have left me, perhaps forever."

"If 'they' have I shall be glad of it," he returned, brutally. "'They' have been a curse to you and to me, also. We are better off without them. Come, let us pack up the few things we have and go away into the West, where no one will know even so much as our name. That is the only way left open for us."

"No, no," she cried out, "that is impossible. I must remain here. I must wait until they come back to me. I can't go now, and you must not desert me," she ended, and in her voice was something very pitiful.

He moved away from her and took his seat in sullen rage. For a long time he did not even look at her, though he knew she was waiting and listening.

At last he rose, and his voice was harsh and hoarse. "Mother, my mind is made up. There's no use talking against it. I leave this city to-morrow morning. I shall go as far as my money will carry me. I shall change my name and get rid of this whole accursed business. I've hated it, I've hated your 'ghost-room' and your Voices all my life, and this is the end of it for me. If you will not go with me then I must leave you behind."

She uttered a moaning cry of grief and ran like one stricken into her room, flinging herself face downward upon her bed. He listened for a few moments with something tugging at his heart-strings, but his face was set in unrelenting lines. Then he rose and set to work repacking his trunk.