Part 7

So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined. He had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of real detective work. But it was not so easy as he had thought it. It was all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the finding of them present at the scene of the crime.

Bobsy tried to balance up the points against each.

Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn't love her husband, and Natalie was angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie's bequest was quite as desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a fortune as great as Joyce's. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the light and still find the way around quietly.

Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,--or perhaps she heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as Blake snapped on the key, and then--discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue. Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted. Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either woman's action was quite compatible with a criminal's sudden action at being discovered, or an innocent woman's horror at the scene before her.

But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed he'd find out which was which before his week was up.

Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric's rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them. Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same.

But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great question.

Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood thinking of Blake's experience. There the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a physical impossibility. Now, once again, which?

Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and, after a moment's hesitation, she spoke to him.

"Mr. Roberts, I've had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it. Will you help me?"

"In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?"

"Come in the studio. I'll speak to you first about it. I was looking for Barry, to ask him."

They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down.

"Here is the letter," said Joyce, handing it to him. "I wish you would read it."

Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn?

It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship.

It ran:

_Mrs. Stannard_:

Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.

Very truly yours, Orienta.

The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant's circular letter.

"It isn't worth the paper it's written on," said Bobsy, handing it back.

"But how do you know? I've read up on this sort of thing and while there is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it's always done by a cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance. This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I've a notion to see what she'll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good."

"Of course, Mrs. Stannard, if you choose to look into this matter I have nothing to say, but you asked me for advice."

"I know it," and Joyce shook her head, "but if you don't advise me the way I want you to, I'll----"

"Ask somebody else?"

"Yes, I believe I will."

"Do. I really think if you confer with Barry Stannard or with Mrs. Faulkner, they would give you advice both sound and disinterested. They'd probably tell you to let it alone."

"I'm going to ask them, anyway. I won't ask Natalie, for I don't think she knows anything about it. Why, Mr. Roberts, if we could just get a clue to the mystery, it might be of incalculable help."

"Yes, but you can't get a clue from a fraud."

"I don't believe she is a fraud, but even so, I might learn something from her."

"If you do, I hope you will give me the benefit of the information."

Joyce laid the matter before Barry and Beatrice. Natalie was present also, and Joyce was surprised to find that the girl was well versed in the whole subject of psychics and occult lore.

"I don't know an awful lot about it, Joyce," she said, "but I've read some of the best authorities, and sometimes I've thought I was a little bit psychic myself. I'd like to see this Orienta."

"It doesn't seem right," objected Mrs. Faulkner. "What do you suppose she does? Go into trances?"

"Yes, of course," said Natalie. "And then she talks and tells things and when she comes to again, she doesn't know what she has said."

"Then I don't believe it's true."

"Oh, yes, it is, Mrs. Faulkner. I mean, it's likely to be. Why, if she could tell us who----"

"Do we want her to?" said Barry, very soberly. "Isn't it better to leave the whole thing a mystery?"

"No," said Joyce, decidedly. "I want to find out the truth, if there's any way to do it. I don't think much of detectives, at least, not Mr. Roberts. Oh, he's a nice man,--I like him personally. But he doesn't accomplish anything."

"Well, let's have Orienta come here," suggested Natalie. "And we can see how we like her, and if we don't want her to, she needn't try her powers in our cause."

"The police might object," said Mrs. Faulkner.

"Oh, no," rejoined Barry. "This is a private matter. We're at liberty to do a thing of that sort, if we want to. But I don't approve of it."

"I'm going to write to her, anyway," Joyce declared. "I want to see what she proposes to do."

"Yes, do," urged Natalie. "And ask her to come here as soon as she can arrange to."

X Orienta

"I wish you'd use your influence with Joyce, and urge her not to have this poppycock business go on." Barry looked troubled, and his round, good-natured face was unsmiling.

"I have tried," returned Beatrice Faulkner, "but she is determined. And, really, it can't do any harm."

"It might turn suspicion in the wrong direction."

"Barry, what are you afraid of? Do you fear any revelation she may make?"

"No, oh, no,--not that. But if--well, supposing she should declare positively that it was Natalie or Joyce,--either of them, don't you see it couldn't help influencing the police? I want the whole thing hushed up. Father is gone, it can't do him any good to find out who killed him, and it may make trouble for an innocent person."

"I'll talk to Joyce again, but I doubt if I can change her determination to ask this Orienta here. Absurd name!"

"Yes, and an absurd performance all round."

"I'll do my best. And, Barry, I'm thinking of leaving here to-morrow; I've staid longer than I intended, now."

"Oh, don't go away. Why, you're a kind of a--how shall I express it?"

"A go-between?"

"Well, not in the usually accepted sense of that term, but you are that, in a nice way. You can tell Joyce what I can't tell her--at least, what I say to her has no effect. By the way, Joyce wants to go away, too."

"Will they let her?"

"I don't know. But since she is thinking about this Orienta, she's planning to stay here longer. I don't know what she will do, but don't you see, Beatrice, if she goes away, even for a short time, Natalie couldn't stay here without a chaperon? So won't you stay a while longer, until we see how things are going? You've been such a trump all through these troubled days,--why, everybody depends on you to--to look after things, don't you know."

Beatrice smiled at the boy,--for when bothered, Barry looked very boyish,--and said, kindly, "I will stay another week, then. You see, at first, Joyce was so nervous and upset, she asked me to look after the housekeeping a bit, but now her nerves are better, and I think the routine duties of the house help fill up her time, and are really good for her."

"Well, you women settle those matters between yourselves. But you stay on a while, and help me and Natalie through. The girl threatens to go away, too; in fact, everybody wants to get out of this house, and I don't blame them." They were in the studio and Barry looked with a shudder toward the chair where his father had met his death.

"No, I can't blame them either,--and yet, it is a wonderful house. Must it go to strangers?"

"I suppose so. It's Joyce's, of course, but she doesn't want to live here. I don't want to take it off your hands, for Natalie won't live here either. You don't want it, do you?"

"I? Oh, no. My own life here was a happy one, but the memories of those old days and the thoughts of this recent tragedy make the place intolerable to me as a home. But strangers could come in, and start a new life for the old place."

"It isn't old. And it's going to be hard to sell it, because of--of the crime story attached to it. If we could only get matters settled up, and the police off the case, we could close the house and go away. Joyce would go back to her mother's for a time, and eventually, of course, she will marry Courtenay. He's a good chap, and there's not a slur to be cast on him. As long as my father lived, Eugene never said a word to Joyce that all the world mightn't hear."

"How do you know?"

"I only assert it, because I know the man."

"Barry, you're very young, even younger than your years. Try to realise that I'm not saying a word against Joyce or Mr. Courtenay, either, but--well, since your father himself realised how matters stood between them, you ought to see it, too."

"I know they cared for each other, but I mean, Joyce and Eugene both were too high-minded to let their caring go very far."

"High-mindedness is apt to break through when people skate on thin ice. But don't misunderstand me. Keep your faith in all the high ideals you can, both in yourself and others. What did you think of your father leaving such an enormous sum to Natalie?"

"It was more than I supposed, but father was absurdly generous, and often in erratic ways. He probably made that bequest one day when he was especially pleased with her posing, or, more likely, when he himself had worked with special inspiration and had produced a masterpiece."

"Very likely. Miss Vernon doesn't seem surprised about it."

"Oh, she knew it. He told her a short time ago."

"Do the police know that?"

"I fear so. And those are the things that worry me. If they think Natalie killed my father to get that money, it is a strong point against her. Of course, she didn't, but all the evidence and clues in this whole business are misleading. I never saw or heard of such a mass of contradictory and really false appearances. That's why I'd rather hush it all up, and not try to go farther."

"Here comes Natalie now. I'll leave you two alone and I'll go to see what I can do with Joyce about that clairvoyant matter."

Barry scarcely heard the last words, for the mere sight of Natalie entering the room was enough to drive every other thought from his mind. Her white house gown was of soft crêpe material, with a draped sash of gold silk, a few shades deeper than her wonderful hair. Gold-hued slippers and stockings completed the simple costume, and in it Natalie looked like a princess. With all her dainty grace and delicate lines, the girl had dignity and poise, and as she walked across the room Barry thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

"You angel!" he whispered; "you gold angel from a Fra Angelico picture! Natalie, my little angel girl!"

He held out his arms, and the girl went to him, and laid her tiny snowflake of a hand on his shoulder.

"Why do you stay in this room, Barry? I don't like it in here."

"Then we won't stay. Let us go out on the Terrace in the sunlight."

The Autumn afternoon sun was yet high enough to take the chill off the crisp air, and on a wicker couch, covered with a fur rug, they sat down.

"Here's where we sat, the night of----" began Barry, and then stopped, not wanting to stir up awful memories.

"I know it," returned Natalie. "You left me here,--where did you go, Barry?"

"Off with Thor and Woden for a short tramp. You said you were going upstairs, don't you remember?"

"Yes. But where did you tramp?"

"Oh, around the grounds."

"Which way?"

"What a little inquisitor! Well, let me see. We went across this lawn first."

"Did you see Mr. Courtenay on that stone bench there?"

"No, I don't think so. No, I'm sure I didn't. Why?"

"I just wanted to know. Where did you go next? Come, Barry, I'll go with you. Go over the same path you went that night."

Barry looked at her curiously, and said, "Come on, then."

They started across the lawn, and soon Natalie turned and looked back. "Could you see me from here?" she asked.

"Not at night, no. But I didn't try. I thought you had gone in the house, and I went straight ahead. The dogs were jumping all over me, and I was thinking of them."

"Oh, Barry! After the conversation we had just had, were you thinking of the dogs instead of me?"

"Well, the dogs were bothering me,--and you weren't!"

"Where next?"

But Barry hesitated. "By Jove. I don't know which way I did go next. Let me see."

Natalie waited. "Down to the Italian gardens?" she said at last.

"No,--that is, I don't think so. Where _did_ I go?"

"Barry! You must know where you went. How silly."

"It isn't silly. I--I can't remember,--that's all."

"Then you refuse to tell me?"

"I don't refuse,--I just don't remember."

"Barry! Do remember. You must!"

After a moment's silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying, "I have no recollection. Don't ask me that again."

Natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned their footsteps toward the Italian gardens, the beautiful landscape planned and laid out by a genius. Down the stone steps they went and paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. Then Barry took her in his arms. "Dear little girl," he breathed in her ear, "don't be afraid. It will all come out right. But we don't want the truth known. Now, don't give way," as a sob shook Natalie's quivering shoulders. "You mustn't talk or think another word about it. Obey me, now, take your mind right off the subject! Think of something pleasanter,--think of me!"

"I can't very well help that,--when you're so close!" and the lovely deep blue eyes smiled through unshed tears.

"You heavenly thing! Natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?"

"If I am, I am glad, for your sake. I needn't ever pose again, need I, Barry?"

"Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you marry me?"

"Oh, I can't marry you! I can't--I can't!"

"Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn't to be my wife!" and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed jacket.

"I oughtn't to be here--but--but I love you, Barry, I do--I do!"

"Of course you do, my blessed infant. Now, as we didn't get along very well with our marriage settlement for a topic, let's try again. Beatrice wants to go away from here. Do you want her to?"

"Oh, no! Don't let her go. I'd be lost without her. I want to go, you know, but I can't, I suppose. Beg her to stay as long as I do,--won't you, dear?"

The pleading in the blue eyes was so tender and sweet that Barry kissed them both before replying. "I will, darling. I'll beg anybody in the world for anything you want, if I have to become a professional mendicant. Now, brace up, Sweetheart, for I want to talk to you about lots of things, and how can I, if you burst into tears at every new subject I bring up?"

"I'm upset to-day, Barry mine. Don't let's talk. Just wander around the gardens."

"Wander it is," and Barry started off obediently, still with his arm round her.

"Unhand me, villain," she said, trying to speak gaily. But it was impossible, and the scarlet lips trembled into a curve that broke Barry's heart for its sadness. He gathered her to himself.

"Dear heart, you are all unstrung. Go to your room for a time, don't you want to? Let Beatrice look after you,--she's kindness itself."

"Indeed she is. I'll do that. And I'll come back, Barry, a new woman."

"For heaven's sake, don't do that! You'd make a fine militant suffragist!"

"No, not that. But a sensible, commonplace girl, who can talk without crying."

"Commonplace isn't exactly the word I'd choose to describe you, you wonder-thing! But run away and powder your nose, it needs it. Ha, I thought that would stir you up!" as Natalie pouted. "Run along, and I'll see you at dinner time. And this evening we'll have our chat."

But that evening Orienta came. Joyce had refused to listen to any one's objections and had made the appointment with the clairvoyant to come for a preliminary conference whether she gave them a séance or not.

Barry and Natalie refused at first to meet the visitor, but Joyce persuaded them to see her, so that they might argue intelligently for or against her. Beatrice consented to be present, for Joyce had begged it as a special favour.

And so, when Blake ushered the stranger into the Reception Room she was greeted pleasantly by all the members of the household.

Nor was this perfunctory, for the charm of the guest was manifest from the first. At her entrance, at the first sound of her low, silvery voice, each hearer was thrilled as by an unexpected bit of music.

"Mrs. Stannard?" she said, as Joyce rose and held out her hand. The long cloak of deep pansy-coloured satin fell back showing its lining of pale violet, and the dark Oriental face lighted with responsive cordiality, while she returned the greetings.

Selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, Orienta sank into it, and crossed her dainty feet on a cushion which Barry offered. Her purple hat was like a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicuous nor eccentric. She chose to keep her hat on, and also retained her long cloak, which, thrown back, disclosed her robe of voluminous folds of dull white silk. Made in Oriental design, it was yet modishly effective and suited well the type of its wearer.

Though not beautiful, the woman was wonderfully charming. In looking at her each auditor forgot self and others in contemplation of this strange personality. Each of the four observing her had eyes only for her, and didn't even glance aside to question the others' approval.

Without seeming to notice this mute tribute, Orienta began to speak. "We will waste no time in commonplaces," she said, her voice as perfectly modulated as that of a great actress, "they cannot interest us at this time. It is for you to tell me whether or not you wish to command my services in this matter of mystery. If so, well,--if not, I go away, and that is all."

The name she had chosen to adopt was a perfect description of her whole personality. Her oval face was of olive complexion; her eyes, not black, but the darkest seal brown; her hair, as it strayed carelessly from the edges of the confining turban, was brown, in moist tendrils at the temples, as if she were under some mental excitement.

It was evident,--to the women, at least,--that the scarlet of her full lips, and the flush on her cheek bones, was artificial, but it gave the impression of being frankly so, and not with intent to deceive. It was perfectly applied, at any rate, and the flash of her ivory white teeth made her smile fascinating.

"That's the word," Barry Stannard thought, as it occurred to him, "she's fascinating, that's what she is. Not entirely wholesome, not altogether to be trusted, but very, _very_ fascinating."

With a subtle understanding, Orienta perceived that Barry had set his stamp of approval on her, and turned her attention to the women.

"I in no way urge or insist upon my suggestions," she said. "I only tell you what I can do, and it is for you to say. For you, I suppose, Mrs. Stannard?"

"Yes," said Joyce, and her tone was decided. "Yes, it is for me to say, and I say I want you. I want you to tell us anything you can,--_anything_--about the mystery that has come to this house. I want to know who killed my husband, and I want to know why, and all the details of the deed."

"Oh," Barry protested, "don't begin with that, Joyce. Let Madame Orienta tell us something of less importance first. Let us have a séance or a reading or whatever the proper term may be, and test her powers."

The visitor gave him a slow smile. "It is as I am instructed," she said, in a matter-of-fact, every-day sort of way. "But I must inform you before going further, that my fees are not small. Test my powers in any way you choose, but I must include the test in my final statement of your indebtedness."

"All right," said Barry. "I'll pay the test bill, and then, Joyce, if you want to go on with your plans, you can assume the further expense."

"Can we do anything to-night?" asked Natalie. She had sat breathless, listening, but now, with eyes like stars, she eagerly questioned.

"You are interested?" and Orienta looked at her.

"Oh, so much. But I fear what you will reveal----"

"Fear my revelations!"

"Only because I know they will not be true, but you will make us think they are."

Instead of being annoyed or offended, Orienta looked at her and smiled from beneath her heavy dark brows. "You are psychic, yourself," she said.

"Yes," said Natalie, "I am."

XI Sealed Envelopes