  When Mary Pennington married a man named Wise, it was not at all an unusual impulse that prompted her to name her first born son after her own family name, and so Pennington Wise came into being. Then, of course, it followed, as the night the day, that his school chums should call him Penny Wise, which name stuck to him through life. Whether this significant name was the cause of his becoming a detective is not definitely known, but a detective he did grow up to be, and a good one, too. Eccentric, of course, what worthwhile detective is not? But clear cut of brain, mind and intelligence. And always on the lookout for an interesting case, for he would engage in no others. Wherefore, his persistence in desiring to investigate the strange mysteries of Black Aspens won the day against Milly’s endeavours to prevent his coming. She had done all she could, and most of the house party had aided her efforts, but Professor Hardwick had become imbued with the idea that there was human agency at work, and that his belief in spiritual visitation, honest though it had been, was doomed to a speedy death, unless further proof could be shown. Norma, too, was rather inclined to welcome a specialist in the solving of mysterious problems, and in conference with the Professor agreed to do all she could to help the Wise man in his work. Norma was still of the opinion that the two tragic deaths were the work of evil spirits, but if it were not so, she wanted to know it. But the principal reason why Pennington Wise came to Black Aspens was his own determination to do so. He had never heard of such an unusual and weird mystery, and it whetted his curiosity by its strange and almost unbelievable details. The opposing party gave in gracefully, when they found his advent was inevitable. All but Milly, that is. She spent her time alternately crying her heart out in Wynne’s arms, and bracing herself up for a calm and indifferent attitude before the new investigator. “Keep a stiff upper lip,” Braye advised her. “Remember not to give out any information, Milly. Let him find out all he can, but don’t help him.” “All right, Rudolph; and, anyway, I know Wynne is innocent,——” “Of course he is! That goes without saying. But if he is suspected, say, if Stebbins or Thorpe or anybody else puts Wise up to suspicion, it may mean a bad quarter of an hour for all of us. So, just be quiet, dignified, pleasant-mannered and all that, but don’t say anything definite. For it might be misconstrued and misunderstood, and make trouble. At least, that’s the course I’m going to pursue, and I think it’s the best plan.” “Oh, I know it is,” Milly agreed. “In fact, that’s just about what Wynne told me; he thinks if I try to help, I’ll only make mistakes, so he, too, told me to keep quiet. Eve is awfully angry, because that man is coming. She’s not saying so, but I know her! And, Rudolph, she’s afraid of something. I don’t know what, exactly, but she’s fearfully afraid of developments.” “We all are, Milly. If the detective pins it on any human being,—that means trouble, and if he decides it’s spooks, after all,—I think I’ll be more afraid of them than ever!” “I can’t be any more afraid of them than I am!” Milly shuddered. “Oh, Rudolph, how I wish we had never come up here!” “We all wish that, Milly, but as we’re in for it now, we must see it through.” Pennington Wise arrived the next afternoon. He came into the hall like an army with banners. A tall, well set-up man, of about thirty-three or four, thick chestnut hair, worn À la brosse, clear blue eyes, a clean-cut, fine-featured face, and a manner that proclaimed generalship and efficiency to the last degree. “Here I am,” he announced, setting down several pieces of hand luggage and whipping off his soft gray felt hat. “You are the hostess?” His quick-darting eyes had picked out Milly, and he greeted her as a distinguished visitor might. “Who is that?” exclaimed Milly, looking at a slight, black-haired girl who followed quietly in Wise’s footsteps. “That? oh that’s Zizi,—part of my luggage. Put her any place. Is there a housekeeper person? Yes? Well, turn Zizi over to her, she’ll be all right.” Hester was peeping in at a rear door, unable to restrain her curiosity as to the commotion, and Zizi glided toward her and disappeared in the shadows. “Now,” said Wise, his quick smile flashing inclusively at all of them, “we must get acquainted. I’m Penny Wise, and all possible jokes on my name have already been made, so that’s all right. I know Mrs. Landon, and you, of course,” looking at Wynne, “are her husband. Professor Hardwick,” and he bowed slightly, “is the man with whom I have had a short correspondence regarding my coming here. You, sir,——” he looked inquiringly at Braye. “I’m Rudolph Braye, nephew of Mr. Gifford Bruce, and present heir to his fortune.” The quiet sadness of Braye’s tone precluded any idea of his triumph of exultation at the fact he stated. “This,” he went on, “is the Reverend Mr. Tracy, a friend of us all. And these ladies are Miss Carnforth and Miss Cameron, both deeply interested in the solution of the mysteries that confront us. Since introductions are in order, may I inquire further concerning the young lady,—or child,—who accompanied you?” “Zizi? She’s part of my working outfit. In fact, one of my principal bits of paraphernalia. I always use her on mysterious cases. Don’t look on her as an individual, please, she’s a property,—in the theatrical sense, I mean.” “But her standing in the household?” asked Milly, “does she belong with the servants, or in here with us?” “She’ll look after that herself,” and Penny Wise smiled. “Pay no more attention to her than you would to my umbrella or walking stick. Now we know each others’ names, let’s proceed to the case itself. Who is going to tell me all about it?” “Which of us would you rather have do so?” asked Eve, her long, glittering eyes fixed on the detective’s face. He glanced at her quickly, and then let his gaze continue to rest on her beautiful, sibylline countenance. “Not you,” he said, “you are too—well, I suppose the word I must use is temperamental, but it’s a word I hate.” “Why?” asked the Professor, “what do you mean by temperamental?” “That’s the trouble,” smiled Wise. “It doesn’t mean anything. Strictly speaking, every one has temperament of one sort or another, but it has come to mean an emotional temperament,——” “What do you mean by emotional?” interrupted Hardwick. “There you go again!” and Wise looked amused. “Emotions are of all sorts, but emotional has come to be used only in reference to demonstrations of the affections.” “You’re a scholar!” cried the Professor. “Rarely do I meet a man with such a fine sense of terminology!” “Glad you’re pleased. But, Professor, neither do I choose you as historian of the affairs of Black Aspens. Let me see,” his eyes roved from one to another, “it seems to me I’ll get the most straightforward, uncoloured statement from a clerical mind. I think Mr. Tracy can tell me, in the way I want to hear it, a concise story of the mysteries and tragedies you have been through up here.” Mr. Tracy looked at the detective gravely. “I am quite willing to do what I can,” he said, “and I will tell the happenings as I know them. For occasions when I was not present, or where my memory fails, the others will, I trust, be allowed to help me out.” And then, the whole matter was laid before the intelligence of Pennington Wise, and with a rapt look of interest and a few pointed questions here and there, the detective listened to the history of his new case. At last, the account having been brought up to date, Wise nodded his head, and sat silent for a moment. It was not the melodramatic silence of one affecting superiority, but the more impressive quietude of a mind really in deep thought. Then Wise said, simply, “I’ve heard nothing yet to make me assume any supernatural agency. ’Ve you, Zizi?” “No,” came a soft, thin voice from the shadowy depths of the rear hall. Milly jumped. “Has she been there all the time?” she said. “She’s always there,” returned Wise, in a matter-of-fact way. “Now I’m ready to declare that the deaths of your two friends are positively not due to spiritistic wills, but are dastardly murders, cleverly accomplished by human hands and human brains.” “How?” gasped Eve Carnforth. She was leaning forward, her beryl eyes dilated and staring, her hands clenched, her slender form trembling with excitement. “That I do not know yet,—do you, Zizi?” “No,” came tranquilly from the distance. “Let that girl come here,” cried Milly, pettishly. “It gets on my nerves to have her speaking from way back there!” “Come here, Zizi,” directed Penny Wise, and the slim young figure glided toward them. She was a mere slip of a girl, a wisp of humanity, in a flimsy frock of thin black stuff, with a touch of coral-tinted chiffon in bodice and sash. The skirt was short, and her black silk stockings and high-heeled pumps gave her a chic air. Her black hair was drawn smoothly back, in the prevailing mode, and though she had an air of world-knowledge, she was inconspicuous in effect. Without a glance at the people, personally, she sat down in a chair, a little apart, yet in full view of all. Wise paid no attention to her, and went on, thoughtfully. “No, there is no evidence pointing to the occult, but innumerable straws to show which way the camel’s back is to be broken.” “Mr. Wise,” said Eve, determinedly, “I don’t think it is fair for you to hear the story only from Mr. Tracy. I think he is opposed to a belief in psychics and so unintentionally colours his narrative to lead away from such theories.” “That may be so,” said Tracy, himself, looking thoughtfully at Eve; “and I agree it would be fairer to hear the story, or parts of it, retold by Miss Carnforth or some one who fully believes in spiritism.” “Right,” said Wise; “go ahead, Miss Carnforth, tell me anything that seems to you different in meaning from what Mr. Tracy has described.” Quite willing, Eve told of the ghostly visitant that had appeared to her the night she slept in the Room with the Tassels, and then described vividly the ghost that had appeared to Vernie, as Vernie had told it to her. “You see,” she concluded, “there is no explanation for these things, other than supernatural, for the locks and bars on the house preclude intrusion of outsiders, and all the occupants of the house are accounted for. I tell you the things just as they happened.” “With no wish to be discourteous, Miss Carnforth, I would advise you to tell those tales to the submarines. Even the marines couldn’t swallow those! Could they, Zizi?” “No,” and now that they could see the girl, all noticed a slight smile of amusement on her young face. It was quickly followed by a look of horror in her black eyes, as she murmured, “What awful frights you must have had!” and she glanced at Milly, in sympathy. Then she turned toward Norma, and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it. Not looking toward his “property,” Wise went on talking. “I can readily see how any one willing to believe in the occult could turn these weird happenings into plausible proof. But it is not so. Miss Carnforth’s own story convinces me even more strongly that there has been diabolical cleverness used, but by a human being, not a phantom.” “And you will discover how, you will solve the mysteries?” asked the Professor, eagerly. “I hope to. But it is the most difficult appearing case I have ever encountered.” “It is not an eleventh case, then?” and Professor Hardwick told again of Andrew Lang’s percentage of proof. “No, it is not. It is one of the ten that are the result of fraud. Now to find the perpetrator of the fraud.” “At least you must admit, Mr. Wise,” said Eve, a little spitefully, “that your saying it is a case of fraud does not make it so.” “No,” agreed Wise, smiling in an exasperatingly patronizing way, “it sure does not. In fact it has already made itself so.” “And your discovery of the means used is bound to come?” asked Tracy, with interest. “Bound to come,” repeated the detective. “But don’t let us begin by being at odds with each other. I came here to discover the truth. If any one wants the truth to remain undiscovered, now is the time to say so. For it will soon be too late.” “Why should any one want the truth to remain undiscovered?” said Braye, abruptly. “For two reasons,” replied Wise, seriously. “First, any one criminally implicated might wish it to remain unknown; second, any one wishing to shield another, might also wish no discoveries made.” “But you don’t think any of us are criminally implicated, I hope,” and Braye looked questioning. “There are others in this house beside you people,” Wise returned; “and I tell you frankly, I’m not ready yet to suspect any one or even imagine who the criminal may be. I only state positively that disembodied spirits are not responsible for those two tragic deaths. Also, may I ask you to remember, that I’ve only just arrived, that I’ve had a tiresome journey, that I’d like rest and refreshment, and that there are more days coming for my further work.” “Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed the Professor, “that’s all true! Do you know, Mr. Wise, it seems as if you’d always been here, it seems as if you were already one of us.” “Thank you, sir, that’s a pleasant compliment to my personality, anyway. And now, if you please, Mrs. Landon, may I be shown to my room?” “Certainly,” said Milly, and she rang for Thorpe, as Landon rose to escort the guest himself. “Where’s that girl?” said Norma, looking round after the detective had gone off, “what became of her?” But there was no sight of the little black-robed figure. “Oh, let her alone,” said Eve, “she slid out to the kitchen, I think. Hester will look after her. That man said to pay no more attention to her than to his hand luggage. She’ll look out for herself, I’ve no doubt. Isn’t she awful, anyway?” “I think she’s pretty,” said Norma, “in a weird, elfin sort of way.” “She knows it all,” said Braye. “I never saw such an effect of old head on young shoulders in my life. But what a funny way to treat her.” “She’s a spy,” declared Eve, “that’s what she is, a spy! With her silent, gliding ways, and her sly, soft voice! I hate her!” “Now, now, Evie, don’t be unjust!” and Braye smiled at her. “She is a bit your style and temperament, but don’t be jealous!” “Nonsense!” and Eve laughed back at him, “why, she isn’t a bit like me! She has black hair and eyes——” “I didn’t notice,” said Braye, “but she impressed me as being like you in lines and motions.” “A pocket edition,” laughed Tracy. “Miss Carnforth would make two of that little shrimp, and Miss Carnforth is a sylph, herself.” The party broke up into smaller groups, and Braye and Norma sauntered off for their usual afternoon stroll. Eve watched them go, her eyes moodily staring. “Won’t I do?” said Tracy’s quiet voice, and Eve pulled herself together and smiled at him. “You’re the one I want most,” she declared gaily, unwilling to be thought disappointed. “Let’s walk down by the lake.” The walk by the lake was always shaded, but as the day was murky it was gloomier than ever. “You like this place?” asked Tracy, with a glance at the black grove of aspens, and their dark reflection in the still water of the deep pool. “Yes, I do; or, I did, until that man came up here. There’s no use in pursuing our investigations with him around.” “All the more use,” declared Tracy. “If any supernatural things happen it will refute his cocksure decisions.” “Yes, it would. Oh, I do wish a ghost would appear to him, and scare him out of his wits!” “He has plenty of wits, Miss Carnforth, and he’d take some scaring, I think. But if a real phantasm came, he’d know it, and he’d acknowledge it, I’m sure. He strikes me as an honourable man, and a decent, straightforward sort.” “If he is,” and Eve ruminated, “perhaps he can help us to investigate——” “That’s what he’s here for.” “I mean investigate our beliefs. If he could be convinced, as we are, of the existence of phantoms, and of their visitations, he’d be a splendid help, wouldn’t he? Perhaps I am in wrong in disliking him.” “You’re certainly premature. Why, not one man out of a thousand does believe in the occult. And not one in a million detectives, I daresay.” Meantime, Braye and Norma were talking in like vein. “I do believe it was a spirit that killed our dear Vernie, and Mr. Bruce,” Norma declared, “but if Mr. Wise can prove the contrary, we want him to do so, don’t we, Rudolph?” “Of course, Norma, we all feel that way. I, especially, for as heir to Uncle Gif’s money, I’m in a peculiar position. But if anybody can get at the truth, this Wise person can. He’s a live wire, I can see that.” “Shall we help him, Rudolph, or hold back and let him work alone?” “Help him, of course! Why not? But, be careful that it is help we offer him, and not merely stupid interference.” “What do you mean by that?” “Nothing particular; but some of us are inclined to be a bit officious, and—oh, I don’t know, Norma,—I don’t want to say anything—even to you. Let’s talk of pleasanter subjects.” “What, for instance?” “You, for instance! You’re enchanting to-day, in that pale blue gown. It makes you look like an angel.” “Do they wear pale blue?” “I don’t know what they wear, and shan’t care until you really are one, and then, I hope I’ll be one, too. But you look like an angel, because of your angelic face. It’s like a roseleaf washed in sunlight——” “Now, Rudolph, don’t try to be poetical! You can’t hit it off! A washed face is remindful of a soap advertisement,—not an angel!” “Rogue! You love to make fun of me! But I don’t mind. Oh, Norma, I don’t care what you say to me, if you’ll only say yes. Won’t you, dearest?” “Bad boy! Behave yourself! I told you not to ask any question until we get away from this place. I won’t listen to love talk at Black Aspens! It’s out of the picture!” “But will you, as soon as we get back to New York? Will you, Norma—darling?” “Wait till then, and we’ll see,” was all the answer he could get. |
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