  “Mrs. Stannard and I were alone, here in the studio——” “Where was Mr. Stannard?” “I don’t know. He wasn’t in the house.” “Was Mrs. Faulkner?” “Yes, but she wouldn’t stay here with us. She doesn’t approve of any of these psychic investigations, but she doesn’t say much against them, out of respect to Mrs. Stannard’s and my wishes.” “Go on.” Natalie told the story of hearing faint groans, as of a dying man, and of the sudden extinguishing of the lights. “One moment, Miss Vernon. When the lights went out, the room was quite still, was it not?” “Deathly silent, Mr. Ford. Joyce and I were breathless, listening for further sounds of any sort.” “And, tell me, did you hear the click of the switch as the light went out?” “Yes, I did. I heard it distinctly.” “And did that mean nothing to you?” “Why, what could it mean?” “It meant, Miss Vernon, that the light was switched off by a mortal,—flesh and blood hand. Had it been supernaturally extinguished there would have been no sound.” “I heard it,—I’m sure I heard it. But I think the spirit of Mr. Stannard haunts the whole room, and it was he who turned the light off.” “By means of a material switch?” Natalie looked a little uncertain. Varying expressions passed over her face as she thought it out. Then she said, “Don’t spirits ever use material means?” “Not to my individual knowledge,” returned Alan Ford gravely. “I fear, Miss Vernon, your belief in the spiritual influences at work in this affair is about to be rudely shattered. Now, did you hear any other sound,—a click or thud,—after the light went out?” “No. You see, Joyce,—Mrs. Stannard jumped right up and ran across the room and turned on the light.” “Turned it on? It had been really turned off, then?” “Oh, yes. And she turned it on. Then she opened the door and Blake was in the hall, where he belonged. He had seen no one and had heard nothing.” “I must have a chat with Blake. And Mrs. Faulkner, she knew nothing of it all?” “Not till Mrs. Stannard told her. She ran at once to Mrs. Faulkner’s room——” “Where is that room?” “At the other end of the house, on the third floor. And there she found Mrs. Faulkner writing letters. And Mrs. Stannard told her and they came down stairs together. Well, and after Mrs. Stannard left the room, of course, I looked around, and there was the case of jewels on the table.” “Where did they come from? How did they get there?” “The spirit of Mr. Stannard placed them there,” said Natalie, solemnly. “You may scoff, Mr. Ford, you may suspect Blake of being mixed up in it, but you’re all wrong. The studio doors were locked——” “While you and Mrs. Stannard were in there?” “Yes, I locked them myself. All three. There are but three, you know. See, the one to the front hall, the outside one to the Terrace and the one to the Billiard Room. I locked them, and the windows were fastened too. Nobody mortal could have come into that room.” “So it would seem. Now, who else has these leanings toward spirit forces beside you? Who sent for the clairvoyant lady?” “Nobody. That is, she wrote herself to Mrs. Stannard, asking if she might come.” “You liked her? You believed in her?” “In Orienta? Oh, yes. She is not an ordinary person,—I mean she is refined, educated, cultured,—as correct in every way as we are ourselves. She’s not a professional medium, you know.” “I know. And did Mr. Barry Stannard want her to come?” “No; he strongly opposed it.” “And Mrs. Faulkner?” “She deferred to Mrs. Stannard’s wishes. But she had no faith in her. Of course, after Orienta read the sealed letters, Mrs. Faulkner had to believe in that, she couldn’t well help it.” “No. Now, Miss Vernon, when you heard the groan or sigh as if the spirit of Mr. Stannard were expressing itself, where did the sound come from?” “It seemed to come from that chair,—the chair he died in. Joyce and I sat facing it——” “Your backs to the hall door, then?” “Yes, but nobody could open that door, it was locked. Mrs. Stannard unlocked it when she ran out of the room.” “You’re sure of this?” “Positive. We’ve gone over the scene a dozen times or more.” “That seems to let Blake out, doesn’t it? Well, that’s all for the present, Miss Vernon, and thank you for your courteous attention. Now, there’s no one to interview but the servants.” “Mrs. Faulkner? She expects you to talk to her, I think.” “What could she tell me? She wasn’t in this part of the house at the spiritual sÉance, and as to the moment of the crime, she tells no more than Blake. However, I’ll see her for a brief interview. It’s always well to get all the accounts possible.” Natalie left the studio, and in a few moments Beatrice Faulkner came in. “Just a question or two, Mrs. Faulkner,” said Ford, “I know you people are all nearly distraught with these strange and sudden developments. But, tell me, what do you think of Miss Vernon’s story of the spirit manifestations in this room?” “I think it was all the girl’s imagination, Mr. Ford. She is not only of an exaggerated artistic temperament, but excessively nervous and susceptible to hallucinations.” “She is all that, I think. Now, please tell me, very honestly and very carefully, exactly how Mrs. Stannard looked and acted when she ran up to your room to tell you of the strange occurrence in the studio.” “She was terribly excited, Mr. Ford, and she could scarcely speak. She stumbled up the stairs——” “Why, did you see her?” “No, I heard her. I was at my writing desk, and the house was still. Then she flew into my room, without knocking——” “Is it her custom to knock?” “Oh, yes, she always does. And she begged me to go down stairs with her, and I did. The rest you know?” “Yes, and a strange tale it is. How do you suppose the jewels came to be on that table?” “I cannot say,” Beatrice looked sad. “There seems to be only one explanation. That whoever had them or knew where they were, placed them there.” “And how did the bearer of the box get into the locked room?” “I can’t imagine. The only thing I can think of is that Natalie didn’t lock the door as thoroughly as she thinks she did.” “Mrs. Faulkner, tell me this. I assure you I will not use your information unless absolutely necessary. Do you suspect the footman Blake of any connivance—or of any wrong doing in the whole matter?” Beatrice Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, “No, Mr. Ford, I do not. I think Blake a thoroughly honest and trustworthy servant.” “And who is the criminal?” “That I cannot say. I am, as you know, merely a visitor, who chanced to be here at this unfortunate time. I have hesitated to express my opinions lest I do harm to the innocent or retard the quest of the guilty. I can only answer your questions in so far as they are not leading up to suspicion of any of my friends.” “That is the right attitude, Mrs. Faulkner. I thought there was no necessity for troubling you at all, but one or two minor points I prefer to ask of you rather than Mrs. Stannard. Do you know the identity of ‘Goldenheart’?” “I imagine her to be one of Mr. Stannard’s early inamoratas. He had many, and, moreover, I should not be surprised to learn that he called more than one by that name. You know there was a small gift found in his desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. It has occurred to me that the Goldenheart of that matter, and the one to whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person.” “That may well be. You have a logical mind, Mrs. Faulkner. I say this to you, because I want your help. If I should tell you that I do not suspect Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon or Barry Stannard, would you then be willing to assist me in my investigation?” Beatrice Faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in a low tone, “Mr. Courtenay?” “Hush! Don’t mention names. Let us close this conversation right here, and I will tell you at some other time what I want you to do for me.” Beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, Alan Ford remained alone in the studio for an hour or more. Then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with no suggestion of a detective. In the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of Eric Stannard’s papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at this work. At tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked of the visit of Orienta and her wonderful performance. Over and over it was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion Alan Ford grew more and more interested. “Tell me of her costume,” he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard about every other bit of possible interest. “It was beautiful!” exclaimed Natalie. “A long, full robe of a sort of sage green——” “What material?” asked Ford, and Barry looked at him in surprise. What kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture of a costume? “Why, it was silk, I think,—yes, heavy silk, wasn’t it, Joyce?” “That, or a silk poplin. It was not a modern, modish gown at all; it was like a draped shawl.” “Drapery hanging from the shoulders?” “Yes,” Natalie answered, her mind so intent on giving Ford the right idea, that she didn’t think of the queerness of the question. “Double skirt?” “Yes—or, that is, a skirt, and then an over drapery in full long folds. Oh, it was lovely!” “Are you apt with your pencil, Miss Vernon? Could you draw a rough sketch of that gown?” “I can’t but Mrs. Faulkner can. She’s good at sketching draperies. Here’s a paper pad, Beatrice. Will you draw it for Mr. Ford?” “Certainly,” and taking the paper, Beatrice rapidly sketched an indication of Orienta, in her flowing robe. “That’s just right,” said Natalie, “but the folds were fuller, I think.” “Never mind,” said Ford, “this will do. I only wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked,” and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them into a waste basket. The talk drifted to the house and its architecture. “The whole house is a gem,” said Alan Ford, enthusiastically, “but the staircase is a marvel. Nowhere in this country have I seen its equal. Your husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner?” “For years. He took great pride in building this house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece.” “Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of it? I should like to see them. Architecture is one of my hobbies.” “No, I haven’t the plans, Mr. Ford.” “Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with the title deeds. Have you them, Mrs. Stannard?” “No, we never had them. I never thought about them.” “Doubtless they are among Mr. Stannard’s belongings. They must have been given to him. It doesn’t matter. I oughtn’t to take time to look at them, anyway. But one thing I do want to see, and that is the picture of Mrs. Faulkner that Mr. Stannard was engaged on at the time of his death. I’m told it is an example of his best work. May I have a glimpse of it?” Beatrice Faulkner looked a little flattered at this request, but she said only, “Certainly, Mr. Ford. It is in the studio.” They all went in to see it, and Barry arranged the portrait on an easel and adjusted a light for it. “It is indeed splendid,” said Ford, in genuine admiration. The portrait was excellent and lifelike, but more than that it was a work of art. Beatrice, in a gown of deep ruby velvet, with the great staircase for a background, was at her very best. Her face, always handsome, was imbued with a fine spiritual grace, and she looked the embodiment of happiness. The whole conception was, perhaps, a little idealised, but it was a magnificent portrait, and a stunning picture. “I’m so glad you have it, Beatrice,” said Joyce, softly. “You’ve been so good and dear, and have done so much for us all ever since Eric’s death, I’m happy for you to have this remembrance of him.” “I’m glad, too,” and Beatrice looked at the reflection of herself through misty eyes. Bobsy Roberts came in while they were looking at the portrait, and he, too, was charmed with its beauty. “That staircase makes a wonderful setting. I’m a fancier of staircases, and I think this one beats any I ever saw.” “A fancier of staircases, what do you mean?” asked Natalie. “Yes, I’ve studied architecture, more or less, but the stairs have always especially interested me. I’ve just run across an old book, called ‘Staircases and Steps,’ and it’s most interesting.” “I agree with you,” said Alan Ford. “And the staircase here is a gem. That’s why I wanted to see the plans of the house.” “Mayn’t we see them?” asked Bobsy, turning to Joyce. “Why, I haven’t them, Mr. Roberts. Perhaps they’re among my husband’s belongings, but I’ve never seen them.” “You see,” observed Ford, stepping out into the hall, “it’s the wonderful proportion of one part to another that makes the beauty of it. The stair-well, clear to the roof, the arcaded hall, the noble high-ceiled studio and this little low-ceiled Reception Room, fitted in just here, make up a splendid whole. Did not your late husband feel this?” Ford added, turning to Beatrice. “Yes,” she replied, briefly, and then Bobsy tore himself away from the fascinating subject of architecture to ask Alan Ford if he had made any progress in his investigations. “I have,” replied Ford. “I have found out a lot of things that seem to me indicative. But it all hinges on whether there are spiritual influences at work or not. It seems to me, if the spirit of Mr. Stannard could return to earth and manifest itself in any way, it would prove——” “Prove what?” asked Mrs. Faulkner, as the detective paused. “Well, I may be foolish, but it would seem to me to prove that he wanted us to stop these investigations and let the matter remain a mystery.” “You really think that!” exclaimed Bobsy, as his estimation of Alan Ford’s genius for detective work received a sudden setback. “I think I agree with Mr. Ford,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully. “If Eric wanted us to continue our inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave.” “Oh, Mr. Ford,” and Natalie gave a little gasp, “do you really think, then, it was Mr. Stannard’s spirit that I heard in the studio? Do you think I am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real manifestation?” “Those things are hard to tell, Miss Vernon. But I am going to ask the privilege of spending to-night alone in the studio. Then if any demonstration occurs, I shall, as I told you, think there is reason to believe——” Ford’s pause was eloquent of deep feeling. Truly the man was in earnest, whether he was right or not. “May I not stay there with you?” asked Roberts, a little diffidently. “No, please. I want to be alone. I shall lock myself in, and I must ask not to be disturbed in any way.” “I wish I could stay with you,” and Natalie sighed. “But I suppose you wouldn’t want me to.” “No, please,” said Ford, gently. “I must be alone.” |
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