Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall. A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman’s back, when he should have been standing a

The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner’s Folly, of all places in the world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit, could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard’s position and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to Paris, Maine. Equally

With a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, Coroner Lamson began to question Joyce. “Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stannard?” he said; “do you realise that it is a grave implication?” But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said, talking rapidly, “My husband’s words were in direct answer to the footman’s question. Blake said, ‘Who did this?’ and Mr. Stannard, even pointing to Miss Vernon, said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’ Could anything be plainer?” “

A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the pretty little model. For “model,” Natalie was always called, in spite of the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard’s house. And she looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert débutante. She had the poise and assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an inn

The sapient gentlemen of the Coroner’s Jury concluded, after a somewhat protracted discussion, that Eric Stannard met his death at those convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. They could not bring themselves to accuse either Joyce or Natalie, because for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other’s unsupported story. And Public Opinion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer Park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that implicated

Now, although the residents of the aristocratic Rensselaer Park were willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest anybody, even the hypothetical burglar. Owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was due. All sorts of theories were propound

But the desired interview with Natalie was not achieved before the funeral of Eric Stannard. It was two days after before the girl would consent to see Roberts, and then, under protest. “I’ve nothing to say,” she declared, as she came unwillingly into the Reception Room to meet him. “I’m not under arrest, and there’s no law that can make me talk if I don’t want to.” The lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as Miss Vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under

“You mean?” prompted Bobsy. “Oh, nothing. But,—just supposing, you know. I’m sure I don’t want to mention Mr. Truxton or Mr. Wadsworth, but they were both here——” “Absurd! Why, Mr. Wadsworth was with Mrs. Faulkner in the Drawing Room——” “Yes, I know. But he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her up there. Now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with Blake, couldn’t he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and killed Eric, and then turned off the light and fled, Bla

Bobsy Roberts was at his wits’ end. He pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider. He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery. “Walls have ears,” he said to himself, whimsically, “now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know.” The studio furnishings included

“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

With a high hand Joyce carried the matter through. She ignored opposition and met remonstrance with a baffling disdain. She arranged for a return of Orienta for the experiments on the following evening, and after the departure of the medium, she declared she would listen to no comments on her actions and went off at once to her own rooms. Beatrice Faulkner expressed herself guardedly. “I don’t care what revelations come,” she said, “except as they affect you people here. It doesn’t seem to me th

It was curious to note the various expressions that met the eyes of the Priestess. Bobsy Roberts regarded her with awe. All his scepticism was gone; he was ready to believe anything she might say. She had stood the severest tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come triumphant through the experimental ordeal. Surely, if she revealed anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. But could she do that? Natalie and Barry both showed fear. Strive to hide it as they would, i

Very discreetly Bobsy conducted his interview with Eugene Courtenay. The detective wanted to trap his man before he could realise any danger, so he called on him the morning after his talk with Steele. Courtenay was not a business man. He called himself a farmer, but his farming was of the fancy variety and was done almost entirely by expert gardeners. His place was not far from the Folly, and when Bobsy called, at about eleven o’clock, he was received courteously enough by the man he desired to

“Listen, Joyce, dear. You are nervous and excited, or you never would do Mr. Courtenay such injustice. Think back; remember how he has always loved you—long before you married Eric. How patient and good he has been, never showing any undue interest in you or any animosity toward Eric. Why, then, imagine that he would do this desperate thing?” “That’s just it, Beatrice. He restrained his feelings as long as he could, and that night—in the Billiard Room, he—he lost control—and he said he—he c-coul

“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

That evening Barry Stannard was not at home, and Natalie declared her intention of trying to learn something by psychic or clairvoyant revelation. The three women sat in the Billiard Room, and were for the thousandth time discussing the tense situation. “Why, if you want to try it, Natalie, go ahead,” said Joyce, wearily. “It certainly can’t do any harm. Barry only objects because he thinks it will get you into a nervous state——” “Nonsense! It makes me more nervous to be forbidden to do what I w

Joyce went up to Natalie’s room and found the girl sitting up in bed trying to eat some of the dainty breakfast a maid had just brought her. A cap of lace and tiny rosebuds confined the gold hair, and a breakfast jacket of pale blue brocade was round her shoulders. “Joyce,” she said, staring at her with big blue eyes, “where did those jewels come from?” “I don’t know, Natalie. It’s the most mysterious thing I ever heard of. But listen, dear, I’ve something to tell you. Barry has confessed——” “Wh

Still studying the face of the artist, Alan Ford indicated his desire to begin the successive interviews with the members of the household. All but Barry left the room, and the young man sat down near the absorbed detective. “Your father was a handsome man,” Ford said, as he laid aside the pictures. “Yes,” agreed Barry. “I wish I might have been more nearly his type.” “Physically, you mean?” “Yes, and mentally, too. I admit my father’s moral weakness, yet he was not a bad man, as men go. His art

“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 we

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 refres