A few of the Duchess’s guests left early—those who had to drive a long distance, and who had not yet discarded their carriage horses for motor-cars. Afterwards the party seemed to draw into a little circle, and it was then that the Duchess, rising to her feet, went over and talked earnestly for a few minutes with Saton.

“Some slight thing!” she begged. “Anything to set these people wondering! Look at that old stick Henry Rochester, for instance. He believes nothing—doesn’t want to believe anything. Give him a shock, do!”

“Can’t you understand, Duchess,” Saton said, “how much harm we do to ourselves by any exhibition of the sort you suggest? People are at once inclined to look upon the whole thing as a clever trick, and go about asking one another how it is done.”

The Duchess was disappointed, and inclined to be pettish. Saton realized it, and after a moment’s hesitation prepared to temporize.

“If it would amuse you,” he said, “and I can find anyone here to help me, I daresay we could manage some thought transference. All London seems to be going to see those two people at the Alhambra—or is it the Empire? You can see the same thing here, if you like.”

The Duchess beamed.

“That would be delightful,” she said. “Whom would you like to help you?”

“Leave me alone for a minute or two,” Saton said. “I will look around and choose somebody.”

The Duchess stepped back into the circle of her guests.

“Mr. Saton is going to entertain us in a very wonderful manner,” she announced.

Rochester, who had been on his way to the billiard room, came back.

“Let us stay and see the tricks,” he remarked to the bishop, who had been his companion.

The Duchess frowned. Saton shot a sudden glance at Rochester. A dull, angry color burned in his cheeks.

“Stay, by all means, Mr. Rochester,” he said. “We may possibly be able to interest you.”

There was almost a challenge in his words. Rochester, ignoring them save for his slightly uplifted eyebrows, sat down by the side of Pauline.

“The fellow’s cheek is consummate!” he muttered.

“I need,” Saton remarked quietly, “what I suppose Mr. Rochester would call a confederate. I can only see one whom I think would be temperamently suitable. Will you help me?” he asked, turning suddenly toward Pauline.

“No!” Rochester answered sternly. “Lady Marrabel will have nothing to do with your performance.”

Rochester bit his lip the moment he had spoken. He felt that he had made a mistake. One or two of the guests looked at him curiously. The Duchess was literally open-mouthed. Saton was smiling in a peculiar manner.

“In that case,” he remarked quietly, “if Mr. Rochester has spoken with authority, I fear that I can do nothing.”

The Duchess was very nearly angry.

“Don’t be such an idiot, Henry!” she said. “Of course Pauline will help. What is it you want her to do, Mr. Saton?”

“Nothing at all,” he answered, “except to sit in a corner of the room, as far from me as possible, and answer the questions which I shall ask her, if she be able. You will do that?” turning suddenly towards her.

“Of course she will!” the Duchess declared. “Be quiet, Henry. You are a stupid, prejudiced person, and I won’t have you interfere.”

Pauline rose to her feet.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that I can scarcely be of much use, but of course I don’t mind trying.”

Saton was standing a little away, with his elbow leaning upon the mantelpiece.

“If two of you,” he said, helping himself to a cigarette, and deliberately lighting it, “will take Lady Marrabel over—say to that oak chair underneath the banisters—blindfold her, and then leave her. Really I ought to apologize for what I am going to do. Everything is so very obvious. Still, if it amuses you!”

Pauline sat by herself. The others were all gathered together in the far corner of the great hall. Saton turned to the bishop.

“This is only a repetition of the sort of thing which you have doubtless seen,” he said. “Have you anything in your pocket which you are quite sure that Lady Marrabel knows nothing of?”

Silently the bishop produced a small and worn Greek Testament. Saton opened it at random. Then he turned suddenly toward the figure of the woman sitting alone in the distance. Some change had taken place in his manner and in his bearing. Those who watched him closely were at once aware of it. His teeth seemed to have come together, the lines of his face to have become tense. He leaned a little forward toward Pauline.

“I have something in my hands,” he said. “I wonder if you can tell me what it is.”

There was no answer. They listened and watched. Pauline never spoke. Already a smile was parting Rochester’s lips.

“I think, Lady Marrabel,” Saton said slowly, “that you can tell me, if you will. I think that you will tell me. I think that you must!”

Something that sounded almost like a half-stifled sob came to them from across the hall—and then Pauline’s voice.

“It is a small book,” she said—“a Testament.”

“Go on,” Saton said.

“A Greek Testament!” Pauline continued. “It is open at—at the sixth chapter of St. Mark.”

Saton passed it round. The Duchess beamed with delight upon everybody. Saton seemed only modestly surprised at the interest which everyone displayed.

“We are only doing something now,” he said, “which has already been done, and proved easy. The only trouble is, of course, that Lady Marrabel being a stranger to me, the effort is a little greater. If you will be content with one more test of this sort, I will try, if you like, something different—something, at any rate, which has not been done in a music-hall.”

A gold purse was passed to him, with a small monogram inscribed. Again Pauline slowly, and even as though against her will, described correctly the purse and its contents.

Saton brushed away the little murmurs of surprise and delight.

“Come,” he said, “this is all nothing. It really—as you will all of you know in a few years time—can be done by any one of you who chooses seriously to develop the neglected part of his or her personality. I should like to try something else which would be more interesting to you.”

The Duchess turned towards him with clasped hands.

“Can’t you,” she said, “make her say how Mr. Rochester met with his accident?”

There was a little thrill amongst everyone. Saton stood as though absorbed in thought.

“Why not?” he said softly to himself.

Rochester laughed hardly.

“Come,” he said, “we are getting practical at last. Let one thing be understood, though. If our young friend here is really able to solve this little mystery, he will not object to my making use of his discovery.”

“By no means,” Saton answered. “But I warn you that if the person is one unknown to Lady Marrabel or myself, I cannot tell you who it was. All that I can do is perhaps to show you something of how the thing was done.”

“It will be most interesting!” Rochester declared.

There was a subdued murmur of thrilled voices. One or two looked at each other uneasily. Even the Duchess began to feel a little uncomfortable. Saton was suddenly facing Pauline. He was standing a little nearer, with the fingers of his right hand resting upon the round oak table which stood in the centre of the hall. His figure had become absolutely rigid, and the color had left his cheeks. His voice seemed to them to come from some other person.

“Listen,” he said, bending even a little further toward the woman, who was leaning forward now from her chair, as though eager or compelled to hear what was being said to her. “A month—six weeks—some time ago, you were with Henry Rochester, a few minutes after his accident. He was shot—or he shot himself. He was shot by design or by misadventure. You were the first to find him. You came round the corner of the wood, and you saw him there, lying upon the grass. You heard a shot just before—two shots. You came round the corner of the wood, and you saw nothing except the body of Henry Rochester lying upon the ground.”

“Nothing!” she murmured. “Nothing!”

There was an intense silence. The little group of people were all leaning forward with eyes riveted upon Pauline Marrabel. Even Rochester’s expression had become a little tense.

“Think again,” Saton said. “There was only a corner of the wood between you and that field when the shot was fired. You are walking there now, now, as the shots are fired. Bend forward. You can see through those trees if you try. I think that you do see through them.”

Again he paused. Again there were a few seconds’ silence—silence save for the quick breathing of the Duchess, who was crumpling her lace handkerchief into a little ball in her hands.

Then Pauline’s voice came to them.

“There is a gun laid against a gate which leads into the field,” she said—“a gun, and by its side a bag of cartridges. Someone has been hiding behind the wall. He has the gun in his hands. He looks along the path. There is no one coming.”

A woman from the little group of people commenced to sob softly. Pauline’s voice ceased. Someone put a hand over the mouth of the frightened woman.

“Go on,” Saton said.

“The man has the gun in his hand. He goes down on his knees,” Pauline continued. “The gun is pointed towards Mr. Rochester. There is a puff of smoke, a report, Mr. Rochester has fallen down. He is up again. Then he falls!—yes, he falls!”

Saton passed his hand across his forehead.

“Go on,” he said.

“The man is taking the cartridge from the gun,” Pauline said. “He slips in another from the bag. He has leaned the gun against the gate. He is stealing away.”

Saton leaned towards her till he seemed even about to spring.

“You could not see his face?” he said.

There was no answer. Two of the women behind were sobbing now. A third was lying back, half unconscious. Rochester had risen to his feet. The faces of all of them seemed suddenly to reflect a new and nameless terror.

Saton moved slowly towards Pauline. He moved unsteadily. The perspiration now was standing in thick beads upon his forehead. He suddenly realized his risk.

“You could not see his face?” he repeated. “You do not know who it was that fired that gun?”

“I could not see his face,” she repeated. “But I—I can see it now.”

“You do not recognise it?” he said, and his voice seemed to come tearing from his throat, charged with some new and compelling quality. “You cannot recognise it? You do not know whether you have ever seen it before?”

Pauline rose suddenly to her feet. Her bosom was heaving, her face was like a white mask. Her hands were suddenly thrown high above her head.

“It is horrible!” she shrieked. “It was you who fired the gun!—You!”

She swayed for a moment, and fell over on her side like a dead woman—her arms thrown out, her limbs inert, as though indeed it were death which had stricken her.

Rochester, with a shout of anger, sprang towards her, sending Saton reeling against the table. He fell on his knees by her side.

“Bring water, some of you idiots!” he cried out. “Ring the bell! And don’t let that cursed charlatan escape!”