Part 10

"Yes, or a few moments sooner. Shall I ask him?"

"Oh, no. He's a fine man, and if he did see Eugene, his word will stand. Are you going to--do you care for him, Beatrice?"

"No, Joyce. He is, as you say, a fine man, and he has asked me many times to marry him, but I do not love him in that way. I admire and respect him, that is all."

"Poor Mr. Wadsworth. He worships the ground you walk on. Perhaps later, when all this horror is a thing of the past, you may change your mind."

"Never, Joyce. But I'll ask Mr. Wadsworth about Eugene. You telephone him to come over here. If I do----"

"He'll take it as encouragement. Yes, I know. I'll do it."

Joyce called him up on the telephone, and Wadsworth came over to the Folly that evening.

"Why, yes, I think so," he said, when questioned by Beatrice. "Let me see; when I left here, I walked a couple of times round the Italian garden paths, hesitating as to whether I should come back for one last appeal, or accept your refusal as final. I decided on the latter course, and was planning to go away on a long trip, to--to make myself keep away from you." He looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his own. "I don't want to persist too hard, dear, but I am of a determined nature, and I can't give you up. So, I'm going away, but I warn you I shall yet return and ask you once more--yes, once more, Beatrice."

"That is in the future," she returned, gravely, "but now, let us see if we can help poor Joyce."

"Poor Courtenay, as well! Now, I think I did see him, as I came along the South lawn. I'm sure I saw some man on the bench out there, and it was much the outline of Courtenay. And then, yes, I remember now, just then the light went out, and I couldn't see him clearly. Of course, I thought nothing of the light being put out. I assumed the people were going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you again that night. Had the lights staid on, I fancy, after all, I should have entered the house again."

They were alone in the studio. It was but partially lighted, and Beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment.

"Come out of here," she said; "I hate the place, it seems to be haunted by Eric's spirit. Come into the Reception Room."

Wadsworth followed as she went through the hall, but detained her a moment.

"What has become of your portrait painted on the staircase?" he asked.

"It's in the studio," she replied. "It isn't quite finished, you know."

"Mayn't I see it?"

"Not now. Some time."

"Stand on the stairs, the way the picture is painted."

Humouring his whim, Beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on the balustrade, as Eric had painted her.

"Beautiful. Stannard was a wonderful genius. I want that picture, dear. I don't care if it is unfinished. If I can't have the original--yet--will you give me the duplicate?"

"No, oh, no!" and Beatrice looked startled. "I'd hate you to have it, with this staircase and all----"

"I thought you loved this staircase----"

"As an architectural gem, yes. Mr. Faulkner prided himself on its design. But now--Eric's death----"

"Oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to the footman's queer actions, didn't you?"

"Yes; I was just on this very step when I heard that faint moan--oh, don't remind me of it."

"I won't. I was a brute to be so thoughtless. Dear heart, can't you leave this house? Why do you stay in a place of such sad memories?"

"I do want to go away--and I must. And yet, Joyce needs me. She leans on me for everything. Come into this little room, and sit down."

They went into the cosy, low-ceiled Reception Room, and Beatrice continued. "I was just thinking I could leave her, when she became worried about Mr. Courtenay. Now, if you can convince the police that you saw him out there, just at that critical moment when the light disappeared, you will establish his alibi. Can you do this?"

"I'm sure I can. The more I think about it, the more I feel sure that it was Courtenay I saw."

"Had he a hat on?"

"No, but his hand on the back of the bench held a cap. I saw this clearly, for the light from the studio window was very strong. But as I looked at the man, the light went out. Understand, I was not looking at him with any curiosity or even interest. Merely he was in my line of vision, that is all. When I could not see him because of the sudden darkness, I thought no more of him, and I went home then."

"And you will go to the police and tell them this?"

"I certainly will, the first thing to-morrow morning. To-night, if you prefer."

"No, wait till morning. Stay here a little longer. I feel lonely to-night."

"Dear heart, can't you learn to look to me to cheer that loneliness?"

"Don't--you promised you wouldn't. But let's chat a bit. Tell me, do you believe at all in spiritism?"

"Spiritualism?"

"No; spiritism. They're quite different. Spiritualism is the old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping performance. Spiritism is the scientific consideration of life after death."

"Of course, I believe in life after death----"

"But do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?"

"By rapping and tipping tables?"

"No, not at all. By silent communion, or by a restless haunting of places they used to occupy? There! didn't you hear a faint sound then? A soft rustle, as of wings?"

"No, I didn't, and neither did you. That Orienta person has you all unnerved. I won't stand it. I insist on your leaving this house. If I see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding Courtenay, will you get away at once?"

"I'd be glad to, if Joyce is willing I should go. Natalie is fond of me, too. But Barry will look after her. Yes, if Mr. Courtenay is freed of all suspicion, I will go away at once."

Roger Wadsworth's story carried weight with the police, who were already rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant.

And as Courtenay himself said to Captain Steele, "Your precious detective, Roberts, forced that woman to describe me. Even granting she had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn't say anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he suggested it. Then she said 'yes.' If he'd said, 'hasn't he red hair and freckles?' she would have said 'yes,' also! It's auto-suggestion. Her mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought she saw. But since you've put me on the rack, I'm going into this thing myself. For reasons of my own, I'm going to hunt down the murderer of Eric Stannard. There's nobody on the job that has any push or perseverance. Young Stannard doesn't want the truth known. Why, I can't say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts. I'm ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one you say. Or I'll work alone. But solve the mystery I'm bound to!"

Courtenay's manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about "protesting too much." But when Courtenay said he would be at their bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go in peace to pursue his own inquiries.

And he went first to Lawyer Stiles, to look into the matter of Stannard's will.

"The first motive to consider," Courtenay said to the surprised lawyer, "is always a money motive. Who benefits by this will, aside from the principals?"

Stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities. Suddenly Courtenay started in astonishment.

"Have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?" he asked.

The lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression.

"Just what do you mean?" he said.

"Ah, then you _have_ seen it! Were you going to let it pass unnoted?"

"I must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks."

"And I will do so. That will has been tampered with, and you know it!"

"Tampered with?"

"Don't repeat my words like a parrot! Yes, tampered with. The original, written in Mr. Stannard's own hand, has been added to by some one else."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't think so, I know so. Now, why haven't you made it known? You must have seen it?"

"Where is the fancied alteration?"

Courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he could be dishonest or if he had been blind. He laid his finger on one clause, the one stating Natalie Vernon's bequest, and said, "There, that is the place. That was written seven thousand dollars, it has been changed to read seventy thousand dollars."

Lawyer Stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. "It is in letters and figures both," he demurred, "it would be difficult----"

"I know it is. And it was not very difficult to add _ty_ to the written seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was intended by the testator."

"Well?"

"Well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable fraud like that?"

"I'm sorry you saw that, Mr. Courtenay. In explanation, I have nothing to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that I am in the confidence of the Stannard family, and this is their affair--not yours."

"Whew!" Courtenay gave a short whistle. "I begin to see. They know it, and make no objection."

"Y--yes."

"Who knows it?"

"Barry Stannard."

"And Mrs. Stannard?"

"I can't say. She read the will, but made no comment."

"You're sure Barry knows?"

"I am."

"And he stands for it because Miss Vernon did it! That baby! Who'd think her capable of such a thing?"

"Hush, Mr. Courtenay. You've no right to accuse her. You've no evidence that she did it. In fact, I'm told Miss Vernon writes a large, dashing hand, and this----"

"And Eric Stannard's hand is small and cramped. Yes, a clever forgery. It looks quite a bit like his own writing. But the ink is different, the slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been changed!"

"Granting that. What matter, if Barry Stannard doesn't care? Moreover, he is going to marry Miss Vernon, and the fortune will be theirs jointly."

"But don't you see? If Natalie Vernon altered that will, she wanted that larger sum, and--she----"

"Don't say it. At least, don't say it to me. If you want to put the matter up to Barry, go ahead. But I decline to express an opinion or form a conclusion."

"What does Barry say?"

"He ignores it. I called his attention to it, and he said, 'Changed figures? Oh, I guess not. It doesn't matter, anyway; that, and more, will be at Miss Vernon's disposal some day.' So I said no more."

Eugene Courtenay went straight to Joyce.

"Do you know anything about a changed figure in Eric's will?" he asked, bluntly.

"No," she returned; "what do you mean?"

"Natalie Vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to seventy thousand."

"How could she?"

"It wasn't difficult. Eric wrote the will himself. He wrote seven and she made it seventy--the words, I mean. Then he wrote a figure seven and three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. Mighty clever work, but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter."

"What possessed the child?"

"Don't call her a child. The woman who could and would do that, is a Machiavelli in petticoats. But don't you see where the knowledge of her act leads us?"

"You mean----" Joyce could not say it.

"Of course I do. I've thought all along there was still a doubt of her."

"Oh, I haven't. Even if she did alter the will, that doesn't prove----"

"It doesn't prove--anything. But you know this will was made very recently----"

"Of course; Natalie has only been here two months."

"I know it. Well, say, Eric made this bequest to her, soon after she came--you know, Joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning----"

"Yes, I know it, Eugene."

"And then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why, _why_ would she do this, except to inherit--at once?"

"Natalie! That dear little thing! Never! I did suspect her the least mite, just at first--but I don't now."

"Barry does."

"Oh, no! He can't."

"He does. And that's why he didn't want any fuss made about her forgery----"

"Don't call it that!"

"It _is_ that. What else can I call it?"

"But I can't believe it. Maybe--maybe somebody else did it. Barry----"

"Nonsense! Why should Barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?"

"Oh, I don't know! It's all so confusing."

"Not confusing; there's no doubt she did the forging. But it's a terrible state of affairs. I don't want to be the one to accuse her."

"Must you?"

"Well, I'd determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on Eric's murderer. Primarily to clear myself--for your sake. And, too, for the sake of justice and right. I'll go now, Joyce, I must think this out alone. Good-bye, darling. Don't worry. I'll do only what is right, and--what you approve."

XV Natalie in Danger

"Natalie! What _are_ you doing?"

Joyce entered Natalie's room, to find her on her knees before an open trunk. Hats and gowns lay about the room, the wardrobe shelves were empty, and as the girl was fairly flinging wearing apparel into the tills, the question was superfluous.

"I'm packing," the model answered, "to go away."

"Why, what has happened? Why do you want to go?"

Natalie rose to her feet. A negligée of pale green Liberty silk fell in lovely folds about her, her slender arms were bare, and her gold hair hung in two long braids.

"I can't stand it any longer, Joyce," she said, her voice quivering. "It's all so dreadful. Suspicion everywhere, and everybody looking on me as a murderer, and----"

"Now, Natalie, dear, don't talk like that. And, anyway, you can't go. I don't believe they'd let you----"

"Why not? I'm not under arrest, or surveillance, or whatever they call it."

"You would be, if you tried to go away. Don't you know we are all watched--whatever we do or wherever we go?"

"But they don't suspect _you_ any more, Joyce, and you were found just as near Eric as I was, when--when he----"

"Hush, Natalie, you don't know what you're talking about. Why, now they suspect Eugene."

"I know they do, but he didn't do it. He'll soon convince them of that."

"I'm not sure that he can. And--suppose he did do it----"

"Kill Eric? Joyce, you're crazy! Why would he?"

"You know, well enough----"

"That he loved you, yes, but that wouldn't make him commit crime. Why, you wouldn't marry him if he won you in that way."

"Of course, I wouldn't. And that's what's worrying me. If he and Eric quarrelled about me, and if--oh, I can't tell you just what I mean----"

"I know. If Eugene reproved Eric for his neglect of you, or--for his attentions to me, it might have led to high words, and Mr. Courtenay is a very impetuous man, and Eric never would brook a word of criticism--oh, of course I understand, Joyce!"

"But Eugene must be cleared--he _must_ be, at any cost. Look here, Natalie, did you know Eric had left you such a big bequest?"

Natalie flushed, and began to walk nervously up and down the room. "Why," she said, not looking at Joyce, "he told me he'd leave me a nice little sum, but he said he wasn't going to die till he was ninety, so I didn't pay much attention to the matter."

"But didn't you know the sum he mentioned in his will? Had he never told you?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because that will was altered. The sum he wrote for you was made ten times greater."

"Was it?" Natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time.

"Yes, it was. You knew this?"

"How could I know it? I never saw the will."

"They think you did. They think you altered it."

"Who thinks so?"

"The police and Mr. Stiles. And Eugene asked me about it. I thought I'd ask you before anybody else did."

"That was dear of you, Joyce." Natalie sat down on a couch, and taking her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. "Joyce," she said, at last, "why are you good to me? You think I killed Eric----"

"No, I don't, Natalie----But, oh, don't you see? I don't want to think it was Eugene, and--I don't know which way to turn."

"You're not in such a terrible strait as I am, Joyce," and Natalie's blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. "I don't know _what_ to do--I've no one to ask, no one to confide in----"

"Can't you tell me?"

"You, least of all. Mrs. Faulkner is a dear, but she is so unwilling to admit she suspects anybody--I mean, anybody we know. She insists it was some stranger--and, it wasn't--I mean--oh--what am I saying? Joyce, I shall go crazy."

Natalie looked distraught. Her eyes had a wild look, as of a hunted animal. Her little fingers plucked at the silk of her robe, and her slippered foot tapped the rug continuously.

"You didn't love Eric, did you?" and Joyce looked at the girl, as if seized with a new idea.

"No! I hated him! Forgive me, Joyce, but I can't help it. He was almost repulsive to me. Not physically--he was handsome, and most correct-mannered, and all that. But I was afraid of him. I've only posed for a few artists, but they were all--you know--impersonal in their relations with me. But Eric made love to me from the first."

"I know it. I saw it."

"And you didn't resent it?"

"I felt more pity for you than jealousy of you. I know Eric, and oh, Natalie, I tried so hard to be good, and to do my duty--but Eugene was always around, you know--and, must I confess it? I was rather glad that Eric's attention was taken up with his model."

"I know. I saw all that. But you see, I care for Barry. And Eric told me----"

"What, Natalie?"

"No, I can't tell you. Oh, Joyce, I am in danger. I can't ward it off, and I can't meet it. What shall I do? What can I do?"

"May I come in?" and Barry appeared at the door of the boudoir.

"Yes," Joyce answered. "Come on in. This child says she is going away."

"She isn't!" and Barry slammed the trunk lid shut, turned the key, removed it and put it in his pocket.

"Oh," cried Natalie, forced to smile at this high-handed piece of business. "There's a lot of things in there I want!"

"Can't have 'em," returned Barry, "unless you promise to put 'em back in that very empty wardrobe I see yawning at us."

"Barry, I _must_ go away. I've--I've good reasons."

Joyce had left the room, and Barry sat down beside the trembling little figure and put an arm round her.

"Don't speak of going away, Natalie. Don't think of it. It would look like confession."

"Have you heard about the will?" she asked, an awestruck note in her voice.

"Yes, but never mind about that. When we can get married, all my half the fortune will be yours anyway. That item of seven thousand or seventy thousand makes no difference to us."

"But you don't think I--forged it--do you, Barry?"

"Of course not, darling. I don't think you ever did a wrong thing in your life, of any sort or description--and I wouldn't care if you had."

"Wouldn't you care if I had committed--crime?"

"Oh, if you put it that way, I suppose I'd care--but I'd love you just the same."

"_Just_ the same?"

"Just exactly, darling."

"And you don't think I changed that will?"

"I do not."

"Who did, do you think?"

"How do you know anybody did?"

"Joyce says so."

"Well, never mind about it. If I know who did it, I won't tell you--and you needn't ask."

"It was a very strange thing for anybody to do, Barry."

"Except you----"

"Yes, except me! Oh, you _do_ think I did it!"

"Hush, sweetheart, don't talk so loud. Now, listen, Natalie. You're in a tight place. There's no use denying it, you are. Now I want you to promise me to do exactly as I tell you, in every instance. You trust me to do only what is best for both of us, don't you?"

"For both of us--yes, Barry." The blue eyes were very sad, but the soft voice did not falter.

"That's a trump, my own little trump! There are some dark hours ahead, darling. I don't know just how things will turn. But I'm tying to head off trouble, and I hope to succeed."

"Barry, Eugene Courtenay didn't kill Eric, did he?"

"No, Natalie, he didn't. That clairvoyant business was all poppycock."

"Then how did she read those questions, Barry? I think that was wonderful."

"It was, Natalie. I concede you that. She couldn't have used any trickery there--there was absolutely no chance."

"She really read them, then, by clairvoyant sight?"

"I don't see any other explanation."

"Nor do I. Then, why wasn't her vision of the--the scene in the studio, the truth?"

"I don't say it wasn't. I don't say but what somebody did slip past Joyce and get into the room that way. But it wasn't Courtenay."

"I don't think it was, either."

"Of course you don't. Now, my own little girl, remember, you've promised me----"

"To love, honour and obey you----"

"You darling!" and Natalie's speech was interrupted by an impulsive kiss. "You blessed angel! But you mustn't say such things, they unnerve me--and I've a hard row to hoe, my girl."

"Can't I help?"

"Only by doing the things you just promised to do. I want you to, of course; it was only the suggestion in the phrase you used that drove me crazy! Some day, sweetheart, you shall promise before witnesses; but just now, swear to me alone, that you will obey my least dictate in this--this trouble."

"I will, Barry," and, solemnly, Natalie lifted her scarlet, curved lips for the kiss that sealed the compact.

"Mr. Roberts is here," said Joyce, looking in at the door; "he wants to see Natalie."

"Oh, I can't see him!" and Natalie clung tremblingly to Barry, "what shall I do?"

"Do just as I tell you, dearest. See him, of course. And----"

"Then I'll have to dress. Go on down, Barry, and talk to him till I come."

Natalie seemed to turn brave all in a moment at Barry's words. Stannard went downstairs, and Joyce helped the girl to slip into a house-gown.

"A pretty one," she stipulated. "I want him to like me."

"As if any one could help doing that," and Joyce selected a little grey velvet, with lots of soft lace falling away from the round-cut bodice.

"There," she said, as Natalie hastily twisted up her hair and thrust a couple of shell pins in it, "you look a dream! a demure little dream. Natalie, be careful, won't you?"

The girl gave Joyce a long look, and said softly, "Yes--for his sake." Then she went slowly downstairs.

Bobsy Roberts was talking with Mrs. Faulkner as Natalie entered. He jumped up, and greeted the lovely girl with an impulsive, "So sorry to trouble you, but I must ask you a question or two, and I promise to cut it short."

"What is it?" and Natalie gave him one of her confiding smiles.

Bobsy hesitated. How could he ask a fairy like that, a rude, blunt question. But it had to be done, and he said, "It's--it's about Mr. Stannard's will. Did you ever see it?"

Clearly, Natalie was surprised. It seemed to be not the query she had looked for. But she was calm. After the slightest pause, she said slowly, very slowly, as if choosing her words, "No, Mr. Roberts, I have never seen Mr. Stannard's will. Why should I see it?"

"You know he left you a large sum of money?"

"Of course I know that. Mr. Stiles informed me."

"Did you not know of it before Mr. Stiles told you?"

Natalie glanced at Barry, who smiled at her.

"Yes; that is, I knew Mr. Stannard had left me a bequest, but I did not know how much. Nor did I care!" Natalie lost her self-control. "Do you suppose I wanted that money? I did not, and I do not! I refuse to take it!"

"My dear child," said Beatrice Faulkner, rising and going to sit beside her, "don't say such things. The money is honestly yours----"

"Not so fast, Mrs. Faulkner," said Roberts, amazed at Natalie's excited words; "we cannot feel sure the money honestly belongs to Miss Vernon until we know who altered Mr. Stannard's will. Did you?"

He turned quickly to Natalie with his question, as if anxious to get the miserable business over.

"Certainly not," she replied, with disdain in every line of her face. "In the first place, Mr. Bobsy--I mean, Mr. Roberts----"