Bartol obeyed the command of the invisible powers. He gladly blazoned the triumphant death of the psychic to the world. Lucy Ollnee became at once a glorious martyr for her faith, a victim of science. Liberal journals and religious journals alike lamented that it was necessary for the sake of proof as regards immortality "that an innocent woman should be caged and tortured to death with electric batteries," and even the Star, leader in the war against the mediums, permitted itself an editorial word of regret, and published in full Bartol's letter, and also a long interview with Stinchfield, wherein he admitted the genuineness of the dead woman's claims to supra-normal power.

But all this was, at the moment, of small comfort to Victor. For a long time he refused to believe in the reality of his mother's death, insisting that she was in deep trance (as she had been before); but at last, when the body was to be removed to Mrs. Joyce's home and Doctor Steele and Doctor Eberly had both examined it and found no signs of life, he gave up all hope of her return.

Accompanied by Mrs. Joyce, he visited the California Avenue flat for the last time to pack up the few things of value which his mother had been permitted to acquire. His attitude toward the chairs, the slates, the old table, had utterly changed. They were now instinct with his mother's power, permeated with some part of her subtler material self, and he was minded to preserve them. They were no longer the tools of a conjuror; they were the sacred relics of a priestess.

Mrs. Joyce asked permission to house them for him till he had secured a home of his own, and to this he consented, for with his present feeling concerning them he was troubled by the thought of their being stored in dark vaults among masses of commonplace furniture.

"I shall keep the table in my own room," said Mrs. Joyce. "It may be that Lucy will be able to manifest herself to me through it. I have been promised such power."

To this Victor made no reply, for while he now believed absolutely in all that his mother claimed to do, he had not been brought to a belief in the return of the dead, and it was this fundamental doubt which made his grief so bitter. "If only she could know that I believe in her," he said to Leo, on the morning of the day when his mother's body was to be taken away. "Think of it! She died a thousand times for the curious and the selfish, only to be called an impostor and a cheat—and I, her only son, was afraid the charge was true. If only I could have told her that I believed in her!"

"She knows," the girl gently assured him. They were seated at the moment in the library and the morning was very warm and silent. The birds seemed to be resting in preparation for their evensong. "Your mother is near us—she may be listening to us this minute."

"I can't believe that," he declared, sadly. "I'm not sure that I want to believe it. I can't endure the thought of my mother's destruction, and yet the notion of her floating about somewhere like a wreath of mist is sorrowful to me."

Leo confessed to somewhat the same feeling. "Heaven—any kind of heaven—has always been incomprehensible to me, and yet we must believe there is some sort of system of rewards and punishments. Anyhow, your mother's death was glorious. She died as she would have wished to die—in proving her faith."

"She gave too much," he protested. "All her life she was set apart to do a martyr's work. I understand now why my father couldn't stand it. I know how he must have resented these Voices, and I cannot blame him for going away. Would you marry a man like Stainton Moses or David Home?"

She recoiled a little before the thought. "Of course not—but—"

"What?"

"Your mother was charming. If your father really loved her—"

"He did! I'm sure of that, at first, but these 'ghosts' destroyed his home. My mother confessed to me that they tormented my father for his unbelief, and he had to go."

"They are together now, and he believes."

Victor fixed a penetrating look upon her. "Do you really believe that the dead speak to us?"

"I see no reason why they shouldn't—if they want to. How else can you explain these Voices?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid these modern Italian scientists are right. The Voices were only 'parasitic personalities,' nothing else. But let's not talk of them. I'm tired of the 'ghost-room'—all my life I've had it—and now I'm going to forget it if I can."

"Hush! Your mother may hear you and grieve."

"If she can hear me she will understand my feeling. I like the world as it is—I don't want the supernatural thrust into it."

"I think you're wrong," she said, firmly. "The larger view is that of the scientist who recognizes nothing supernatural in the universe. I would not part with what your mother gave me for huge sums. I've had wonderful, thrilling experiences. Remember Altair!"

Altair! Yes, he remembered her, and remembering her he recalled the graceful figure at his bedside and the touch of the faintly clinging lips. That mystery remained the most inexplicable of them all.

While thus he sat, dream-filled and rapt, the girl studied him, and her face changed. "You believe in Altair. What's more, you love her, and I can't blame you for it. She is more beautiful than angels. You will not forsake the 'ghost-room' so long as you have a hope that she may return."

"You are mistaken," he protested. "Altair is only a dream. I worship her as a figure in a vision. Do you know what I think she was?" Her look questioned, and he went on. "For days I have pondered on her face and figure, in the light of modern science, and I am convinced that she was nothing but a union of my mother's astral self and you."

She looked at him in startled thought. "What do you mean?"

He explained eagerly. "You must have noticed how much like my mother she was? Her brow was the same—her eyes the same—"

"Yes, they were a little like hers."

"But her mouth and chin were exactly like yours. Her hands were like yours. She held her head exactly as you do—and then she changed; sometimes my mother predominated in her, sometimes you were the stronger."

The girl was deeply affected by the significance of this analysis. "You imagined all that."

He pushed on. "I did not, and, furthermore, Altair never came till you sat with my mother. She never attained such power—so your aunt agrees—till I came into the circle. She represented my conception of my mother and you. I loved my mother, and I admired you—and out of my love and admiration Altair was created."

"That is absurd! If ever a spirit came from heaven, Altair was that one. Why, she was palpable! I've touched her hands."

He said, slowly: "She was beautiful, I confess, so beautiful that on that first night she made even you seem coarse and material."

"I felt your disdain," she thrust in, with sudden hurt.

"But that was only for the moment. I could see nothing but her face—so sad, so wistful. But let me ask you something. Did you, the night after our walk on the drive in the moonlight—did you dream of me?"

Her lip curled in a wondering smile. "What a question to ask of me!"

"But did you? Come now, be honest. I have a reason for asking—did you?"

"What is your reason for asking?"

"That night Altair came to my bedside."

Her eyes flashed and she rose to her feet. "You have an Oriental imagination."

"Don't go—hear me out. It was a beautiful experience."

"Apparently it was. To me your story is insulting."

He lost patience a little, and said bluntly: "You act as if I charged you with something. I say, 'Altair' came, and to me her visit was very significant and beautiful, because she testified to me that both you and my mother were thinking of me. It was, in fact, your united astral selves that paid that visit. Altair was your materialized friendship and my mother's love."

"What a fantastic notion!" she said; but she lingered, held by something new and masterful in his voice.

She added, with some humor: "Be kind enough to imagine that your mother's 'astral self' preponderated in that vision."

"I do, for when Altair stooped to kiss me—"

"Stop!" she cried out, sharply; "you go too far!"

"Leo!" he called, and his voice checked her as quickly as if he had caught her by the arm. "I am not joking; I am very serious. You must remember that I have lost both my mother and Altair—you alone remain—I can't afford to lose you. You are all I have now. Don't be angry with me."

She considered him with a return to pity. "Forgive me," she hurriedly retracted. "I am very sorry for you, and I don't want to seem unfriendly; but it is only a week since we met. What can you know of me in so short a time?"

"I loved you the moment you came into my mother's room."

"Nonsense. You hated me."

"I did not like the way you treated me; but I never hated you. I was afraid of you."

"If your mother can hear you say that, she is certainly smiling, for she knows you are not afraid of anybody. You're a very stiff-necked person."

"I know you have a right to laugh at me; but I believe our 'guides' have brought us together. I need you—now—and if I dared I'd ask you to wear this." He disclosed a ring in his hand.

She looked at it narrowly. "I know that ring; it was your mother's. She kept it in a little velvet box together with an old-fashioned locket."

"Yes, it is hers. It isn't very grand, compared with your own, but I wish you'd put it on and consider it my promissory note."

"Your promissory note!"

"Yes, I promise to buy it back with all the money you have lost through my mother's advice. Will you wear it for me?"

"Where do you expect to find so much money?"

"Right here, in this great city. Mr. Bartol is to take me into his office. He's like a father to me already; but I don't expect him to give me anything. I'm going to work, and I'm going to pay you back the money you have lost."

Extending her little finger, she took the ring daintily on its tip. "All that sounds very romantic; and yet young men do win wealth and fame right here—and why not you?"

"That's just it. I may be the future monopolizer of air-ships—" The maid, appearing at the moment, announced that a lady wished to see Mr. Ollnee.

"Did she give her name?"

"No, sir; but she said she was a relative, sir."

"Tell her I will see her in a moment."

As the maid left Leo rose.

"Don't go!" pleaded Victor. "My visitor can wait. You haven't said whether you will wear my ring or not. I don't know how long it may be before I can 'make good,' but it will help mightily to know that you are expecting me to do so."

She pondered, but her face was kindly and her voice very gentle as she said: "I don't want to seem unkind now in your hour of grief, but I can't wear the ring." His eyes filled with tears, and she added: "I'll keep it for you. The real question between us will have to be decided some time in the future—when we know each other better. You need not think of paying me. Go and see your relation. It may be a rich aunt come to adopt you."

"Couldn't you learn to love me?" he asked, poignantly.

"I might." She smiled. "I like you already." And she went away, leaving him with stronger will to dare and do.