  It was curious to note the various expressions that met the eyes of the Priestess. Bobsy Roberts regarded her with awe. All his scepticism was gone; he was ready to believe anything she might say. She had stood the severest tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come triumphant through the experimental ordeal. Surely, if she revealed anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. But could she do that? Natalie and Barry both showed fear. Strive to hide it as they would, it lurked in their staring eyes, it was evident in their restless hands, and as if moved by the same thought, they turned and gazed at each other. Beatrice Faulkner looked troubled. She saw the two young people in their distress, and she looked at the Detective furtively. Joyce, however, was the one to whom all turned, breathlessly awaiting her decision. “Yes,” she said, and her voice rang out with its note of determination, “yes, Madame Orienta, tell all you know,—all you can learn by your mystic power.” As if in obedience to a command, the graceful figure of the Mystic fell into a languid pose. Her arms fell limply, her head drooped a very little to one side. Her eyes were open, but seemed to be unseeing, for her glance was fixed, as if watching a mirage. She looked directly toward the chair where Stannard had died. Her half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking. She sounded as one in a trance. She was alive but not alert, like one sleep-walking or talking in a dream. “I see it all,—clearly. I see the artist in his favourite chair. He is at his work,—no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work that he has done. It is not a picture—it is a small panel. He takes up a tool,—an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. He hesitates, and then with a sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. It pleases him that he has done so, and he smiles. A man enters.” There was a stir among her audience. The tension was too great. Barry sought Natalie’s hand and clasped it tightly. Roberts shot glances quickly from one to another, but returned his gaze at once to the speaker. Joyce and Beatrice leaned forward, fairly hanging on the words of revelation. “The man,—he is big and dark,—confronts the artist as he sits. The intruder, without a word, grasps the sharp tool from the fingers of the one who holds it, and thrusts it into the breast of his victim. He darts across the room, turns off all light, and—it is so black,—I cannot see him depart. But—I hear him—I hear his stealthy tread. He comes back, past the dying man,—he hears a groan,—he pauses,—I can see nothing, but I hear two come in at opposite doors. They stand, breathing heavily in fear—in horror of—they know not what. As they stand, half-dazed—I hear the man—the murderer slip past one of them, and out of the room. The light flashes on. The room is dazzlingly bright. I see the two who first entered. They are women. They gaze affrightedly at each other and then at the man in the chair. Two others have appeared. They are at the other end of the long room. It must have been one of these who flashed the light on. They are a man,—a servant he is,—and a woman. Both are terrorised at what they see. The two women near the chair of the dying man accuse each other of the crime. But this is the frenzied cry of shock and fright. They do not mean it—they scarce know what they utter. The dying man raises his head in a final effort of life. He sees the scene with the clearness of the dying brain. He hears the servant say, ‘Who did this?’ He replies, with upraised, shaking finger—‘Natalie—nor Joyce.’ He means neither of these innocent women was concerned. He tries to tell more, to tell of his assailant, but Death claims him. His voice ceases, his heart stops beating,—he is gone. That is all. With his last breath he tried to say, ‘Neither Natalie nor Joyce,’ but his failing speech rendered the words unintelligible. The vision fades.” Orienta ceased speaking, her eyes drooped shut and she lay back in her chair as one asleep. The silence remained unbroken for a minute or more. The beautiful voice still rang in their ears. They were still back in the scene they had heard described. The vividly drawn picture was still with them, and there was no reaction until Bobsy Roberts said, in a tone of awed belief, “By Jove!” Then the stunned figures moved. Beatrice looked at Joyce with a smile of deep thankfulness, and then turned to smile at Natalie. The girl was radiant. She had sensed acutely the whole scene, and she realised perfectly what the revelation meant. Barry was looking at her adoringly, and his face was full of triumphant joy. Joyce looked still a bit dazed. Had the experiment really proved so much more successful than she had dared to hope? She looked at Roberts. He was scribbling fast in a notebook, lest some point of the story escape his memory. Orienta opened her eyes, roused her long, exquisite figure to an upright posture, and passed her hand gently across her brow. “Is it enough?” she asked. “Are you satisfied?” “May we ask questions?” eagerly exclaimed Bobsy. “Yes, but only important ones. I am very weary.” “Then please describe more fully the man who struck the blow.” Again Orienta’s eyes fastened themselves on the big armchair. “I see him clearly,” she said, clasping her hands in her tense concentration, “but his back is toward me as he bends over his victim.” “How is he dressed?” “I cannot quite tell. His figure is vague. His clothes seem merely a dark shadow against the light.” “Does it seem to be evening dress?” “It may be. I cannot say, surely.” “At any rate, it is not the rough dress of a tramp or burglar?” “No,—not that, I think.” “He is not masked?” “No.” “You say he is dark? Pardon me, Madame, but it is my duty to get these details.” “Yes, his hair, as I see it, is dark.” “And he has a round, smooth-shaven face?” Roberts spoke eagerly, as if he had in mind a distinct personality. “No,” said Orienta slowly. “No, he has a long, thin face——” “Can you see his face, then?” Bobsy fairly shot out the words. “Not his face, but an indication of his profile——” “Then is he clean-shaven?” “No, he wears a beard.” “Oh. A dark beard? A heavy one?” “Dark, yes. But not heavy.” “Pointed or full?” “Somewhat pointed—ah, he has turned away. I cannot tell.” “Is he wearing a hat? But, no, you see his hair.” “I see no hat.” “Is there a hat on the table? On a chair?” “I cannot tell. The vision fades.” “Let up, Roberts,” said Barry. “We are sure now the man was an intruder. Let it go at that. If you can find such a one, it won’t matter whether he had a hat or not.” “It is important,” insisted Bobsy. “Now, Madame Orienta, tell us again of his actions. Even if the vision has faded, tell from your memory what he did. You saw him when he crossed the room toward the hall door. It was light then?” “Yes. He moved swiftly, straight to the electric switch, and pressed it. Then I could see no more.” “Of course not. But you heard his steps returning, you said.” “Yes, he went stealthily, but I heard him feel his way by the furniture and walls.” “And at the same time you heard a sound from Mr. Stannard?” “Yes, a sort of gasp or groan.” “Right. It was this, then, that attracted the attention of Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon, and they entered at about the same time?” “So far as I can judge. They were both there when the lights re-appeared.” “And in that brief instant the man had slipped past one of them and escaped.” “That is as the vision revealed it.” “Only one more question. Past which woman did he go?” “I cannot say. I merely heard a quick footstep at that end of the room.” “It couldn’t have been past Miss Vernon,” said Bobsy. “She was too near the door, according to her own account. And I don’t see how he could have passed Mrs. Stannard, as there was a low light in the Billiard Room, and she must have seen him pass.” “Both women were looking toward the source of the sound they heard. Also, at that very moment, the wounded man gave a faint cry of ‘Help!’ An instant after, the servant turned on the light. In that instant the man disappeared, unnoticed by any one. I am not explaining these occurrences, Mr. Roberts; I am describing them. It is for you to interpret their meaning.” Bobsy fell into a brown study, and timidly Natalie put forth a question. “How do you know he said, or tried to say, ‘Neither Joyce nor Natalie’?” Orienta looked at the girl with an affectionate expression. “You are a ‘sensitive’ yourself, Miss Vernon. It will not be difficult for you to understand. By my clairvoyance I read the thought in his mind. I know he feared one or other of the two women he saw might be suspected. The dying often have abnormally acute prescience. To ward off any such danger, and in reply to the servant’s inquiry, he strove to say neither of you were implicated,—he raised his hand in protest,—but he was physically unable to articulate clearly, and so his words were misconstrued.” “You heard the words,” said Natalie to Beatrice Faulkner; “does it seem to you he meant that?” “Yes,” was the reply. “Now that I think it over I feel sure he did. At the moment, you know, I could scarcely control my senses, and his voice sounded so queer and unnatural, it was difficult to gather his meaning.” “I think so, too,” broke in Joyce. “I know that’s what he meant. Eric’s very nature was against his accusing any woman of wrong-doing. He meant just what Madame Orienta has told us. And I am glad there can be no more doubt about it.” “Could a man have brushed by you that moment, Mrs. Stannard?” asked Bobsy. “I suppose so. I came from a lighted room into one of pitch blackness. I heard a quick breathing from the opposite side of the room, where Natalie was. I daresay I involuntarily took a step forward, and the man slipped past, behind me. It all happened so quickly, and I was so frightened, I can’t describe my exact sensations. But I accept Madame Orienta’s revelation as the truth, and——” Joyce’s face paled a little, and she spoke very sternly, “I positively forbid any further investigation of the whole matter.” “Then you suspect some one?” asked Bobsy, quickly. “Not at all,” was the haughty answer, and Joyce looked like a queen issuing commands. “I have no idea who the intruder was, nor do I want to know. But if this story is made public, a dozen men will be found to fit the description, and it will mean no end of trouble and injustice. Therefore, I request, Mr. Roberts, that you let it go no further.” “I can’t promise that,” said Bobsy, gravely. “I am bound to report to my chief. But if he agrees, I will stop all investigation.” “That won’t do,” said Joyce, her dark eyes troubled. “You must promise what I ask.” “I think you need have no fear, Mrs. Stannard, of any injustice being done. One moment, Madame Orienta. You saw the footman, Blake, followed by Mrs. Faulkner, enter the room and turn on the light, just as they testified?” “The light was flashed on, and then I saw the servant, his hand still on the switch. Behind him, at his very shoulder, was Mrs. Faulkner, her face drawn with fear and horror. Naturally I turned my attention at once to the other end of the room, and there saw, for the first time, the two women whom I had heard enter a moment before.” “Thank you, that is all,” and rising, Bobsy Roberts made brief adieus and hurried away. He went straight to headquarters and sought Captain Steele. “Got Stannard’s murderer,” he announced excitedly. “Again or yet?” asked his unmoved listener. “Got it in the queerest way, too,” Bobsy went on, as he fished for his notebooks in the pocket of the overcoat he had laid off. “Do you believe in mejums, Cap?” “Not so’s you’d notice it. Spill your yarn.” “Well, to begin at the beginning of this chapter of it, Mrs. Stannard engaged a clairvoyant lady to see visions.” “Spooks?” “Not exactly that, but to—well, to reconstruct the murder scene,—mentally, you know,—and see who did the stabbing. And by Jove, she told us!” “Come now, Bobsy, I’ll stand for a good deal from you——” “Now, hold on, she didn’t know she told——” “What! Didn’t know what she told——” “If you could listen without butting in every minute, I’d give you the whole story.” “I’ll try,” and Captain Steele folded his hands and listened without a word while Bobsy told him every detail of the Orienta revelation. Often he referred to his notes, and again he told vividly from memory the exact words of the priestess. “And you fell for that?” cried Steele, as the tale ended. “Sure I did, and so would you if you’d been there. You can sort of sense the difference between the professional fake mediums and this—this lady. She was the real thing, all right. I felt just as you do, before I saw her, but I was soon convinced. Why, man, that reading the sealed messages was enough.” “Pooh, they have lots of ways of doing that.” “But she didn’t use any of their ‘ways.’ I, myself, handed the bunch to her, and immediately she read them out, and in pitch dark, too. No, there was no chance for trickery. She read them in dark or light, equally well. And not a seal broken or an envelope torn. Now, then!” “No chance for a confederate?” “Not the least. We sat in a row, and she sat facing us, fully eight feet away. And what could a confederate do? I handed her the envelopes,—she gave them back to me,—intact. Not one of us moved. When it was dark, her voice proved she was in her chair, and when I flashed on the light suddenly, there she was, without a change of posture, holding the envelopes exactly as I had given them to her. I tell you she’s the real thing. I’ve read up on the trickery business, and all the books say that while there is lots of fraud, there is also a certain amount of telepathy or clairvoyance or whatever you call it, that’s true. And that’s her sort.” “Well, who is the man? Did she tell you?” “No, she didn’t know. But I know.” “Who, then?” “Eugene Courtenay.” “What?” “Of course it is. I’ve had him in the back of my head for some time, but I couldn’t get a peg to hang a clue on. Now, I see how he could have done it. He did do it, just as the lady said. He slipped in, stabbed his man, turned off the light, and—slipped out again, past Mrs. Stannard.” “Why didn’t she know it?” “She did know it! Don’t you see? Those two are in love. They wanted Stannard out of the way. But I don’t think there was collusion. I think it was this way. You know, it is history that Mrs. Stannard and Courtenay were alone in the Billiard Room. Of course he was making love to her, and bemoaning the fact of Stannard’s existence. Now, either he went from her into the studio, and she knew it, or else, he went away, as they say, and returned, through the Billiard Room—and she didn’t know it.” “How could she help seeing him?” “Oh, say she was crying,—or had buried her face in a sofa cushion,—or was sitting before the fire and he passed behind her. But admit that he could have gone through that room unknown to her,—which, of course, he could. Well, he goes in, and, later, in the dark, he goes out the same way. I don’t know about her knowledge of any part of this performance, but I think she knew nothing of it, or she wouldn’t have engaged the occult lady.” “She did that to clear herself.” “Yes, and Miss Vernon, too. But when the Priestess, as they call her, spoke of a tall, dark man, with a beard, Mrs. Stannard was scared to death and wanted it all called off.” “A tall man, with a beard?” “Yes, a dark, pointed beard! Isn’t that Courtenay?” “Sounds like him. Did she describe him further?” “Yes, but only when I dragged it out of her. She vowed she couldn’t see him clearly, and I pretended I wanted her to say a round, smooth-shaven face, and little by little I wormed it out, and it was Courtenay to the life. Then, Mrs. Stannard weakened on the whole show, which proves it.” “You say you’ve thought of him before?” “Only vaguely. But you know his story. How he sat on the lawn bench and watched the lights go off and on! Good work, that! He himself turned them off and then escaped to the lawn, and cleverly sat there to see what occurred, instead of going home, and thereby being suspected.” “And kept still when he found those two women were accused?” “Sure. He knew they’d get off all right, and if he expected to marry Mrs. Stannard, he couldn’t let himself get into the game. So he made up his simple, clever yarn, and stuck to it. Yes, sir, Courtenay’s your man!” “Wait, what about that conversation Mrs. Stannard overheard? She says her husband was talking to a woman.” “She made that up. Probably she had a glimmer of suspicion toward Courtenay, and did anything she could to make it seem somebody else.” “Then she hired this visionary, and that brought about the very revelation she didn’t want!” “But she never dreamed it would do so. She had no faith in the thing, and thought it would merely divert suspicion to some unknown intruder. And so it would, if I hadn’t pinned the Seeress down to a careful description. Then, the more Mrs. Stannard showed discomfiture the more I knew I was right.” “I believe you, Bobsy. Now, how shall we go about proving it?” “It will prove itself. It’s a case of murder will out. You’ll see!” |
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