  At Ford’s request, the evening was spent without reference to the matter that was uppermost in every mind. At dinner the detective was merely a pleasant and entertaining guest. Afterward, in the Drawing Room he proved himself a good talker and a good listener, and the conversation, on all sorts of topics, was casual and interesting. It was nearly midnight when Ford bade them good night, and went to the studio to hold his vigil. The others followed him in, Joyce asking if he would like any refreshment served during the night. “No,” he replied. “It will not be so very long until daylight. And, too, perhaps nothing will happen, and I may fall asleep. Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Stannard, I shall not be at all uncomfortable. See, I shall sit just where Miss Vernon sat the other night. Right here, facing the chair in which Mr. Stannard died. Thus, I have my back to the hall door, and the North window, but I shall make sure that all are securely locked, and then if any manifestation occurs, I shall have every reason to be sure it is of supernatural origin.” “And that would make you give up the case?” asked Beatrice, incredulously. “I think so,” returned Ford. “I should probably leave here to-morrow.” “Well, of all queer detectives!” said Barry Stannard, as they went from the room and heard the click of the key as it was turned in the door behind them. True to his word, Alan Ford examined with minutest care every door and window. He made sure no lock or catch was left unfastened, and then, the lights burning brightly, he took his seat just where he had said he would, facing the chair in which Eric Stannard had met his fate. Also, he faced the two doors that led respectively to the Billiard Room and the Terrace. This left more than half the room behind him and out of his line of vision. But the detective paid no attention to that part of the studio, and rested his contemplative gaze on the great armchair which had helped to stage the tragedy. The hours went by. Alan Ford scarcely moved from the easy, relaxed position he had taken at first. He closed his eyes for the most of the time, now and then slowly opening them for a moment. His left hand, lying on his knee, clasped some small object. It was shortly after three o’clock in the morning, when there was the sound of a click and the lights went out. The studio was in absolute darkness. Ford rose quickly and crossed the room to the light switch by the hall door. He knew the position of the furniture, and felt his way by the chairs. As he did so, he heard a long, gasping sigh, and a faint cry of “Help!” By this time he had reached the switch and turned it on. The sudden flash of light showed no one in the room save himself, but not pausing to look about, he unlocked the hall door, passed quickly through and ran up the first steps of the stairs. On he went to the second great square landing, and there he paused. He did not stand still, but stepped about on the landing, making exclamations to himself, and breathing heavily. He leaned against the baluster, tapping on the newel post with his fingers. Then, he sat down on the lowest step of the third or upper division of the flight. He sat, tapping his foot against the stair, he even whistled a little under his breath. He seemed anxious not to be silent. There was a low light in all the halls, and occasionally Ford leaned his head over the baluster and commanded a view of the hall below. Half an hour passed, and then Joyce Stannard appeared from the hall above. She wore a boudoir gown and slippers, and her weary eyes betokened a sleepless night. She started with surprise at sight of Alan Ford on the stairs. But he made a motion requesting her to be silent, and taking a bit of paper from his pocket he wrote: “Say no word. Go back to the hall above and remain there, but out of sight of this spot, until I summon you. Overhear all you can, but on no account let yourself be seen.” Joyce read the strange message, and going back up the few steps she had descended, she sat on a hall window seat, concealed by a light curtain. Then Alan Ford, with a short, sad sigh, stood up and approached the panelled wall of the staircase. Down the flights the panels of course slanted, but on the landing they were in level row. Placing his lips to the wall itself, Ford said in a clear low whisper, “Will you come out?” From behind the wall he heard an agonised moan. “It would be better,” he said, gently. “Do come.” Another moment passed, and then, a panel of the wainscot slid open and Beatrice Faulkner stepped forth onto the landing. “You know all?” she said, and her great despairing eyes looked into those of the detective. “Almost all,” he returned, and his glance at her was infinitely sad. “You killed Stannard?” “Yes,” she said, and swayed as if she would fall to the floor. Ford assisted her to stand and then gently aided her to a seat on the stair where he had sat a moment since. Beatrice sank to the step and Ford closed the panel she had left open. He did not look into the place to which the panel gave entrance, for he knew what it was. It was the space above the Reception Room. He had seen when he entered the house that since the Reception Room and the studio were next each other and yet there was five or six feet difference in the height of their respective ceilings, that space must be a sort of loft or waste room. It showed from none of the sides. Both hall and studio were high ceiled. The staircase well reached to the roof. There was no explanation of the discrepancy but a waste space the size of the Reception Room and about six feet in height. This space, of course, abutted on the studio, the hall, the stairs, and, on the other side, the outer or Terrace wall. In the studio the balcony ran along the wall at about the height of the stair landing on the other side. Ford guessed at once that ingress to that waste space must be had from the studio or the stair landing or both. He now was sure that panels from both opened into it. As he closed the panel, he noted that there was no secret or concealed fastening. Merely an ordinary flush spring catch, inconspicuous but not hidden. Ford turned to the woman on the stairs. He sat down beside her. “Tell me about it,” he said, and his voice was so gentle, his face so sad, that Beatrice turned to him as to a friend. “There is little to tell,” she said, wearily. “It is the story of a great love, a love too big and strong to be conquered by a weak-willed woman. I tried—oh, I tried——” “Don’t give way, Mrs. Faulkner, just tell me the main facts. You knew Mr. Stannard years ago?” “I was his first love. We were schoolmates. I always loved him—more than loved him. I worshipped, adored him. He loved me,—but he was always fickle. He loved every woman he saw. Then,—he married—his first wife, I mean, and I thought I should die. But never mind the past. I married, and I tried to forget Eric. My husband built this beautiful home, but he had financial troubles and couldn’t keep it. Eric Stannard bought it, and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married my friend Joyce. I tried to be reconciled, but the demon of jealousy tore my very heart out. I gave over this house to them and went away. A portrait of myself was to be part of the purchase price, and—even though I knew it would be acute torment to see Eric happy here with Joyce, I came to stay a month and have the picture painted. As I feared, the necessarily intimate association between the artist and myself quickened my never-dying love for him, until I was almost frantic. I could have stood it, though, had it been only his wife. But when he fell desperately in love with the model, I resented it for Joyce and myself both. But I had no thought of killing him,—don’t think that!” “It was done on a sudden impulse, then.” Ford was watching her closely. He knew that her enforced calm might give way at any instant and he strove to speak quietly and lead her gently on to a confession. Moreover, he trusted that Joyce was listening, as he had asked her to do. Thus the confession would be witnessed. “It was this way,” and Beatrice looked piteously into his kind eyes. “Mr. Wadsworth asked me that night to marry him. We were in the Drawing Room, as you know. I wouldn’t say yes, for I still had a faint hope of winning Eric. It was absurd for me to think it, but I was desperate. After Mr. Wadsworth left me, I sat a moment in the Drawing Room, and then I resolved to go to Eric, by the secret passage, of which only he and I knew, and beg him to put Joyce away and take me. I say this without shame, for I was—and am, still, so madly in love with him, that I had no shame regarding it, and would have suffered any ignominy or humiliation to win him. I went through that small space; it is not really secret, but no one has ever noticed it, and I went through to the studio, and stepping in the room, on the little balcony, I saw Eric below me, gazing at the etching of Natalie with an adoring look. He bent down and kissed the picture, and then I descended the stairs and spoke to him. I told him that Natalie loved Barry and hated him. I urged him to divorce Joyce and let her marry Eugene Courtenay and I begged him to marry me. He laughed at me! I shall never forget that laugh! But that wasn’t why I killed him. It was because he turned again to that picture of Natalie and into his face came a look that I had never seen there. A look of love such as I had never been able to call forth on his face, a worshipping passion that transcended all love I had ever dreamed of. And that he felt for a little girl who hated him. Jealousy maddened me, and snatching up an etching tool I marred the wax beyond recognition. He turned on me, his face livid with rage. The contrast,—the look of love he had for the girl, the look of venomous hate he gave me, bereft me of my senses. No, I do not mean I did not know what I was doing,—I did know. I fully meant at that moment to kill him, and then to kill myself, that we might at least die together. I should not have thought of killing him if I hadn’t chanced to have that tool in my hand. Nor should I have wanted to kill him but for his scorn of me and his love for her. The two together drove me wild, and I stabbed him in a moment of fierce passion that was love, not hate. Then, as I was about to draw forth the needle and stab myself, I saw that he was not dead. He looked at me, and I couldn’t say it was with hatred. I think—I honestly think—that he gloried in my deed,—you cannot understand,—it is a strange idea, but I think he realised at last the depth of my love and appreciated it. Anyway, I read that in his face, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave a world that still held him. I didn’t dare remove the needle, lest it bring about his death,—I didn’t dare remain and be found there with him. My mind fairly flew. I thought so fast and so clearly, I concluded to escape by the panel and return quickly through the hall and thus coming upon him, apparently innocently, save his life.” “You crossed the room,” Ford prompted, for the speaker’s strength was failing. “Yes, I crossed the room, as deliberately as if nothing had happened. I turned off the light, that I might make good my escape. I flew through the panelled space, and in a few seconds I was out at this end, here on this landing and down the stairs. I saw at once that Blake had heard something, but whether it was a sound from Eric, or the noise of my departure I did not then know. I spoke to the man,—and the rest you know.” “You were surprised when the light was turned on to see the two women there?” “I was dumfounded. I couldn’t think at first what it would mean to me—or to them. I had no thought of allowing them to be suspected of the crime, but circumstances were too strong for me. They were found there, near the dying man,—I had, to all appearances come in from the other end of the room,—naturally they were suspected. And then reaction had come; no longer was I keyed up by that torment of jealousy, that spur of scorned love. I had time to think,—even when all were wondering and questioning, I had time to think. And I concluded I would never confess unless I was obliged to do so, to save some one else. I decided to devote every energy and use every effort to divert suspicion from all in the household. It was I who really arranged for——” “For the clairvoyant,” said Ford, as Beatrice paused from sheer weakness of breath. “Yes, you understand that?” “You hired her, instructed her to write to Mrs. Stannard, and you told her what to say.” “Yes, I wanted her to make it appear that the murderer was a man who had entered through the Billiard Room. I meant for the man’s identity to be absolutely unknown. But they managed to fasten it on Mr. Courtenay and my plan failed utterly.” “And then?” “Then I had about decided to tell the truth. When they arrested Barry, I quite decided. And then you came. I knew that was my death knell. But when you said if the spirit manifestation appeared in the studio to-night—that was a trap, wasn’t it?” “Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, it was a trap. I knew whoever had been playing ‘spirit’ by the use of the panelled space, would do it again to-night at my words, and I felt sure it would be you. I am sorry——” “I believe you are, Mr. Ford. I know from your whole attitude you are sorry for me. Otherwise, I could not have told you all this as I have done. You are more like a father confessor than a detective. It helps a little to know you are sorry for me——” “How did Orienta read the papers? The pocket-light method?” “Yes. She is very clever; I’ve known her for years. She is not a medium at all. I persuaded her that to do as I asked would save innocent people from being suspected. Of course, she didn’t know I was guilty.” “And you were ‘Goldenheart’?” “Yes. It was Eric’s old pet name for me. He wrote that letter to me, giving me the emeralds if I would cease asking for his love. He said I knew where the jewels were, because he always kept them in the panelled space,—that’s what we called it,—and Joyce did overhear him saying to me in the studio practically what he had written in the letter. Had she not been so wrapped up in her own heart trouble, she would have heard it clearly. Of course, too, that little golden heart that was bought and never presented was meant for me.” “You told Orienta to say that Mr. Stannard said ‘Neither Natalie nor Joyce.’?” “Yes, for I really think that was what he did mean to say. He wouldn’t implicate me, even with his dying breath, but he tried to clear them. He was a wonderful man, Mr. Ford. Not a good man, perhaps, but a brave one. He would have defended any or all of us, but he had no chance. My love for him has been the mainspring of my whole life. Instead of forgetting him, I grew more madly in love with him year by year. I had no business to come here, and let him paint me. Those hours when I posed for him were the happiest I have ever known. That’s why the portrait is of a happy woman. I hoped against hope that I could yet win him back. But I couldn’t—I can only follow him.” The quietness of Beatrice’s voice had lulled any suspicions Ford might have had of her intent, and when she drew from the folds of her bodice an etching needle, exactly like the one that had killed Eric, and drove it into her own breast, Ford wheeled suddenly and grasped her hand,—but too late. The deed was done. At his exclamation, Joyce ran down from the hall above, where she had been listening to Beatrice’s story. She sank down beside the wounded woman and took the drooping figure in her arms. “Forgive——” moaned Beatrice. “Joyce,—forgive,—I—I loved him so.” “Yes,—yes,” soothed Joyce, scarce knowing what she said. “What can we do, Mr. Ford? Oh, what can we do?” “Nothing, I fear. Call help. Shall I ring?” Ford hastened to the nearest bell he could notice and rang it. Immediately people began to gather, servants, family,—and all sorts of contradictory orders were given. But with his finger on the pulse of the dying woman the detective tried to learn yet more facts. “The will,” he asked, bending above her. “Who changed it?” “Eric himself,” Beatrice answered, “that’s why—oh, Eric!” Her faced beamed with a strange radiance, and then sinking back in Joyce’s arms, Beatrice Faulkner breathed her last. The next day Alan Ford declared he must hasten away as his engagements were pressing. “But tell us more of your work,” implored Bobsy Roberts, “give us a few moments more.” “And tell us about that clairvoyant woman,” said Barry. “If she was a fake, how did she read those papers in the dark?” “I realised, before I came up here at all,” said Ford, “that there had to be some secret means of entrance to the studio. I see now, it was never meant to be secret. The architect made the Reception Room ceiling lower than the studio ceiling, because it was a smaller room and he observed due proportions. This left a space there, but it was not concealed or hidden. The catches on both doors are merely small ones and inconspicuous but not concealed. Mr. Faulkner left all the house plans in that loft and Eric Stannard knew of it. He chose to conceal his jewels there as being a convenient place. Only he and Mrs. Faulkner knew of the space, but that was merely a chance happening. He, in no sense, kept it a secret. When I read the accounts in New York papers I felt the case must hinge on another entrance of some sort. When I reached here I saw at once that there was a discrepancy in the heights of those two ceilings, and I worked from that. I was sure the spirit manifestations were made possible by human means working through that concealed space, and I found I was right. I assumed it was probably Mrs. Faulkner who played the spirit as she refused to show the plans of the house, and my theories, based on those plans, left her free to do all she did do, without being discovered. I found she could have placed the jewels on the table that night and returned to her room through the little loft, and be seated at her desk, writing, when Mrs. Stannard reached her room. She said she heard Mrs. Stannard coming up stairs, but as the door was shut and the stairs thickly carpeted, this was unlikely. So I assume she was expecting her. All facts pointed to the guilt of Mrs. Faulkner, but they were by no means obvious. So, when I said if spirits came to the studio last night I should drop the case to-day, I meant because it would be solved. But Mrs. Faulkner thought I would give it up as unsolvable, so she played ‘spirit’ again. I had in my hand a tiny mirror of the sort that shows what is passing at one’s back. I heard, as I sat there, the soft opening of the panel in the studio balcony, and I knew she was coming down the little stair. I heard her click off the light, and just as she did so, I caught a glimpse of her in my mirror. So I went out at the hall door, snapping on the light as I passed, and went up on the grand staircase, knowing I would head her off, and have her practically penned in there. Mrs. Stannard found me waiting there, and I arranged for her to witness the confession that I knew must come. I did not foresee that Mrs. Faulkner would take her own life, but perhaps it is as well. There was no happiness or peace for her in this world, it was better she should expiate her own sin. Poor soul, she was a victim of a love that proved too great for her human nature to strive against. As to the will, I felt sure Mr. Stannard had made that change himself. It looked like his writing, and I felt sure neither Miss Vernon nor Mr. Barry Stannard would have done it.” “And you picked out the truth from the maze of probabilities and suspicion and false evidence——” Bobsy looked at the great detective in an awed way. “I gained most of my information and formed most of my conclusions from my talks with each one separately. I am a fairly good judge of character, and I saw at once neither Mrs. Stannard nor Miss Vernon was guilty. They were both uncertain and indefinite in their testimony. They scarcely knew even the sequence of events at the time of the tragedy; if they had been telling untruths, they would have been positive in their statements. Also, I saw at once Barry Stannard and Miss Vernon more than half feared each other guilty and each was ready for any sacrifice or effort to save the other. This let them both out, for neither could be guilty and suspect some one else! Mr. Courtenay had practically no real evidence against him, so it came back to Mrs. Faulkner. I talked to her enough to strengthen my suspicion in that direction and then tested her by the night in the studio. She proved herself the source of the ‘spiritual’ manifestations, and showed how she did it. That left only the matter of getting her confession. I feel deep pity for the poor woman; she led a sad, miserable existence because of a mistaken love. Also, I must admit that she was of a different stamp from the people here. Mrs. Faulkner was capable of strong passion that did not stop at crime. I judge the rest of you would not be, and I do not think I am mistaken in that.” Alan Ford looked around at the pure sweet face of Natalie, the noble countenance of Joyce, and the brave boyish frankness that shone in Barry’s glance and sighed as he thought of the smouldering fires in the deep eyes of the woman who was conquered by her own evil passion. “But tell us about the sealed reading,” insisted Bobsy, as Ford rose to go. “Oh, yes,” cried Natalie, “how was that done?” “One of the tricks of the trade,” said Ford. “You know there are dozens of ways to read sealed writings.” “Yes, but what way did she use?” “This way. You know, I insisted on a full description of her dress. When I found it was of full pattern and made of an opaque material, I understood. You see, if a message is written with ink, and if the paper is slipped, unfolded, into a moderately thin envelope, the writing can be read with ease in the dark by holding an electric pocket flashlight behind the envelope. Orienta, the room being darkened, drew the loose folds of her gown over her head, and thus shielded, took a little flashlight from her pocket, read them all, by its aid, then returning the light to her pocket, remembered the questions and spoke them out, both with and without a light. The second time, I believe, she read the first ones in the dark and the others in the light. There were no signatures, but she had learned each one’s hand-writing from the first lot. The thing is simple, and is the most mystifying of all sealed paper readings.” “Will it always work?” asked Roberts, greatly interested. “In total darkness, yes. Go into a dark closet and try it. Of course, Orienta’s drapery served to aid her and also to conceal the light from her audience.” “And all the answers she made up,—or Beatrice had told her,” said Natalie, thoughtfully. “Yes,” said Ford. “And now I must go. I shall hope to meet you all again some day, and if I can tell you anything more you care to learn about these make-believe wizards, I shall be glad to do so.” He went away, and Barry and Natalie went off by themselves, to rejoice in the fact that all veils of suspicion were lifted from them and that they had long years ahead to help one another to forget the past and make a radiant, happy future. Joyce had a quiet knowledge that some time in the coming years she, too, would again know happiness, and all united in a sad pity for the beautiful but misguided woman whose hand wrought the tragedy of Faulkner’s Folly. THE END |
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