HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY

TEMRI
STASE
PURCHASED FROM THE
BOSTON LIBRARY SOCIETY
WITH INCOMB FROM THE
AMEY RICHMOND SHELDON FUND
1941














Faulkner's Folly
CAROLYN WELLS








Billiard
'W
Room
s
LOAN
Terrace
Chait
Reception
Room
Studio
Dining
Room
Hall
WITH
A
Porch
Llo
First Story
N


FAULKNER'S
FOLLY
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF "THE BRIDE OF A MOMENT"
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


pes
UNIVERS:TY
LIBRARY
MAR 5 1941
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1917.
BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


CONTENTS
PAGE
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CHAPTER
I. IN THE STUDIO . . . . . . .
II. WHERE THEY STOOD . .
III. WHAT THEY SAID . . . . 37
IV. GOLDENHEART . . . . .
V. BLAKE'S STORY. . . . .
VI. Mrs. FAULKNER'S ACCOUNT ..
VII. NATALIE Not JOYCE . . .
VIII. THE EMERALDS . . . .
IX. ONE OR THE OTHER . .
X. ORIENTA . . . . . .
137
XI. SEALED ENVELOPES . . .
151
XII. A VISION . . . . . . . . . 165
XIII. AN ALIBI NEEDED..
XIV. FROM SEVEN TO SEVENTY . . 192
XV. NATALIE IN DANGER . . . . . 206
XVI. CONFESSION AND ARREST . . . .
XVII. ALAN FORD . . . . .
XVIII. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS . . . . 248
XIX. FORD's Day . . . . . . . . 262
XX. ON THE STAIRCASE . . . . . . 276
·
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180
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220
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FAULKNER'S FOLLY





In the Studio
EATRICE 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 at attention.
He might not have heard her soft foot fall, but he
surely had no business to be peering in at a door
very slightly ajar.
Faulkner's Folly was the realised dream of the
architect who had been its original owner. It was
a perfect example of the type known in England
as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a
style inspired by the Italian disciples of Palladio,
and as developed by Inigo Jones and Christopher
Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess
the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made


10
Faulkner's Folly
it ideal for a home. The house was enormous, the
rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had
been the architect's joy and delight. It showed
the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down
from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low
risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred
tops and rather plain balusters. But the carved
wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great
problems of lighting, the necessity for columned
galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, to-
gether with the stupendous outlay for appropriate
grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds
and Faulkner's Folly, in little more than two years
after its completion, was sold for less than its
intrinsic value.
James Faulkner died, some said of a broken
heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and
was, at the present time, a guest in what had been
her own home.
The man who bought Faulkner's Folly was one
who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty
and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the ar-
tist and portrait painter, of international reputation
and great wealth, and a friend of long standing,
took Faulkner's house with much joy in the acquisi-
tion and sympathy for the man who must give it up.
A part of the purchase price was to be a por-
trait of Mrs. Faulkner by the master hand of the


In the Studio
II
new owner; but Faulkner's death had postponed
this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was
staying at the Stannards' while the picture was be-
ing painted. Partly because of sentiment toward
her husband's favourite feature of the house, and
partly because of her own recognition of its artistic
possibilities, Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her
background, and rarely did she descend them with-
out falling into pose for a moment at the spot she
had selected for the portrait.
But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no
thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange
sight of the usually expressionless and imperturba-
ble footman, with his face pressed against the slight
opening of the studio door.
"Blake," she said, sharply, and then stopped, re-
gretting her speech. As the Stannards' guest, she
had no right or wish to reprove her hosts' servants,
but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget
the days of her own rule in that house.
Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a
white and startled face,-it seemed almost as if he
welcomed her appearance.
"Blake! What is it?" she said, alarmed at his
manner. "What are you doing?”.
"I—heard a strange sound, Madame, from the
studio ”


12
Faulkner's Folly
"A strange sound?” and Beatrice came along the
hall toward the footman.
"And the lights in there, just went out "
“The lights went out! What do you mean,
Blake? It is not your business if lights in rooms
are turned off or on, is it?”
“No, Madame-but-there, Madame! Did you
not hear that?”
“Oh, yes, yes," and Beatrice paled, as an indis-
tinct voice seemed to cry faintly, “Help!” It was
a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire ex-
tremity. “What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once!
Turn on the lights !"
“Yes, Madame," and the trembling footman
pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the
dark for the electric switch.
It was anly a few seconds, but it seemed an in-
terminable time before the lights flashod on and the
great room was illuminated to its furthest corners.
Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman,
stood, stunned.
"I knew it was something dreadful!" Blake criod,
forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.
Beatrice gave one gasping “Oh!” and covered her
face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved
herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fasci-
nation, at the awful scene before her.
At the other end of the long room, in a great,


In the Studio
carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and mo-
tionless. From his breast protruded an instrument
of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on
the white expanse of his shirt bosom.
"Is he—is he ” began Beatrice, starting
forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes
took in the rest of the scene.
Behind Stannard, and across the room from one
another, were two women. They were Joyce, his
wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.
Joyce, only a few feet from her husband's left
shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a
wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was
huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer
door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching
her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.
Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance,
Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tab-
leau before them. The man got his wits together
first.
"We must do something,” he muttered, starting
toward his master. “There is some accident- "
As if by this vitalised into action, the two women
behind Stannard came forward, one on either side
of him, but only his wife went near to him.
"Eric,” she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as
it hung at his side. But she got no further. With


14
Faulkner's Folly
one glance at his distorted face she sank to the
ground almost fainting.
"Who did this, sir?" Blake cried out, standing
before Stannard. The dying man attempted to
raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward
the beautiful girl, his model.
“Natalie,” he said, “not Joyce.” The last words
were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell for-
ward and his heart ceased to beat.
"No!” Natalie screamed. “No! Eric, don't
say
"
But Eric Stannard would say no word again in
this world.
Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank
down among the pillows.
“Do something, Blake," she cried. “Get a doctor.
Get Mr. Barry. Call Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does
it all mean?"
Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to
Joyce's assistance, and gently raised her from the
floor, where she was still crouching by her hus-
band's side.
"I don't-know—"returned Joyce Stannard, her
frightened eyes staring in tearless agony. “Did you
kill him, Natalie ?”
"No!” cried the girl. “You know I didn't! You
killed him yourself !”


In the Studio
Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed
by Miller, who was Stannard's own man.
Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old,
trusted and capable servants took the helm.
“Telephone for Doctor Keith," Miller told the
other, "and then find Mr. Barry."
Barry Stannard was Eric's son by a former mar-
riage; a boy of twenty, of lovable and sunny dis-
position, and devoted to his father and to his young
stepmother. He soon appeared, for he had been
found strolling about the grounds.
He came in at Halpin's message, and seeing the
still figure in the armchair, sprang toward it, with a
cry. Then, as suddenly, he turned, and without a
word or glance at any one else, he ran from the
room.
Without touching it further than to assure him-
self that life was really extinct, Miller stood, a self-
appointed sentinel over the body of his dead mas-
ter. He looked curiously at the instrument of
death, but said no word concerning it.
There was more or less confusion. Several ser-
vants, both men and women, came to the doors,
some daring to enter, but except in one or two in-
stances, Miller ordered them out.
Annette, Mrs. Stannard's maid, he advised to
look after the ladies, and Foster, a houseman, he de-
tailed to keep an eye on Barry.


16
Faulkner's Folly
"Where is Mr. Barry?” asked the man.
"I don't know,” returned Miller, calmly. "He
just stepped out-probably he's on the terrace.
Don't annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he
wants you.”
The three women of the household said almost
nothing. Mrs. Faulkner was so stupefied by the
situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which she
had found her hostess and the girl, Natalie, she
could think of nothing to say to either. And the
two who had stood near the dying man, as the
light disclosed the group, were equally silent.
Annette proffered fans and sal volatile impartial-
ly to all three, but she, also, though usually too vol-
uble, had no words.
After what seemed an interminable wait, Dr.
Keith arrived.
“Stabbed,” he said, briefly, as he examined the
body, “and with one of his own etching needles !
Who did it?”
“With what?" exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, looking
puzzled.
“With an etching point-or needle. An artist's
tool. Who did it?"
There was a silence, not so much awkward, as
fraught with horror. Who could answer this ques-
tion, even by a surmise.
Blake threw himself into the breach.


In the Studio
17
"We don't know, sir," he said. "It was doubt-
less done in the dark, and, when I turned up on
the lights-the-the murderer had fled.”
A half exclamation from Joyce seemed to deny
this assertion, and Natalie's lovely face again
showed that hunted, terrified look that had marked
it at first.
"Where's Barry?” went on Dr. Keith.
“I am here,” said young Stannard, himself, com-
ing in from the terrace. "Dr. Keith, I want this
matter hushed up. I am master here now, and hor-
rible though it may all be, it will not lessen our
trouble, but rather increase it, if you have any in-
vestigation or inquiry made into this thing."
Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Barry,
my boy. It is not possible to ignore the facts and
causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know
who stabbed your father?”
“No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father
is gone, no persecution of any innocent person can
restore him to life, and the criminal can never be
found.”
"Why not? Why do you say that?”.
"I feel sure of it. On, listen to me, Dr. Keith.
Be guided by my wishes, and do not seek the one
who brought about my father's death. Joyce, you
agree with me, don't you?"


18
Faulkner's Folly
The young fellow had never addressed his fa-
ther's wife more formally than this; indeed, there
was not much more than half a dozen years be-
tween their ages, and Joyce, at twenty-seven or
thereabouts, looked almost as young as her stepson.
There had always been good comradeship between
the two, and during the two years Joyce had been
Stannard's wife she and Barry had never had a
word of disagreement or unpleasantness of any sort.
About six weeks ago, Natalie Vernon, a profes-
sional model, had come to pose for Stannard, and
as she had proved most satisfactory, Eric had in-
formed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as
a house guest for a time. Joyce had voiced no
objection, whatever she may have felt in her heart,
and had always treated Natalie with all courtesy
and kindness.
The girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect
blonde, with a face like Dresden china and a form
of fairylike grace. The soft pink and white of her
apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes
and the gleaming gold of her wonderful hair were
Greuze-like in their effects, yet of an added pi-
quancy and charm.
It is not to be wondered at that Barry prompt-
ly fell in love with her, nor is it remarkable that
Eric himself was more or less under the spell of his
beautiful model. A worshipper of all beauty, Stan-


In the Studio
19
nard could not help it if his soul bowed down to
this masterpiece of Nature's.
A professional model Natalie was, but only for
the draped figure. She was but eighteen, had been
well brought up and educated, but, obliged to earn
her own living, had found she had no resources of
work except in her God-given beauty. Posing was
a joy to her, and she had posed for but a few ar-
tists and those of the better, even best class. But
Eric, accustomed to having whatever he desired,
was determined Natalie should pose for some al-
legorical figures in a great picture on which he
was engaged. This she refused to do, and the
more Stannard insisted the more obdurate she be-
came, until there was continual war between them
on the subject. And owing to this state of things,
Natalie had decided she must leave "Faulkner's
Folly," and it was only Barry's entreaties that had
thus far kept her from fulfilling her intentions.
haired, brown-eyed type, had often been a model
for Eric's pictures, and if she resented being super-
seded by this peaches and cream maiden, she never
confided the fact to those about her. Joyce Stan-
nard was clever by nature, and she knew the quick-
est way to make her impressionable husband fall
desperately in love with Natalie, was for her, his
wife, to be openly jealous. So this Joyce would not


20
Faulkner's Folly
appear to be. She chaffed him gaily about his doll-
faced model and treated Natalie with the patron-
ising generosity one would show to a pretty child.
But if Joyce was clever, Natalie was too, and she
took this treatment exactly as it was offered, and
returned it in kind. Her manner to her hostess
was entirely correct, well-bred and even indicative
of gratitude; but it also implied, with subtle touch,
the older and more settled state of Joyce, and gave
a hint of contrast in the freshness of Natalie's ex-
treme youth and the permissibility of a spice of the
madcap in her ways.
But all these things, on both sides, were so veiled,
so delicately suggested, that they were impercepti-
ble to any but the closest observer.
And now, whatever the facts of Eric Stannard's
death might be shown to be, now it must soon be
made known that when the lights of the room where
he died were turned on, they had revealed these two
-his wife and his paid model-near his stricken
body, already quivering with its last few heartbeats.
In answer to Barry's question, Joyce lifted her
white face. “I don't know—” she said, slowly, “I
suppose--as Dr. Keith says—these things must be
-be attended to in—in the usual way. But I, too,
shrink from the awful publicity and the harrowing
experience we must go through,—Beatrice, what do
you think?”


In the Studio
21
Mrs. Faulkner replied, with a gentle sympathy:
"I fear it won't matter what we think, Joyce, dear.
The law will step in, as always, in case of a crime,
and our opinions or wishes will count for nothing."
"I have sent for the Coroner and for the Police,"
said Dr. Keith, who had given Halpin many whis-
pered orders. “Now, Barry, don't be unreason-
able. You can no more stop the routine of the
law's procedure than the stars in their courses. If
you know any facts you must be prepared to state
them truthfully. If not, you must say or do noth-
ing that will put any obstacle in the way of proper
inquiry."
Dr. Keith was treating Barry like a child, and
though the boy resented it, he said nothing, but his
face showed his hurt pride and his disappointment.
"Tell us all you can of the facts of the attack,"
said Beatrice Faulkner to the doctor.
"The simple facts are plainly seen," was the re-
ply. “Some one standing in front of Mr. Stan-
nard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed
him with the etching needle. The instrument pene-
trated his flesh, just above and a little to one side
of the breast bone, piercing the jugular vein and
causing almost instant death.”
"Could it not have been a suicide ?"
“Impossible, Mrs. Faulkner. Stannard could not
have managed that thrust, and, too, the position of


22
Faulkner's Folly
his hands precludes the theory of suicide. But the
Coroner and his physician will, I am sure, corrob-
orate my statement. It is a clear case of wilful
murder, for, as you must see for yourself, no acci-
dental touch of that instrument would bring about
such a deep sinking of the point in a vital part of
the victim."
“But, if I may ask, sir,” said Miller, respectfully,
"how could a murderer see to strike such a blow in
a dark room? While Mr. Stannard could have
stabbed himself in the dark."
“Those points are outside my jurisdiction," re-
turned the Doctor, looking grave. “The Coroner
and the Police Detectives will endeavour to give
the answers to your perfectly logical queries."
And then the men from Police Headquarters ar-
rived.


Where They Stood
THE countryside was in a tumult. A murder
mystery at Faulkner's Folly, of all places in
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, of course, his enormous collection of valu-
able art works and even more valuable jewels would
tempt robbers.
But the vague rumors as to his wife or that dar-
ling little model girl being implicated, were absurd.
To be sure, the installation of Miss Vernon as a
house guest was a Aling in the face of conventions,
but Eric Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too,
Mrs. Stannard had always introduced the girl as
her friend.
The Stannards were comparatively new people at


24
Faulkner's Folly
The Park, but Mrs. Faulkner, whose husband had
built the Folly, was even now visiting there, and her
sanction was enough for the community. It would,
one must admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a
woman in the case, but it was too impossible. No,
it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.
Thus the neighbours.
But the Police thought differently. The report of
the Post Patrolman who first appeared upon the
scene of the tragedy included a vivid description of
the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole
force, from the Inspector down, determined to dis-
cover which was guilty. To them the death of Eric
Stannard was merely a case, but from the nature of
things it was, or would become, a celebrated case,
and as such, they were elated over their connec-
tion with it.
In due course, the Coroner's Inquest took place,
and was held in the big studio where Eric Stan-
nard had met his death.
Owing to the personality of Coroner Lamson, this
was not the perfunctory proceeding that inquests
sometimes are, but served to bring out the indica-
tive facts of the situation.
It was the day after the murder and the room
was partially filled with the officers of the law, the
jury and a crowd of morbidly curious strangers. It
seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apart-


Where They Stood
25
ment to the demands of the occasion, and many of
the audience sat timidly on the edge of the luxuri-
ous chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures,
statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original
plan the studio had been a ballroom, but its fine
North light and great size fitted it for the workroom
of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only
implement of Eric Stannard. He had experimented
with almost equal success in pastel work, he had
done some good modelling and of late he had be-
come deeply interested in etching. And it had been
one of his own etching needles that had been the
direct cause of his untimely death.
This fact was testified to by Doctor Keith, who
further detailed his being called to the house the
night before. He stated that he had arrived within
fifteen minutes after Mr. Stannard—as the family
had told him—had breathed his last. Examination
of the body had disclosed that death was caused by
the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon,
which was not removed until later, was a tool known
as an Etcher's needle, a slender, sharp instrument,
set in a wooden handle, the whole being not unlike
a brad-awl. On being shown the needle, the Doctor
identified it as the instrument of death.
Blake, the footman, was next questioned. He
was of calm demeanour and impassive countenance,
but his answers were alert and intelligent.


26
Faulkner's Folly
"Too much so," thought Mr. Robert Roberts, a
Police Detective, who had been put upon the case, to
his own decided satisfaction. "That man knows
what he's talking about, if he is a wooden-face."
Now, Roberts, called by his chums, Bobsy, was
himself alert and intelligent, and therefore rec-
ognised those traits in others. He listened atten-
tively as Coroner Lamson put his queries.
"You were the first to discover your master's
dead body?”
"Mr. Stannard was not dead when I entered the
room,” replied Blake.
“No, no, to be sure. I mean, you were the first
to enter the room after the man was stabbed ?"
"That I can't say. When I entered— ” Blake
paused, and glanced uncertainly about. Barry Stan-
nard was looking at the footman with a stern face.
Inspector Bardon, who was present, interposed.
"Tell the story in your own words, my man. We'll
best get at it that way.”
“I was on duty in the hall," began Blake, slowly,
“and I noticed the lights go out in the studio
here
"Was the door between the hall and studio open ?"
asked Lamson.
"No, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar.
I didn't think much about the light going out,
though Mr. Stannard never turned off the lights


Where They Stood
27
when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. And if
it did strike me as a bit queer, I had no time to
think the matter over, for just then I heard a slight
sound,-a gasping like, as if somebody was in dis-
tress. As I had not been called, I didn't enter, but
I did try to peep in at the crack of the door. This
was not curiosity, but there was something in that
gasp that—that scared me a little."
"What next?” said the Coroner, as Blake paused.
"Just then, sir, Mrs. Faulkner came down the
stairs. She was surprised to see me peeping at a
door, and spoke chidingly. But I was so alarmed, I
forgot myself, and-well, and just then, I heard
a distinct sound-a terrible, gurgling sound, and a
voice said, 'Help! I turned to Mrs. Faulkner to
see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face
looked frightened and she asked me what it meant,
and she told me to go in and turn on the light. So
-so, I did, and then I saw- "
"Be very careful now, Blake; tell us exactly what
you saw.”
"I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the
room, in his favourite big chair, and he was like a
man dying- "
"Have you ever seen a man die?” Lamson
snapped out the words as if his own nerves were
at a tension.
“No-no, sir."


28
Faulkner's Folly
“Then how do you know how one would look ?”
“I saw something had been thrust into his breast,
I saw red stains on his shirt front, and I saw his
face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes staring, yet
with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands
stretched out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost
control over his muscles. I couldn't think other
than that he was a dying man, sir."
“That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An ex-
act account of the scene as it appeared to you.
Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the
spectacle of Mr. Stannard's plight to see clearly the
others who were present?”.
"No, sir," and the man's calm face quivered now.
"It is as if photographed on my brain. I can never
forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard were the two ladies,
Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon."
"Directly behind him?"
“Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind,
but off toward his left, and Miss Vernon was be-
hind, but toward the right.”
"Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies
stood,” and Coroner Lamson rose to see his de-
mands fulfilled.
“Oh, sir," begged Blake, his frightened eyes wa-
vering toward the members of the household which
employed him, "oh, sir-Mrs. Faulkner, sir,--she
came in with me, she can tell better than I - "


Where They Stood
"Mrs. Faulkner will be questioned in due time.
You came in first; we will hear your version and
then hers. Be accurate now.”
With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots
he had designated.
“Mrs. Stannard stood here,” he said, indicating
a position perhaps a yard back and to the left of
Stannard's chair, which was still in its place.
“What was she doing?”
"Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and
the other sort of clasped against her breast.”
"And Miss Vernon?”
"She was over here," and Blake, still behind the
chair, crossed to its other side, and stood near the
outer door.
"How was she standing ?”
“Against this small table, and the table was sway-
ing back and forth, like it would upset in a minute.”
“And her hands?".
"They were both behind her, sir, clutching at the
· table.”
"You have a wonderful memory, Blake," and the
Coroner looked hard at his witness.
"Not always, sir. But the thing is like a picture
to my mind.”
"Like a moving picture?”
"No, sir, nobody moved. It was like a tableau,
sir- "


30
Faulkner's Folly
"And then," prompted Inspector Bardon.
At this point, Barry Stannard was again seen to
look at Blake with a glance of deep concentration.
"Important, if true," Detective Roberts said to
himself. “Young Stannard is afraid of the foot-
man's further disclosures !"
Whether that was so or not, Blake suddenly lost
his power of clear and concise narration.
“Why, then—_” he stammered, “then, all was
confusion. I started toward Mr. Stannard, it-it
seemed my duty. And Mrs. Faulkner, she came
toward him "
"And the two ladies behind him?"
“They came toward him, too, and Mrs. Stannard
took hold of his hand-
"Well?"
“Well, sir, I couldn't help it, sir-I blurted out,
'Who did this?' And Mr. Stannard-he said "
"Said! Spoke?"
Attention was concentrated on the footman, and
it is doubtful if any one save Roberts noticed Barry
Stannard's face. It was drawn in an agonised pro-
test at the forthcoming revelation. But Blake, ac-
customed to obeying orders implicitly, continued to
tell his story.
“Yes, sir, he spoke sort of whispered, in a gasp-
ing way-
“And what did he say?"


32
Faulkner's Folly
“I am ready,” she said, with the air of one accus-
tomed to dictate times and seasons.
A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: “Do you
corroborate the story as just related by Blake, the
footman?"
“Yes, I think so," and the witness drew her beau-
tiful brows together as if in an effort of recollec-
tion. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice Faulkner
looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Na-
talie she seemed a middle-aged matron. “I am sure
I agree with his facts as stated, as to our entering
the room, but I'm not sure he was able to hear clear-
ly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not.”
"You were not ?"
“No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying
man, but I am not ready to say positively that I
clearly understood the words."
“You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping
in at the door?”
"He wasn't peeping. He was, it seemed to me,
listening. I, naturally, thought it strange to see a
footman prying in any way, and I called out his
name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that
as he was not my footman I had no right to repri-
mand him; and just then he turned his full face
toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled,
and that something unusual must be happening in
the studio. He told me the lights had just gone


Where They Stood
33
out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sigh-
ing 'Help! It was a fearful sound, and struck
a chill to my very heart. I bade Blake turn on the
light quickly, and then I followed him into the
room.”
“Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman
told it. Now, will you tell what you saw in the
studio, and what you inferred from it.”
"I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger
or some such thing protruding from his breast, and
blood stains on his clothing. I inferred that some
burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps
robbed him.”
"And how did you think this intruder had en-
tered?”
“I didn't think anything about that. One doesn't
have coherent thoughts at such a moment. I real-
ised that he had been stabbed, so of course, I as-
sumed an assailant. Then I saw his wife and Miss
Vernon standing near him, and I had no thought
save to assist in any way I might. I cried out to
Blake to get a doctor, and then I went to Mrs. Stan-
nard's side, just as she was about to faint."
“Did she faint?"
“No, that is, she did not entirely lose conscious-
ness, though greatly agitated. And then, soon, the
butler and Miller, Mr. Stannard's valet, came in,
and after that Barry came and—and everything


34
,
Faulkner's Folly
seemed to happen at once. Doctor Keith came ”
“One moment, Mrs. Faulkner, you are getting
ahead of your story. What about the words ut-
tered by Mr. Stannard before he died?"
"They were so inarticulate as to be unintelli-
gible.”
“You swear this?”
"I do. If he said 'Joyce' or 'Natalie, it is not at
all strange, considering that those two women were
in his sight. But I repeat that he did not say them
in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean
any real statement. It was the unconscious speech
of a dying man. In another instant he was gone."
Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner's
voice trembled, and was so low as to be scarcely
audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and
her eyes met Barry's for a moment, in the briefest
glance of understanding and approval.
“Hum,” commented the astute Roberts to his fa-
vourite confidant, himself, “the Barry person is in
love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly lady
is his friend, and she's helping him out. She isn't
telling all she knows, or if she is, she's colouring it
to save the implicated ladies.”
"What is your position in this house, Mrs. Faulk-
ner?"
The faintest gleam of amusement passed over the
.
.


Where They Stood
35
white face. It was almost as if he thought her a
housekeeper or governess.
“I am a guest,” she returned, simply. “I have
been staying here a few weeks for the purpose of
having my portrait painted by Mr. Stannard.”
“You previously owned this house, did you not?”
"My late husband, an architect of note, built it.
Later, it was sold to Mr. Stannard, who has lived
in it nearly two years."
"Where were you just before you came down
the stairs and saw Blake?”
"In the Drawing Room, on the second floor, at
the other end of the house. I had been entertaining
a guest, and as he had just taken leave, I went down
stairs to rejoin my hostess."
“Where did you expect to find Mrs. Stannard ?”
“Where I had left her, in the Billiard Room.”
"You left her there? How long before?"
"An hour or so. There were several guests at
dinner, and they had drifted to the various rooms
afterward.”
“Who were the guests at dinner?”
"Mr. Wadsworth, who was with me in the Draw-
ing Room; Mr. Courtenay, a neighbour, and Mr.
and Mrs. Truxton, who also live nearby."
“Mrs. Truxton, the jewel collector?"
"Yes; that is the one."
“There was no one else at dinner?”


36
Faulkner's Folly
"Only the family group; Mr. and Mrs. Stannard,
Mr. Barry Stannard, Miss Vernon and myself.”
"Once again, Mrs. Faulkner, you attach no sig-
nificance to the words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce, which
Blake quotes Mr. Stannard as saying?”
Taken thus unexpectedly, Mrs. Faulkner hesi-
tated. Then she said, steadily: "I do not. They
were the articulation of a brain already clouded by
approaching death. He merely named the people he
saw nearest to him.”
“That is not true! Eric meant what he said !”
It was Joyce Stannard who spoke.


111
What They Said
PITH a vague idea of taking advantage of a
psychological moment, Coroner Lamson
began to question Joyce.
“Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stan-
nard ?” he said; “do you realise that it is a grave
implication?”
,
But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high ten-
sion, and she said, talking rapidly, “My husband's
words were in direct answer to the footman's ques-
tion. Blake said, “Who did this?' and Mr. Stan-
nard, even pointing to Miss Vernon, said, 'Natalie,
not Joyce.' Could anything be plainer ?”
“It might seem so, yet we must take into consid-
eration the fast clouding intellect of the dying man,
and endeavour thus to get at the truth. Will you
tell the circumstances of your entering the room,
Mrs. Stannard?”
"Of course I will. I had been in the Billiard
Room for some time, ever since dinner, in fact "
"Alone?”
“Not at first. Several were there with me. Then,
later, all had gone-and—I was there alone."
37


38
Faulkner's Folly
The speaker paused. She seemed to forget her
audience and became lost in recollection or in
thought. She looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed
in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit
of white turned in at the throat. Her brown hair
waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot and her
deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly
luminous.
"Perhaps it wasn't Natalie,” she said, speaking
breathlessly. "Perhaps it wasn't Miss Vernon-
after all.”
“We are not asking your opinion, Mrs. Stan-
nard,” said the Coroner, stiffly; “kindly confine your
recital to the facts as they happened.”
But now, the witness' poise was shaken. Of a
temperamental nature, Joyce Stannard had thought
of something or realised something that affected the
trend of her testimony.
Bobsy Roberts watched her with intense interest.
"Well, Milady,” he said to her, mentally, “you've
struck a snag in your well-planned defence. Care-
ful now, don't leap before you look !".
“Yes,” said Joyce, but her quivering lip precluded
further speech.
The Coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable
by the sight of her beauty and her distress, always
a disquieting combination, and to hide his sympa-'


What They Said
39
thy, he repeated, brusquely, “The facts, please, as
they occurred.”
"I was in the Billiard Room,” Joyce began again,
"and I heard, in the studio, a slight sound of some
sort, and then the light in here went out.”
"Which was first, the sound or the sudden dark-
ness ?”
"The sound—no, the darkness. I don't really
know. Perhaps they were simultaneous.”
“One moment; was the Billiard Room lighted ?”
“Yes."
"And the door between open ?”
“The sliding doors were open—the curtains pulled
together.”
Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in ques-
tion, Mr. Lamson said quickly: "If they were
pulled together, and the room where you were was
light, how could you notice when this room went
dark?”
Joyce looked bewildered. "I don't know," she
said, blankly, "how could I?”
The question was so naïve, and the brown eyes
so puzzled and troubled, that Bobsy Roberts whis-
tled to himself. But not for want of thought. His
thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal
them into line. “Of course," his principal thought
was, “one of these women is guilty. If the crime
had been committed by a burglar they wouldn't


40
Faulkner's Folly
have any of this back and forth kiyi with their eyes.
Now, the question is, which one?"
Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances.
But to a stranger they were unreadable, and Rob-
erts contented himself with storing them up in his
memory for future consideration. And now, as
Joyce looked confused and nonplussed, Natalie
seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly drooped
her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed.
“But you are sure you did know when the studio
lights went out?" pursued Lamson.
“Why, yes—I think so. You see-it was all so
confused— ”
“What was?”
“Why,—the lights,—and that queer sound
and— ”
"Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights
and the sound. You entered the studio from the
Billiard Room, and saw ?"
“I didn't see anything !" declared Joyce, with a
sudden toss of her head. I c-couldn't. It was dark,
you know. Then somebody, Blake, you know,
turned the switch, and I saw Miss Vernon stand-
ing by my dying husband's "
"How did you know he was dying? Did you see
Miss Vernon strike the blow ?”
"No. But she was in the room when I entered
and, too, Eric said it was Natalie and not—me.”


What They Said
41
"You are prepared to swear that Miss Vernon
was in the room before you were?”
"She was there when I went in.”
“But it was dark, how could you see her?”
"I didn't. I heard her breathing in a quick,
frightened way.”
“And when you first saw her?".
"She was cowering back against the little paint
stand.”
"Looking terrified ?"
“Yes, and
"And what?”
“And guilty.” Joyce said the words solemnly, as
one unwillingly pronouncing a doom.
“Mrs. Stannard, I must be unpleasantly personal.
Can you think of any reason why Miss Vernon
would desire your husband's death?”
Joyce trembled visibly. “I cannot answer a ques-
tion like that,” she said, in a low tone.
“I'm sorry,—but you must."
“No, then," and Joyce looked squarely at Natalie.
“I cannot imagine why she should desire his death.
I certainly cannot."
“But any reason why she should dislike him, or
wish him ill?”
“N-no.”
“Think again.”
“My husband was a great artist,” Joyce began,


42
Faulkner's Folly
as if thinking it out for herself. "He was accus-
tomed to having his models do as he requested.
Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes
and—and they were not very good friends."
“But you and Miss Vernon are good friends ?
You like her?”
Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. “Cer-
tainly,” she said, in an even voice, “I like her."
"Whew!" breathed our friend Roberts, silently.
"At last I see what one Mr. Pope meant when he
wrote:
“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer.”
For, surely, Joyce's attestation of friendship be-
tween herself and the artist's model convinced no-
body. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious face
blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the
sense of profound feeling beneath.
“In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stan-
nard's displeasure?” asked Lamson.
“Merely on some technical matters connected
with her posing for his pictures," was the noncha-
lant reply.
“That, then, could scarcely be construed into a
motive for murder?”.
“Scarcely.” Joyce seemed to give a mere par-
rot-like repetition of the Coroner's word.


What They Said
“Yet, you are willing to believe that Miss Ver-
non is the criminal we are seeking?"
"I do not say that,” and Joyce spoke softly. "I
can only say I saw her here when I came into this
room and found my husband dying.”
"Might she not have come in just as you did, at-
tracted by that strange sound, as of a man in pain?”
“In that case, who could have stabbed my hus-
band? There was no one else near. That has
been testified by those who entered at the other end
of the room.”
"Could not a burglar have entered by a window,
attempted robbery, and, being discovered, stabbed
Mr. Stannard in self-preservation?”
"How could he have entered ?” said Joyce, dully.
"'I can see no way. That is, he might have been
in here, but in no way could he have gotten out.
That great North window, I am told, opens only in
a few high sectional panes. It is shaded by rollers
from the bottom, and is inaccessible. The other
large window, the West one, is so blocked up with
easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody
could get in or out of that. The door to the main
hall was, of course, in full sight of Blake the foot-
man, and that leaves only the South end of the room
to be considered. Now no intruder could have gone
out by the door to the Billiard Room or the door
to the Terrace without having been seen by you or


44
Faulkner's Folly
Miss Vernon, who claims she was on the Terrace
all evening."
Every one present looked around at the Studio.
They saw a spacious room, about forty feet long by
thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty feet high.
An enormous fireplace was on the side toward the
house, and above it ran an ornamental balcony,
reached by a light staircase at either end. The fine,
big windows were of stained glass, save where
ground glass had been put in to meet the artist's
needs. Originally a ballroom, the decorations were
ornate but in restrained and harmonious taste.
There were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless
works of art all about, and furnishings of regal
state and luxury. Yet, also, was there the litter
and mess of working materials and mediums—seem-
ingly inseparable from any studio, however watched
and tended. Here would be a stunning Elizabethan
chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high
with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest
of marvellous workmanship, from whose half-open
lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs or quaintly-
fashioned garments. Tables everywhere, of inlay
or marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of
pastels, or small casts. Jugs and vases, fit only for
museum pieces, held sheafs of paint-brushes, while
scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood all
round the wall.


What They Said
_
_
The armchair, in which Eric Stannard had sat
when he died, was undisturbed, also the tables near
it. A new idea seemed to strike Lamson. He said,
“When you came in in the darkness, Mrs. Stan-
nard, how did you avoid stumbling over the chairs
and stands in your way? I count four of them,
practically in the course you must have pursued.”
Joyce looked at the part of the room in question.
True, there were four or more small pieces of fur-
niture that would have bothered one coming in with-
out a light.
“That's so!" she said, as if the idea were illumi-
nating. “I must have come in just after or at the
very moment that Blake lighted the electrics !"
“And found Miss Vernon already here?”
“Yes,” said Joyce.
“Miss Vernon, will you tell your story?” said
Lamson, abruptly, turning from Joyce to the girl.
"Why—I- " Natalie fluttered like a frightened
bird, and gazed piteously at the inquisitor. “I don't
know how."
“Good work!" commented Bobsy Roberts, men-
tally. “Smart little girl to know how the baby act
fetches 'em!”
But if Natalie Vernon's air of helplessness was
assumed, it was sufficiently well done to convince all
who saw it.
"Poor little thing!” was in everybody's mind as


What They Said
4
“Oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. And
I went toward the door to listen, if it might be re-
peated.”
"Was the door open ?”
"No, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and
these were a little way open, and I could see through
them that the light went out suddenly- "
"Well?”
"And then I went right in, without making a
sound "
“Didn't it make a sound as you opened the door?”
“The door was open.”
“You said it was not.”
“Oh, I don't know whether it was or not! I was
so scared to see Eric,-Mr. Stannard, dead or dy-
ing, and his wife standing there as if she had
just- "
"Just what? Killed him?”
“Yes,” and Natalie's big blue eyes were violet
with horror. "She had! And she stood there, just
as Blake said, one hand on the table, and one
clutched to her breast. She did do it, Mr. Coroner.
She must have been out of her mind, you know, but
she did it, for I saw her.”
“Saw her kill him?"
“No, not that. But I saw her just after the deed
was done, and she was the picture of guilty fear!”
If Natalie could have been transferred to canvas


48
Faulkner's Folly
as she looked then, the picture would have made any
painter's fortune. The girl was in white, soft,
crêpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines,
for the gown had been designed by no less a genius
than Stannard himself. It was his whim to have
Natalie about the house in the gowns in which he
posed her, that he might catch an occasional unex-
pected effect. But the simple affair was not out of
place as a morning house-gown, and more than one
woman in the audience took careful note of its cut
and pattern. Her golden hair was carelessly tossed
up in a mass of curls, held with one hair-pin, a huge
amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip
out, and one couldn't help wishing it would. Her
wonderful eyes had long dark lashes, and her pink
cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous ex-
citement. So thin was her delicate skin that her
hands and throat were flushed a soft pink and her
curved lips were scarlet. Yet notwithstanding the
marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of
doubt that it was Nature's own. The play of rose
and white in her cheeks, the sudden occasional pal-
ing of the red lips and the perfection of the tiny
shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing tem-
ples all spoke of the real humanity of this girl's
beauty. Small wonder the artist wanted her for his
own pictures exclusively! Joyce was a beautiful


What They Said
49
woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a
dream, a very Titania of charm and wonder.
Not by her testimony, not by words of assertion,
but by her ethereal, her incredible beauty, this won-
der-girl took captive every heart and, without effort,
secured the sympathy and belief of everybody pres-
ent.
And yet, the Coroner had to do his duty. Had
to say, in curt, accusing tones, “Then how do you
explain Mr. Stannard's dying words, ‘Natalie, not
Joyce !?"
The red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew
pinker and great tears formed in the appealing blue
eyes.
"Don't ask me that !” she cried; "oh, pray, don't
ask me that!"
“But I do, I must ask you. And I must ask you
why you stabbed him? Had he asked you to pose
in any way to which you were unwilling to consent?
Had he insisted, after you refused ? Was he tyran-
nical? Brutal ? Cruel? Did you have to defend
yourself? Was it on an impulse of sudden anger
or indignation?"
“Stop! Stop!” cried Natalie, putting her pink
finger tips into her tiny, rosy ears. “Stop! He
was none of those things! He was good to me, he
-he ”


50
Faulkner's Folly
“Good to you, yet you killed him! Kind to you,
yet you took his life-
“I didn't! I tell you I didn't! It was Joyce !
She ”
"Miss Vernon, if you came into the room in the
dark, how could you effect an entrance without up-
setting something? There are even more small
racks and stands on that side of the room than the
other."
"No, I didn't upset anything — " and Natalie
stared at him.
"Then you came in before the room was dark-
ened,-long before,-and you darkened it yourself,
after you had driven the blow that ended the life
of your friend and patron.”
Coroner Lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of
Natalie's face turned to a creamy pallor, and the
girl sank, unconscious, into a chair.
"Brutal!” cried Barry Stannard, springing to her
side. "Inexcusable, Mr. Lamson. This is no place
for a Third Degree procedure!” and asking no one's
permission, he carried the slight form from the
studio.


IV
Goldenheart
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 Stan-
nard'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 innocent, rather
than ignorant, child. But her self-reliance, though
it had given way before the Coroner's accusation,
was always evident in the clear gaze of her appre-
hending eyes and the set of her lovely head. More-
over, she had that precious possession called charm
to an infinite degree. It was the despair of the ar-
tists who had painted her, and Eric Stannard, un-
willing to be baffled, had tried a hundred times,
more or less successfully, to fasten that charm in
colour medium. Of late, he had tried it in his etch-
ing. An unfinished piece of work was a waxed
51


52
Faulkner's Folly
plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of Natalie as
Goldenrod. This he had previously painted, and
the result, a study in yellow, was his copy for the
etching. The canvas showed the girl, her arms full
of goldenrod, her yellow gown and her yellow hair
against a background of yellow autumn leaves. It
was a masterpiece, even for Stannard. And aside
from the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he
decided to make an etching of the study.
The waxed plate, with this design, had been
found on the floor near Eric's chair, after his death.
The wax had been scratched and smudged, quite
evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches
and disfigurements were doubtless made by the very
instrument that had caused the artist's death.
This was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what
was indicated ? That Natalie, in a fit of anger at
Eric, had destroyed his picture of her? Or, that
Joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait ?
The painting, as Natalie had posed for it, was a
lovely girl in a full flowing robe of soft, opaque
stuff, showing only a bit of throat and shoulder, and
one rounded arm. The etching, as the artist had
drawn it, garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent
drapery, revealing lines that gave a totally different
· character to the work.
Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no deny-
ing that. Whether she was absurdly fanatical on


Goldenheart
53
the subject or not, was her own affair. But could
an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who
had drawn her in a way she didn't care to be
portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there was
latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of
character in those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss
Vernon chose to be an unusual, even eccentric
model, she was important enough to make her own
terms and insist upon them. And in a furious mo-
ment of surprised indignation, what might not a
woman do?
Again, could it not be that the artist's wife had
had her jealousy stirred to its depths by this latest
result of her husband's interest in the model ? Could
she not, coming upon him as he mused over his
drawing on the wax, have snatched the etching tool
from his table and revenged her slighted wifehood ?
“It's a poor clue that won't work both ways,"
mused Bobsy Roberts, as he heard of this etching
business. The story of it had been told while Nata-
lie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an
unruffled countenance. Either she was uninterested,
or determined to appear so.
Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the
guests who had been at dinner the night before.
The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightfor-
ward story of the occasion. He was a genial, pleas-
ant man, a neighbour and a widower.


54
Faulkner's Folly
After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time
with his host and others in the studio. Mr. Stan-
nard had shown some new gems, a recent addition
to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had
gone to the Billiard Room, and later, he and Mrs.
Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at the
other end of the house. He had remained there
with the lady until perhaps half past eleven
"Wait,” interposed the Coroner. “Mrs. Faulk-
ner came downstairs, after your departure, at that
hour."
"Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn't
note the time. I went directly home, and retired
without looking at the hour.”
“You went out at the front door?”
"Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn't
look for my hostess as I left, for we are on intimate
neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formali-
ties.”
There was nothing more to be learned from this
witness, and the next was Mr. Eugene Courtenay.
But one swift, intense glance passed between
Courtenay and Joyce as the witness took the stand.
It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy, and
to him it was a revelation.
"Oh, ho," was his self-communing, "sits the wind
in that quarter? Now, if his nibs and the stately
chatelaine areer-en rapport-it puts a distinctly
re


Goldenheart
55
different tint on the racing steed! I must see about
this.”
Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about
thirty years old, and a near neighbour. He had
been a suitor of Joyce's before she succumbed to
Stannard's Cave Man wooing, and since, had been
a friend of both.
Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testi-
mony, which was to the effect that after the dinner
guests had scattered into the various rooms, he had
been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Sev-
eral others had been there, but had drifted away,
and he was for a time alone there with his
hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from
the Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He
had not gone directly home, but had sauntered
across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a
garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit fac-
ing the studio South window, and had noticed the
light go out in that room. He thought nothing of
it, nor when, a few moments later the room was
relit, did he think it strange in any way. Why
shouldn't people light and relight their rooms as
they chose ? He then went home, knowing noth-
ing of the tragedy and heard nothing of it till morn-
ing. No further questioning brought out anything
of importance and Courtenay was dismissed.
Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information.


56
Faulkner's Folly
They told of the dinner party, and of the hours
afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels ex-
hibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon
them with the enthusiasm of a gem lover, but
neither he nor his wife could shed any light on the
mystery.
"Where are these jewels ?” asked Lamson, sud-
denly, scenting a possible robbery.
“I don't know,” Joyce answered, listlessly. “Mr.
Stannard kept some of them in Safety Deposit and
some in the house. He had a place of concealment
for them, but I preferred not to know where it is.
When I wished to wear any of the jewels he got
them for me, and afterward put them away again.”
“Do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that a burglar
intent on securing these gems might have attempted
a robbery, and "
"Come, come, Lamson," interposed Inspector
Bardon, "a burglar would scarcely make his at-
tempt while the household was still up, the house
alight, and people sauntering through the grounds."
“No, of course not,” responded the Coroner, in
no wise abashed.
Next, Barry Stannard was asked to tell what he
could of the whole matter.
"It was the work of a burglar,” said young Stan-
nard, confidently; "it simply shows his cleverness
that he chose a time when he could effect an en-


Goldenheart
57
trance easily. He need not have been a rough cus-
tomer. He may have been of a gentlemanly type,
even in evening clothes. But he gained access to
my father, I haven't the slightest doubt, and
brought to bear some influence or threat that he
hoped would gain him his end. When my father re-
fused his demands,—this is my theory and belief,
he either feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge,
killed my father with the nearest weapon he could
snatch at."
"And then, you think, Mr. Stannard, that this
intruder turned off the lights and made his exit
just before the ladies entered the room?”
"I do. He was evidently a cool hand, and made
a quick and clever getaway."
"And just how did he leave the room? You
know, Mrs. Stannard was in the Billiard Room and
Miss Vernon on the Terrace, while Blake was at
the main hall door.”
"He made his escape by the large West window,"
replied Barry. "If you will examine it on the out-
side, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or what-
ever you call the tool that burglars open windows
with.”
An officer was sent at once to investigate this, and
returned with the information that there certainly
were marks and scratches outside the window in
question. It was a long, French window, opening


58
Faulkner's Folly
like a double door, and near the lock were the tell-
tale marks.
Bobsy Roberts cast one comprehensive glance at
the West window, and then closed and reopened one
of his rather good-looking grey eyes. He glanced
at Barry, and observed, silently, “Some scheme !"
after which, he calmly awaited developments.
“But how can we think that a man entered at
that window," said Lamson, “when we notice how
it is filled with furniture and apparatus?"
"It might have been managed," asserted Barry.
And then Bobsy Roberts spoke out loud. "It
couldn't be,” he said, positively. “No one could, by
any chance or skill, come in or go out by that win-
dow without moving those plaster casts that are
on the floor. No one could do it without overturn-
ing that small easel, whose leg is directly in the
path of the window frame as it swings back. If
you will try it, Inspector, you will see what I mean."
It was true. Even though the window might be
opened, it would crash into and knock over the
small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished
picture on a mounted canvas. And it would also
knock down some casts which leaned against it.
Barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now
the Coroner regarded him with a sort of suspicion.
"Mr. Stannard,” he said, “I don't want to do
you an injustice, but your theory is so suspiciously


Goldenheart
59
implausible, that I can't help thinking you might
have made those scratches on the window yourself,
for the purpose of diverting suspicion."
"I did,” Barry blurted out, almost like a school-
boy. “And I am not ashamed of it. My father's
death is a mystery. So much of a one that I feel
sure it will never be solved. For that reason, I did
and do want to turn your mind away from the ab-
surd and utterly unfounded presumption you make
that the crime could have been committed by either
of the two ladies who, hearing my father's dying
struggles, rushed to his assistance."
"That may be the case," said Lamson, with one
of the ladies you refer to. But the other is, to all
appearances the one responsible for the crime. It is
my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the
position and high character of the ladies make it
seem impossible."
"It is impossible!” protested Barry. “I know of
facts and conditions which make it possible and
probable that an outsider, a-well, a blackmailer,
perhaps,-might have attacked my father. This is
outside of discovery or proof, but I request,-I de-
mand that you cease to persecute your present sus-
pects !”
The boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed
even younger than usual, quivered with the tensity
of his emotion and faced the Coroner with a bel-


Faulkner's Folly
ligerent antagonism that would have been funny
in a case less grave.
Roberts regarded him with interest. “Some
chap!” he thought. “I wonder, now, if he did it
himself,—and is trying to scatter the scent. No, I
fancy it's his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he
jimmied the door in a foolish attempt to make a
noise like a burglar.”
"Do you know where your father kept his jew-
els?” asked Lamson, suddenly, and Barry started,
as he said, “No, I've no idea. That is, the ones in
the house. The others are in deposit with the Black
Rock Trust Company."
“Who does know the whereabouts of those kept
in the house?”
But nobody seemed to know. Joyce had said she
did not. Barry disclaimed the knowledge. In-
quired of, Miller, the valet, did not know. Nor
Halpin, the old Butler, nor any of the other serv-
ants.
It would seem that Eric Stannard had concealed
his treasures in a hiding-place known only to him-
self. An officer was sent to search his personal
rooms, and in the meantime Joyce was subjected to
a further grilling.
Exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, hand-
some face was pale and drawn. Wearily, she an-


Faulkner's Folly
"And to whom were these remarks that you over-
heard, addressed ?”.
"How can you ask? I was just about to go into
the room, as I felt it my right, when, at that very
moment, the light was extinguished. I was so sur-
prised at this, that I stood there, uncertain what to
do. Then hearing Eric gasp, as if in distress, I
pushed the curtain aside and went in. The rest, I
have told you.”
Joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of
crimson swept over her face. She looked startled,
ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence or told
a secret, which she now regretted. Barry sat beside
her, and he was looking at her curiously.
Then the man who had been sent to search for
the jewels returned. He reported that he had not
been able to find any trace of them, but brought a
note he had found on Mr. Stannard's writing desk.
Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over
to Inspector Bardon.
Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus :
GOLDENHEART:
You have a strange power over meyou can
sway me to your will when I am in your presence.
But now, alone, I am my own man and my better
self protests at our secret. You know where the


Goldenheart
jewels are hidden. Take the emeralds, if you like,
and forgive and forget
Eric.
The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped
at this revelation of the artist's intrigue with his
model. Joyce turned white to her very lips, and
Barry flushed scarlet.
"Call Miss Vernon,” commanded the Coroner, ab-
ruptly.
Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and
quite composed now. Without a word, Lamson
handed her the note.
The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the
trembling of her lip, which she bit in her endeavour
to control it, she was calm and self-possessed.
"Well ?” said the Coroner, as gentle toward her
now as he had been fierce before, "what does that
note to you mean?”
Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes
on him. If her angel face was ever appealing, it
was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth and
quivering chin told of her desperate distress.
"It is not to me," she whispered.
“That's right,” Bobsy Roberts thought; "stick to
that, now. It's fine!”
"It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stan-
nard's desk. Where are the emeralds? Where are
the other jewels hidden?"


64
Faulkner's Folly
"I do not know. I tell you that letter is not
mine.”
"Not yours, because you didn't receive it. But it
was written to you, and before it was sent, the
writer told you, in so many words, the purport of
it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed
him."
Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her
hand. Her rosy palm lifted in protest, she said,
“Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard's story and
not mine? What I saw in this room was the jeal-
ous wife, cowering in an agony of fear and terror
at sight of her own crime.”
Lamson paused. He remembered that the testi-
mony of the two disinterested witnesses, Mrs. Faulk-
ner and Blake, went to show that these two women
were both there, near the victim, within a brief
moment of the crime itself. Who should say which
was guilty, the jealous wife or the disappointed
girl?
And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake
had told in detail the succession of events at the
critical moment of the turning off the lights, of the
ery for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce
have timed her story by this, and claimed an en-
trance at the same moment? And, also, might not
Natalie merely have patterned her recital after that
of Joyce? Which woman was guilty ?


V
Blake's Story
THE sapient gentlemen of the Coroner's Jury
concluded, after a somewhat protracted dis-
cussion, 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, be-
cause for each suspect they had only the evidence
of the other's unsupported story. And Public Opin-
ion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer
Park, would have risen in a body to protest against
a verdict that implicated either or both of these two
women. And yet, there were many exceptions.
Many of those whose voices were loudest in declar-
ing the innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed
private views that stultified their statements. And
some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a
thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for
the burglar theory, ignoring all obstacles in the way
of the marauder's entrance, and repeatedly insist-
ing that the non-appearance of the jewels was suffi-
cient proof of robbery.
It may be that Barry's self-confessed scratching
65


66
Faulkner's Folly
of the paint on the window-frame turned the trend
of thought toward a possible burglar or blackmail-
er, even if he gained entrance some other way; and
it may be this was the loophole through which the
two suspected people escaped accusation.
But the interest of the police in these two was
strengthened rather than lessened, and their life
and conduct were under close scrutiny.
Captain Steele, who had been assigned to the
case, declared that he was glad of the verdict, for it
was better to have the suspects at large, and he was
a firm believer in the principle of giving people suf-
ficient rope and allowing them the privilege of hang-
ing themselves.
Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house
was always called,-in spite of the Stannards' at-
tempts to use the more attractive name of Stanhurst,
-on the day after the inquest, and Detective Rob-
erts was also there and one or two other policemen
and reporters.
Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room
next the studio for his quarters, and was going
over with great care the reports of the proceedings
and evidence of the day before.
"You see, Bobsy,” he said, "the burglar stunt
won't work. I've tried, and Carter, here, he's tried,
and we couldn't come within a mile of getting in
or out among that art junk in the window, without


Blake's Story
67
making noise and commotion enough to wake the
dead."
"I know it,” assented Bobsy. “Knew it all the
time. Let's cut out Mr. Burglar. Also, Blake was
on the door all the evening, and he would have
looked in the studio in case of a racket.”
"Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab
act. They all say about half past eleven, but no-
body knows exactly.”
“Of course they don't. People in evening togs
never know what time it is. Why should they?
They don't have to punch a clock. I think the foot-
man would just about know, though. Servants
have their hours, you know. And anyway, let's get
that man in here."
Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as
usual, seemed ready to answer questions.
He retold his story, with no appreciable devia-
tion from what he had testified at the inquest.
“Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?”
asked Steele.
"Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just
before the light went out."
"How long was the light out?'' Roberts put in.
"I should say, not more'n a minute or so. I was
that scared when I heard the sounds, I can't tell
about the length of time properly. But it wasn't


68
Faulkner's Folly
two minutes, I'm sure, between the studio light go-
ing off and me turning it on.”
“Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner
hadn't told you to?".
Blake considered. “I can't say. I think, yes, for
I heard that 'Help! distinctly, for all it was so
faint. And I think, if I'd been on my own, I'd 'a'
gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use
his judgment, sir.”
“Right you are, Blake," said Bobsy, who had
taken a liking to the footman. “Now, tell us all
you know of the whereabouts of every member of
the family—of the household.”
"I don't know much as to that. You see, I was
on the hall, and I could only see those who passed
through it.”
"Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enu-
merate them.”
"Before dinner, everybody was in the drawing
room, that's over the dining room, at the East end
of the house. Then they all came down the grand
staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then.
After dinner, the ladies had their coffee on the Ter-
race and the gentlemen stayed at the table. Then,
when the men came out of the dining room, they
pretty much scattered all over the house. Every-
body was in the studio at one time, and then some
went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception


Blake's Story
Room we're now in, or up to the Drawing Room.
Then, about eleven, Mr. and Mrs. Truxton went
home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner
and Mr. Wadsworth were in the hall at the same
time. But after the Truxtons went, Mrs. Faulkner
and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing
Room. You see,-er- "
“What, Blake?”
"Well, if I may say it, sir, he's-er-sweet on
her, and they two went off by themselves."
"I see,” and Bobsy smiled. “Now, as to the
other ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon?”
“Of those I know nothing, for they didn't come
around where I was."
"Nor any of the men ?”
“No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he
came down, and I let him out. He says, 'Good
night, Blake,' sort of gay like, and I thought per-
haps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir."
"Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came
down?"
“Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had
heard this queer noise in the studio, and I was lis-
tening at the crack of the door. I meant no harm,
and no curiosity,-but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight
of me just then, and she spoke to me. Then, the
lights went out "


70
Faulkner's Folly
“Why, you said they were out before the lady
spoke to you."
"Oh, yes, that's right, they were. Well, it's small
wonder I get mixed up. They were, sir, because I
told Mrs. Faulkner they were, and she said it wasn't
my place to comment on that. And she was right,
it wasn't my place, to be sure; but I was worried,
that's what I was, worried, and then we both heard
the cry of 'Help!' and she told me to turn on
the studio lights and I did.”
“Do they all obey one switch ?”
“Yes, sir, that is, there's one main key right at
the door jamb that controls all. So when I turned
it on, the whole room was ablaze."
“And of course, you couldn't help seeing the ex-
act state of things. Well, Blake, which lady do you
think did it?"
"Oh, sir,” and Blake's solemn face grew a shade
more so, “I couldn't say. I'm sure I don't know.
But, it must have been one of them, there's no get-
ting around that. When I saw the three, as you
might say, almost in a row, and the two ladies, sir,
both near to Mr. Stannard, sir, and both looking
oh, I can't describe how they looked! Why if they
were both guilty they couldn't have looked dif-
ferent."
"They weren't both guilty!" cried Roberts. “It
couldn't have been collusion, eh, Steele?”


Blake's Story
“Nonsense, of course not,” returned Captain
Steele; "one stabbed him, and the other came in at
the sound of his voice. The terror and shock of the
culprit and that of the innocent one would both
be manifested by the same expressions of horror
and fright."
"I believe that,” said Bobsy, after a minute's
thought. "Now, Blake, as to the actual means of
getting in and out of that studio. Let's go in
there."
It was rather early in the morning and the mem-
bers of the household were as yet in their rooms. It
was not the intention of the Police to intrude upon
them until after the funeral, but it was desirable
to make certain inquiries and investigations while
the matter was fresh in the minds of the servants.
Roberts intended to interview others of them af-
terward, but just now Blake was proving so satis-
factory that he continued to keep him by.
In the studio, both Steele and Roberts examined
carefully the marks on the West window casing.
"Idiot boy !” exclaimed Bobsy. “To think he
could fool us into believing this was professional
work!"
"It shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round
here and fix it up so quickly,” said Steele, a bit
admiringly.
"That's what Mr. Barry has, sir, the leaping


72
Faulkner's Folly
mind,” observed Blake, as if pleased with the phrase.
"Often he jumps to a conclusion or decision that his
father'd take hours to reach."
“Mr. Stannard was slow, then?”.
"Not to say slow, in some things. He was like
lightning at his work. But as to a matter, now, that
he didn't want to bother about, he would put it off
or dawdle about it, something awful.”
"And you see,” Bobsy went on, "there are only
three doors and three windows in the place. Now
we have accounted for— "
"What's the gallery for?" asked Steele, gazing
up at the gilded iron scrollwork of the little balcony.
“Just for ornament, sir,” Blake returned. “And
I've heard Mr. Stannard say, it was necessary, to
break up that wall. You see, the ceiling is some
twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, be-
ing next the main house."
“It's all one house,—there's no division ?"
"No real division, sir, but this end,—the studio
and Billiard Room on this floor, and the rooms di-
rectly above,—are all Mr. Stannard's own, and in
a way separate from the rest of the house."
"His sleeping room is above the studio ?”
“Yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and
den. Mrs. Stannard's rooms are next, over the Re-
ception Room, and all the other bedrooms are over
the dining room end, and in the third story."


74
Faulkner's Folly
Had a person climbed in at this window before that
he must have seen him.”
"He couldn't climb in, sir, 'count of the screen,"
said Blake. “It's not a, movable screen. We put
them up for the season, and take them down the
middle of October. They all come down next week.
"This door, the last," and Bobsy paused at the
door to the Terrace, “is the one at which Miss Ver-
non entered. If any one else had come in here she
would have seen him. That completes our circuit.
No one could have gained access to this room except
the ones under consideration. Now we are faced
by the fact that one of those two women committed
the murder, and it's up to us to decide which one."
“There's the fireplace," suggested Steele.
"There was a fire there that night," Blake as-
serted. “That is, there had been, for the evening
was a little chilly, and too, Mrs. Stannard is fond
of an open fire. It was burned out when—when it
all happened, but the embers were smouldering when
I came into the room. And no one could come
down the chimney, anyway. It's a crooked flue, and
it's full of soot beside."
"No one ever comes down a chimney,” said Rob-
erts, “but it's always well to look into it." He
peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of
soot showed no scratches or marks.
“Then there's no ingress other than those we've


Blake's Story
75
noted,” Steele mused. “There's no skylight, no
cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place," he
ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the
wainscoated wall. “Solid," he said, as he came
down the other little stair. “Now, is there any trap
door?”
They lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but
the oak was an unmarred surface, and no opening
was there of any sort.
"I wanted to be sure," said Roberts, as, a little
shamefacedly he pounded on the floorboards around
the West window. “Now, I am sure. We have
only the two doors to deal with. The door from
the Terrace and the one from the studio. Let's look
at them both.”
Stepping out onto the beautiful covered Terrace,
the men paused to take in the glories of the scene.
The splendid lawns sloping down to even more
splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a
Nature lover both. The October foliage was alight
and aglow, and the Autumn flowers were masses
of gorgeous bloom. But after a whiff or two of
the sunlit morning air, they returned to their quest.
"On this terrace Miss Vernon and Barry Stan-
nard sat until after eleven," Roberts said; “I got
that from young Stannard himself.”
· "Don't put too much faith in those people's ideas


Faulkner's Folly
of time,” warned Steele. “He may think it was
after eleven and it may have been much earlier."
"You're right, there. Well, anyway, he sat here
with her, in the dark,-he told me had turned off
the Terrace light,-and then he went off to give
the dogs some exercise. I believe they go for a
trot every night, don't they, Blake?”.
"Yes, sir; Mr. Barry almost always romps about
with the dogs of an evening.”
"Well, that leaves Miss Vernon alone here for
an indefinite-I mean, an indeterminate time. Now,
why doesn't Mr. Courtenay see her, as he sits on
that lawn seat yonder ?”
"Too dark," said Steele, laconically.
"That's right. She was back, we'll say, under the
Terrace roof, and the night was dark. Moreover,
the Studio was brightly lighted, also the Billiard
Room, which threw the Terrace even more in
shadow. Well, then, I'm sort of reconstructing
this,-Miss Vernon sat here, until, as she says, she
heard the noise in the studio.”
"Or saw the light go out,” and Steele shook his
head. "Nobody seems to know which happened
first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer
sound.”
"No one knows, except the murderer," said Rob-
erts, seriously. "The murderer knows, because he
-or she-turned off the light, but the others, who


Blake's Story
77
are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is
about a moment of unexpected action."
"That's it,” and Steele looked at the detective in
admiration. “Mighty few can give a clear account
of sudden happenings, unless it's a cut and dried ac-
count.”
“And yet—” Bobsy frowned, "you know both
Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard became confused
about the lights.”
"That's because they both tried to copycat the
footman's story. You see, the one who really killed
Stannard, did shut off the lights, and when she tells
her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up
about the sound and the lights, because she was in
the studio all the time, and not where she says she
was, at all. Then, on the other hand, the other of
the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she
really can't tell just how things did happen.”
"Sound enough. Now let's go to the Billiard
Room.”
Crossing the studio again, they entered the Bil-
liard Room, a large apartment with seats round the
walls and the table in the centre.
Cue racks and much smoking and other mascu-
line paraphernalia were all about. There were a
skylight of stained glass and a few high side win-
dows. An outside door was on the South side.
“Here Mr. Courtenay left Mrs. Stannard, at much


78
Faulkner's Folly
the same time Barry left the girl,” Roberts said.
"So you see, Steele, their chances are equal."
“Chances of what?”
“I mean chances to go into the studio, unob-
served of anybody, commit the deed, turn off the
lights, and then, either return to the spot she came
from or to remain in the room until the other en-
tered. It must have been that way, for there's no
other way for it to be."
"All right; now, what about Mrs. Stannard's
story of overhearing the stuff her husband said to
the girl?"
“Probably true, but if he said that to Miss Ver-
non and Mrs. Stannard overheard it, she might
have run in and found the dead man, or she might
have run in and stabbed the living man.”
“In the dark?”
"Perhaps so. She knew where every bit of fur-
niture was. But isn't it quite as likely that the
girl did the stabbing?”
“That wax baby?”
"She isn't the baby she looks! Always distrust
a blonde."
"But such a blonde !"
"Distrust them in proportion to their blondeness,
then. But we've learned all we can here. Back to
think it over, and puzzle it out.”


VI
Mrs. Faulkner's Account
POW, although the residents of the aristo-
I c ratic 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 so-
cially and in the art world, a great hue and cry
was raised for vengeance where vengeance was due.
All sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts
of people and interest increased rather than dwin-
dled as no definite progress was reported.
Captain Steele was one of the most able men on
the force, and his record for success in murder cases
was of the best. His reputation was at stake, and
he was working his very hardest in his handling
of the present matter. His methods were persistent
rather than brilliant, and his slowness was often
the despair of quick-witted Robert Roberts.
"Captain,” Bobsy would say, "do you see that
point?”


80
Faulkner's Folly
“I saw it long ago," would be the exasperating
reply.
"Well, what about it?”.
“I haven't thought it out yet.”
“Well, get busy."
"I am busy," the stolid Captain would answer,
and go on about his business.
But the two were staunch friends and allies, and
possessed the qualities that enabled them to work
side by side without friction.
"You see,” said Steele, as they were closeted in
the Reception Room, "it's more or less a psycho-
logical problem."
They liked this room for their confabs. The
small size and convenient location suited their pur-
pose admirably. They could shut its two doors, and
be entirely secluded or they could open them and
get a general idea of what was going on about the
house.
"Snug little box,” Bobsy had said, when he first
saw it, and the walls and ceiling being all of the
same general decoration in red and gold, did give it
the effect of a well lined box. It was used by the
family for the reception of transient callers, and
was more formal than the studio or Billiard Room.
The Terrace, too, was used as a living place, in avail-
able weather, and even now as the two men were
deep in their discussion, there could be seen
sa


Mrs. Faulkner's Account
81
through the south window some servants arranging
a small breakfast table out there.
"Psychology is out of my line," Roberts said, in
answer to the Captain's assertion.
“Oh, I don't mean anything scientific. But, it's
this way. One of those women is lying and one
telling the truth. Now, if we tax them with this,
we'll get nothing out of them, for they're both at
the edge of a nervous breakdown.”
“The innocent one, too?"
"Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought
up, and the innocent one is so scared at the whole
thing that she is all in, too. I think the little peach
was in love with the artist; I'm not sure of this,
but it doesn't matter, anyway. Also, and incidental-
ly, I think that Courtenay man is very much in love
with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are
none of our business, unless they help us to form
conclusions that are our business. And so, we must
be rather more tactful and diplomatic than usual,
because of dealing with highstrung and fine-cali-
bred natures.”
“A murder doesn't connote a high-calibred na-
ture!"
"It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge
or Jealousy could, on occasion, sway the highest
mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made, not
born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding.


Mrs. Faulkner's Account
two women, not by hunting clues of a material na-
ture."
"Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to
cross to the other end of the room to turn off the
lights, didn't she?"
Captain Steele remembered the switch was near
the hall door, and the armchair where Stannard
died was at the South end of the room.
“Yes,” he agreed, “but that's only a few seconds'
work.”
“But when she did it, the man was not dead.
You know he groaned after the light went out, and
later, he spoke."
“Well?”
"Well, can you imagine that little girl having
nerve enough for all that? Mrs. Stannard is a
much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My
opinion leans toward her.”
“What about the dying words of the man, and
also, what about that letter to the model ?”
“There's too much evidence instead of not
enough! But before we sift it out, which we can
do elsewhere, let's try to learn something more from
the people here."
"Servants or the others ?"
“The others, if possible. If not, then some serv-
ants beside Blake.”
The breakfast table on the Terrace had been vis-


84
Faulkner's Folly
ited only by Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard.
The other ladies had not appeared. The two had
quite evidently finished, as the men could see from
their lace curtained window, and Roberts proposed
they request an interview with one or both of them.
Somewhat to their surprise, the request was gra-
ciously granted. Mrs. Faulkner said she should be
rather glad of an opportunity to learn what the
police had done or were thinking of doing, and
Barry seemed anxious to discuss matters also.
But even before they began, Barry was called
away on some errand, and Mrs. Faulkner was their
only source of information.
Bobsy Roberts was disappointed, for he wanted
to talk with a member of the immediate family, but
Captain Steele saw a chance to learn something per-
sonal of the two women he wished to study.
“You must know, Mrs. Faulkner," began Steele,
“that the two women found in the room, near the
dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of
guilt. Can you tell us anything that will help clear
the innocent or indicate the criminal ?"
Beatrice looked at him a moment, before she
spoke. She also glanced at Bobsy Roberts, and
then, in a low, calm voice she replied: "I think I
must remind you that these two women are my dear
friends. I have known Mrs. Stannard for years,
and Miss Vernon, though a recent acquaintance, is


Mrs. Faulkner's Account
very dear to me. They are both fine, noble women,
utterly incapable of the crime, even under deepest
provocation. Therefore I do not admit, even to
myself, that the circumstances implicate either of
them, although they may seem to do so. With this
declaration of my attitude in the matter, I will an-
swer any questions that I can, but I will not agree
that your theory is the right one.”
"Then, who did kill Mr. Stannard ?”
"That I cannot say. But in absence of any real
evidence against Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon, it
must seem to have been an intruder of some sort.
Though it may not be known how he entered, it is
far more easy to believe that he did gain an en-
trance, than to believe crime of either of those two."
It was plain to be seen Mrs. Faulkner was de-
termined to stand by her friends through thick and
thin. So Bobsy started on another tack. “Will you
tell us then something of the personal relations of
this household? Was Mr. Stannard in love with
his pretty model ?”
“I think he was,” Beatrice rejoined, as if the mat-
ter were of no great import, “but Mr. Stannard
was the type of man known as a 'lady-killer.' He
adored all beautiful women, and was what may be
called 'in love with many. His nature was so vola-
tile and so impressionable, that his love affairs were
frequent and ephemeral.”


86
Faulkner's Folly
“Mrs. Stannard made no objection to this?”
"I think these queries are unnecessarily personal,
but I see, so far, no harm in replying. Mrs. Stan-
nard knew so well her husband's temperament and
disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden
adorations, knowing that he tired of them very
quickly. The Stannards were a model and a mod-
ern couple. They never stooped to petty jealousies
or bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each oth-
er's actions."
“Mrs. Stannard is his second wife, is she not?"
"Yes, they were married something more than
two years ago.”
"And Mrs. Stannard had other suitors, who were
disappointed at her marriage?”
"That is usually true of any beautiful woman."
"But in her case you know of instances ?” Bobsy
smiled pleasantly.
“Naturally, as I know her so well.”
“And is Mr. Courtenay one of them?"
“Mr. Courtenay was one of her devoted admirers,
and since the marriage he has been a friend warm-
ly welcomed here by both Mr. and Mrs. Stannard.
No breath of reproach may be brought against
Joyce Stannard or Eugene Courtenay. Of this I
can assure you."
"And the young lady,-is Barry Stannard a suit-
or of hers?”


Mrs. Faulkner's Account
Beatrice's face clouded a little. "Yes; you can-
not help seeing that, so I will tell you that he is
madly in love with Miss Vernon, but his father
strongly objected to the match, and threatened to
disinherit Barry if he persisted in his attentions to
the girl. I tell you this, because I prefer you to
hear the truth from me, rather than a string of gar-
bled gossip."
“And young Stannard persisted ?”
"I think so. It was love at first sight on both
sides, and Miss Vernon is a very lovely girl,-of
quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet face in-
dicates."
"Might not Mr. Stannard's objection to his son's
suit have been prompted by his own admiration for
the lovely nature?”.
"It might have been,” and Beatrice sighed. “Eric
Stannard was an exceedingly selfish man, and
though his interest in the model was doubtless his
usual temporary love affair, it is quite likely that
it was the main motive of his displeasure at his son's
interference. I am speaking very frankly, for I
know these things must all come out, and I am hop-
ing, if you know just how matters are, you will un-
derstand the case better and be more prepared to
relieve the two women of suspicion.”
"It may be so," and Captain Steele nodded his
head sagely.


88
Faulkner's Folly
But Mrs. Faulkner was watching him closely.
"You are not yet very greatly influenced by my rev-
elations, I can see,” she said, “but I am sure you
will come around to my way of thinking, sooner or
later. The more you see of your suspects, the more
you will realise the absurdity of your suspicions.”
"That's possibly true: When can we have an in-
terview with either of them?"
“Mrs. Stannard is prostrated. I am sure you
cannot see her before the funeral, which will be to-
morrow. Won't you refrain from asking it, until
after that?”
: “Certainly. But Miss Vernon, may we not have
a few words with her? You must realise, Mrs.
Faulkner, if the girl is innocent, it will be much bet-
ter for her to see us and answer a few straightfor-
ward questions than to appear unwilling to do so."
“I agree with you. I will go and ask her, my-
self, and advise her to see you. Shall I go now?"
"In a moment, please; but first, one more ques-
tion. We are trying to discover who last saw Mr.
Stannard alive, prior to the time of the murder.
What can you tell us as to this?"
"Only that I was in the studio, just before the
first of the guests went away. At that time we were
all there, I think, except Barry and Natalie, who
were out on the Terrace. The two Truxtons went


Mrs. Faulkner's Account
89
home, and at the same time Mr. Wadsworth and I
went up to the drawing room "
“To be by yourselves ?”
A certain kindliness in Bobsy's tone robbed the
question of impertinence, and Beatrice smiled a lit-
tle, as she said, “Yes, exactly. We stayed there
perhaps a half hour, and then Mr. Wadsworth went
home. I did not go downstairs with him, but sat a
moment in the drawing-room,—thinking over some
personal matters. Then when I went downstairs, it
was to see Blake listening at the door,-and the rest
you know.”
“Yes; now whom did you leave in the studio,
when you and Mr. Wadsworth and the Truxtons
went out of it?”
Beatrice thought a moment. “Only Mr. Stan-
nard, his wife and Mr. Courtenay."
"Then Mrs. Stannard and Mr. Courtenay went
into the Billiard Room?"
“Yes, and Mr. Stannard went, too. But he went
back in the studio,–Joyce told me that,—and he
must have been there alone when—the person who
killed him came in.”
"This would make it, that Mr. Stannard returned
to his studio from the Billiard Room at a little after
eleven, say, five or ten minutes after. The fact that
he cried out for help at about eleven-thirty narrows
the time down rather close. We have only about


Mrs. Faulkner's Account
“You make Mr. Stannard out a very bad man,
Mrs. Faulkner.”
"I am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but he was
not a good man in the ways we are talking of. In
other respects, Eric Stannard had few faults. He
was upright, honest and generous. He was kind
and he was truthful. And he was extraordinarily
brave and honourable. But he was inordinately self-
ish and of sybaritic instincts. He would not try to
curb his admiration for a new and pretty face, and
though absolutely loyal to his wife in honour and
principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the
way of a butterfly among the flowers. His genius
it is not necessary to speak of. He is known here
and abroad as one of the greatest artists of the cen-
tury. And his wide and varied experiences, his cos-
mopolitan life and his waywardness of character
may well have gained him enemies, who in a secret
and clever manner found means to take his life."
"Who will benefit financially by his death?" Cap-
tain Steele asked abruptly.
“I haven't heard anything about the will yet, but
I'm pretty certain, that outside of a few friendly be-
quests his fortune is divided between his wife and
son, about equally."
"And his jewel collection? Is not that valu-
able?”


92
Faulkner's Folly
"Very. The emeralds mentioned in that note
comprise a fortune in wonderfully matched stones.
And there are many more. Yes, it is an exceed-
ingly valuable lot.”
“He showed them to Mr. Truxton, that even-
ing?"
"To all of us. That was right after dinner. He
showed only a few cases, but of very beautiful
stones.”
"And then he put them away, where?"
“I've no idea. They were not in sight, that I
remember, when the Truxtons took leave. But I
gave them no thought. I've often seen them, and
after their exhibition, Mr. Stannard always puts
them in his safe himself.”
“They have not been found in the safe.”
“Then he put them in some simple hiding-place.
They will turn up. Unless, of course, there was a
real burglar, whose motive was robbery.".
“But you do not think so?”
"Frankly, I do not see how there could have been
an intruder, unless dressed as a gentleman. No
other could have gained access to the house."
"The servants saw no stranger, in any sort of
garb?”
“They say so," returned Beatrice, thoughtfully.
"Don't overlook the possibility of an accomplice


VII
Natalie, Not Joyce
UT the desired interview with Natalie was
not achieved before the funeral of Eric Stan-
nard. It was two days after before the girl
would consent to see Roberts, and then, under pro-
test.
"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 her, and one little
slipper tapping the carpet. She looked so like a
petulant school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to
connect her with a thought of anything really
wrong. But Robert Roberts was experienced in
guile and was by no means ready to accept her inno-
cence at its face value.
“No law ought to make you do anything you
don't want to,” he said smiling; "but suppose it's to
your own advantage to talk?"


Natalie, Not Joyce
The sympathetic, good-natured face of Bobsy
Roberts had a pleasant effect, for Natalie's pout dis-
appeared and a look of confidence came into her
blue eyes.
"I wonder if I can trust you,” she said, medi-
tatively, as she gazed at him, with an alluring in-
tentness.
“You sure can," returned Bobsy, but he con-
sciously and conscientiously steeled himself against
her witcheries.
“No, I don't think I can,” she said, after a mo-
ment, and with a tiny sigh of disappointment, she
looked away. “Go on; question me as you like.”
"Why can't you trust me?”
“Oh, I trust you, as far as that goes. But I see
you suspect me of killing Mr. Stannard.”
"And didn't you?” Bobsy believed in the effi-
cacy of sudden, direct questions.
But Miss Vernon was not taken off guard.
“No,” she said, quietly, "I didn't. But when I
say I didn't, it implicates Mrs. Stannard, and I don't
want to do that. Can't you tell me what to do?”.
"Well, it's this way. If Mrs. Stannard is the
guilty person, you want it known, don't you?”
"No, indeed! If Joyce Stannard killed her hus-
band, she had a good reason for it, and I'd rather
nobody'd know she did it.”
“What was her good reason ?"


96
Faulkner's Folly
"Well, you know, Mr. Stannard was—that is,
he had eyes for other people beside his wife.”
"You, for instance.”
“Yes !” and the flower face took on a look of
positive hatred, and of angry reminiscence. “I
have no kindly thought of Eric Stannard, if he is
dead."
“He was kind to you."
"Too kind,-in some ways,-and not enough so
in others.”
"And his wife was jealous ?”.
"Who wouldn't be! He petted her to death one
day and the next he neglected her shamefully. I
will trust you, Mr. Roberts. Now, listen; if Joyce
killed Eric,—I don't say she did, but if she did, why
can't we just hush up the matter, and pry into it
no more? Barry wants that and so do I. And
who else is to be considered ?”.
"The law, justice, humanity, all things right and
fair.”
"Rubbish! Let those things go. Consider the
wishes of the people most concerned.”
"Then straighten out a few uncertain points.
Where are the emeralds?”
"Goodness! I don't know! That foolish letter
wasn't written to me.”
“To whom, then?”
"I don't know that, either. Some one of Eric's


Natalie, Not Joyce
97
lady friends, I suppose. Fancy my wanting him to
divorce his wife and marry me!"
Bobsy looked at her narrowly, distrusting every
word. This girl, he felt sure, was far from being
as ingenuous as she looked.
“But he was in love with you?”
Natalie blushed, a real, natural girl blush.
"I can't help that, Mr. Roberts. I am, unfor-
tunately, a type that men admire. It is the cross
of my life that every one is attracted by my silly
doll-face!"
Bobsy Roberts laughed outright, at this naive
wail of woe.
"You needn't laugh, I'm in earnest. I get so
sick of having men fall in love with me, that I'd
like to go and live on a desert island !"
"With whom?" and Bobsy looked at her intently.
“With Barry Stannard," she returned, simply.
"We're engaged, now. We couldn't be, while Mr.
Stannard lived, for he wouldn't hear of it. Threat-
ened to disinherit Barry, and all that. But now,
it's all right.”
"Miss Vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you
of all suspicion. If you had killed Eric Stannard,
because he wouldn't let his son marry you, you
never would have referred to it so frankly.”
“Of course I wouldn't. Now, don't you see,
since I didn't kill him, it must have been Joyce.


98
Faulkner's Folly
It's been proved over and over that it could not have
been a burglar, or anybody like that. And so, I
want to stop investigating, and leave Joyce in peace.
And then, after awhile, she can marry Eugene
Courtenay, and be happy.”
“Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?”.
“Of course she does. He was in love with her
and she with him, before she knew Mr. Stannard.
Then Eric came along and stole her,—yes, stole her,
- just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by
his whirlwind wooing, and—too—he was cele-
brated, and-well, you know,—magerful,-and
he just took her by storm. She never really loved
him, but she has been good and faithful, though
he has treated her badly.”
"And if she killed him, it was "
"It was because she had reached the end of her
rope, and couldn't stand any more. And, too, she
has seen a lot of Mr. Courtenay lately, and -oh,
well,—she was mad that Eric took such a fancy to
me, and so, "
“Look here, Miss Vernon, just see if you can re-
construct the scene to fit in with a theory of Mrs.
Stannard's guilt.”
"How do you mean?"
“Can you remember about the light going out and
the cry for help,—and all that, exactly?”
“No,—I've tried to, but it's all mixed up in my


Natalie, Not Joyce
mind. I think, if Joyce,-I mean, whoever did it,
-must have struck the blow, and then turned off
the light, and then gone out of the room, and—and
come back again.”
"And that could have been you—as well as Mrs.
Stannard! You were both discovered in practically
the same circumstances !”
"You're trying to trip me, Mr. Roberts. But you
can't do it. Now, look here, if that note had been
written to me, wouldn't it mean that these emeralds
were mine, and wouldn't I claim them?”
"But it states distinctly that you know where
they are, and the presumption is, that you have them
in your possession.”
"Indeed, I haven't! I wish I had! I mean, I
wish I had them rightfully in my possession!
They're wonderful stones! Look here, Mr. Rob-
erts, why don't you suspect Mr. Truxton? He's
gem crazy,—and you know gem enthusiasts often
go to any length to get the stones they covet.”
"I hadn't thought of him. And, supposing he
did commit crime to steal Mr. Stannard's jewels,
just how did he get away afterward, without dis-
covery?"
"Well, suppose he stabbed Mr. Stannard, then
turned off the light, and then slipped out through
the Billiard Room when Joyce's back was turned ?”
"Too unlikely. Besides, Mr. Courtenay, who sat


102
Faulkner's Folly
nay, though how he discovered that, I don't know,
for Joyce never showed it. She was good as gold.
Well, Mr. Stannard didn't say so in so many words,
but he implied that if he and Joyce-separated-
and it could be arranged,—and she-you know,
married Mr. Courtenay,—would I marry him.
And I was so mad, I flew into a rage, and "
"And scratched up your picture?”
“No, that wax plate hadn't been drawn then. It
was afterward that he drew that, and then I was
madder than ever."
“And in the heat of your passionate rage,
you- "
"No, I didn't! I tell you, whoever killed Eric
Stannard, I didn't!”
“Then what did he mean, when, in his dying mo-
ment, he said, 'Natalie, not Joyce! Tell me that!"
"I will tell you," and the girl lowered her voice
and looked very serious. “I know exactly what he
meant, and Joyce Stannard knows too. He meant,
-you'll think I imagine this, but it's true; he meant
that it was Natalie and not Joyce, whom he loved,
and whom he was trying to beckon to at that mo-
ment."
It was impossible to doubt the honesty of the
speaker. The great earnest eyes were filled with
mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what
she said.


Natalie, Not Joyce
103
"I know it," she went on. "You see, he had
said to me, several times, 'Natalie, not Joyce,' by
way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was not
a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from
making love to any woman he might chance to be
with. And when I would reprimand him and bid him
go to his wife, he would laugh and say 'Natalie,
not Joyce,' till it became a sort of by-word with
him. And I know that's what he meant that night,
when he was hurt,—he didn't know he was dying,
and he called to me in a half-conscious plea to come
to his assistance. Also, he could see me more
plainly. Joyce was rather behind him, and his
clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called
for me. As a matter of fact, that speech, though
made so much of, means nothing at all. He wasn't
entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream.
But he did not mean that I had stabbed him.”
"Did he know who stabbed him?”.
“How can I tell that? But if he had known that
I did it, or had thought that I did it, he would never
have said so, had he been aware of what he was
saying.”
“You mean, if you had been guilty, he would
have shielded you, rather than accused you with his
last breath?”
"Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric
Stannard would never accuse a woman of wrong-


104
Faulkner's Folly
doing. His speech meant anything rather than
that."
"Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on
your connection with the affair. Why didn't you
tell this before?”
"Can't you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no
love for Eric Stannard, I never had any. His at-
tentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me
as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have
left him long ago, but for Barry. Also, I am fond
of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and
never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to
announce that those dying words meant that Mr.
Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his affection,
especially as it didn't altogether mean that, it was
merest chance that he saw me and not her— "
"But he did see her, for he said 'Natalie, not
Joyce.' ”
“Yes, I know," and the little foot tapped the
rug, impatiently,—"but, I mean, he saw me, and he
was for the moment interested in me, and he was in
pain, or a sort of stupor, or-oh, I don't know what
his sensations were, I'm sure,—but I want to show
you that he spoke at random, and it didn't mean
as much as it seems to."
Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and
her voice was unsteady. Either she was desper-


Тоб
Faulkner's Folly
insist that explains his words, and—Joyce knows it,
too."
"How do you know she does? Have you talked
with her on this subject?”
"Oh, yes. We have discussed it over and over.
Mrs. Faulkner and Joyce and Barry and I have
gone over every bit of it a dozen times.”
"Is it possible? What does each of the four
think? Since you deny the deed, you can tell what
is the consensus of opinion in the household.”
"That's just what I can't do. You see, we all
hesitate to say anything that will seem to accuse
either of us. Mrs. Faulkner, I can see plainly, is
uncertain whether to suspect Joyce or me. She is
convinced, of course, that it must have been one of
us, but she pretends to think it was a burglar.”
"She is fond of you both?”
“Yes, she adores Joyce, and she is most friendly
to me. I've only known her since I've been here,
but she seems to believe in me, somehow. She un-
derstands perfectly, that Mr. Stannard meant just
what I say he did, by those words. She knows
how he acted toward me, and how Joyce felt
about it."
"Then she suspects Mrs. Stannard ?”
"She doesn't say so. She sticks to the safe the-
ory of an intruder. You can't blame her. None
of us can suspect Joyce. It's too absurd.”


Natalie, Not Joyce
107
“And Barry Stannard, what does he think?"
"Oh, he vows it was an intruder. He's thought
up a dozen ways for him to get in and out.”
"All equally impossible?”.
“I suppose so. Unless, I hate to say it, but
mightn't Blake have let him out?"
"Not unless it was somebody known to the
household.”
"Well?” said Natalie Vernon.


VIII
The Emeralds
TOU 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, Blake letting him out the front
door?”
"But why would Mr. Wadsworth do that?"
"Why would anybody? I'm only showing you
that there are theories that don't include me or
Joyce.”
“But not tenable theories. Mr. Wadsworth, I've
been told, was having a-a romantic tête-à-tête with
Mrs. Faulkner.”
108


The Emeralds
109
“Yes, he was asking her, for the 'steenth time, to
marry him. But she turned him down again.”
"Well, even if she did, probably he didn't give
up all hope. And a man, just from a session of
that sort, isn't going to commit a crime.”
"Oh, well, of course, it wasn't Mr. Wadsworth.
But why not consider Mr. Truxton? He's a jewel
sharp, too."
“We have considered him. But he and his wife
went home earlier- ”
“He could have come back, "
"But he didn't. Miss Vernon, we've gone into
all these matters very thoroughly. What do you
suppose the Police have been doing? There isn't a
possible theory we've overlooked, and it all comes
back to the simple facts of the evidence that incrim-
inate either Mrs. Stannard or yourself. I see no
reason why I shouldn't tell you this frankly. If
you care to say anything further in your own de-
fence, I'd be glad to hear it. Naturally, you hate
to accuse Mrs. Stannard, but it rests between you
two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made
soon.”
Bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little,
but he was bound to startle some information out
of this provoking beauty.
And Natalie was startled. Her face paled as
she took in the significance of Roberts' words.


IIO
Faulkner's Folly
"They won't arrest me, will they?" she whispered
in a scared little voice.
"I don't see how they can,” and Bobsy looked
at the girl, wondering. That child, that little, ten-
der bit of femininity-surely she could never have
lifted her hand against a man's life! Even had
she wished to, she seemed physically incapable of
striking the blow.
“Arrest you! Not much they won't !” and Barry
Stannard strode into the room.
Natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief.
"You won't let them, will you, Barry?" she said,
as his arm slipped round her trembling shoulders.
“I should say not! Are you frightening her,
Mr. Roberts? You know you've no authority for
all this."
"It's my duty to learn all I can. If Miss Ver-
non is innocent, then Mrs. Stannard is guilty."
"As a choice between the two, it is far more
likely to be Mrs. Stannard. But I do not accuse
her. I only insist on the impossibility of this
child's being a criminal."
“ 'Course I couldn't,” and Natalie smiled at the
perplexed Roberts. “And if, to clear myself, I
must tell all I know, then I'll tell you that Mrs.
Stannard has those emeralds in her possession
now."
"She has! How do you know?”


The Emeralds
III
"I passed her room this morning. The door
was ajar, and I was about to enter, when I saw her,
at her dressing-table, looking over the case of em-
eralds. I recognised it at once. I've often seen
them. I didn't like to intrude, then, so I went on.
I thought I wouldn't say anything about it, unless it
was necessary."
"It is necessary. Has she had them all the
time?"
"Let's ask her," said Barry. “I believe Joyce
can explain it.”
They sent for Mrs. Stannard, and she came,
Mrs. Faulkner accompanying her.
"I found these on my dressing-table this morn-
ing," Joyce said, simply, holding out the case of
emeralds to the view of all.
"Found them! Where did they come from?”
asked Roberts.
"I don't know," and then, seeing the dark looks
on the Detective's face, Joyce exclaimed, “You tell
about it, Beatrice. I–I can't talk."
"This is the story," said Mrs. Faulkner.
“About an hour ago, Mrs. Stannard sent for me to
come to her room. I went, and she showed me the
case of gems, saying she had found it on her dress-
ing-table when she awoke this morning. It was not
there when she retired last night. Further than
that, she knows nothing about it.”


112
Faulkner's Folly
“You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteri-
ously?”
"Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We
have been talking it over, and it seems to me the
only explanation is that one of the servants took
them, and then decided to return them. Of course
it would be practically impossible for a servant to
sell or dispose of them after the publicity that has
been given to the matter."
“Of course. But why a servant? Why not a
guest-or a member of the household,-or-or
Mrs. Stannard, herself ?”
"I!” exclaimed Joyce. "Why I've just found
them!”
“Didn't you have them all the timé ?"
“Of course not! How dare you imply such a
thing? This morning they were in my room, last
night they were not there. They were brought
there during the night. It is for you to find out
who brought them."
"Was the door of your bedroom locked?"
“No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,—any
of us. The outer doors and windows are securely
fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any of
the servants."
"Where were the gems this morning ?”
"On my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, ad-
joining my sleeping room.”


The Emeralds
113
“Who do you think put them there?”
"Whoever stole them the night my husband was
killed.”
"And who do you think that was?”
“Whoever killed him, of course.''
"Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Faulkner, thoughtfully.
"Perhaps the thief and the murderer were not the
same person."
“That may be so," agreed Bobsy. “Have you
any theory or suspicion based on the return of the
jewels, Mrs. Faulkner?”
"No; except a general idea that the emeralds
might have been stolen and returned by a servant,
and the murder committed by an intruder.”
“Why not assume that the intruder also took
the jewels ?”
"Only because it would be difficult for him to
get into the house and return them to Mrs. Stan-
nard. I can see no explanation of that act save
that a servant did it.”
“Or an outsider with the connivance of one of
the servants.”
“Yes, that might be,” agreed Mrs. Faulkner.
“The mere placing of the case in Mrs. Stannard's
dressing-room would not be difficult. The doors all
over the house are open or unlocked at night, and
a servant could easily slip in and out of the room
unheard."


The Emeralds
115
“The reappearance of the emeralds seems to settle
it.”
"Why?” asked Beatrice Faulkner. “Why do you
condemn her because of that?”
"Look at it squarely, Mrs. Faulkner. Assume
for a moment my theory is right. Then, Mrs. Stan-
nard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion
on Miss Vernon, claims that the jewels were put
in her room surreptitiously during the night. She
is sure Miss Vernon will be suspected of having
had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them se-
cretly. This will militate against Miss Vernon, and
imply her greater guilt also.”
"Why, what an idea!” exclaimed Natalie. "As
if I ever had the emeralds !”
"That letter said you knew where they were.”
"That letter was not written to me."
"To whom then?”
"I've no idea. But not to me. I'm-I'm engaged
to Barry."
"You weren't engaged to the son while the fa-
ther was alive," probed Roberts.
“N-no. But only because his father wouldn't
allow it. I'm going to look after Joyce," and with-
out a backward glance, Natalie ran from the room,
and up the stairs.
"You see," began Roberts, looking at Mrs. Faulk-
ner and Barry Stannard, "you two are the only ones


116
Faulkner's Folly
I can talk to frankly. Those two ladies suspected
by the police have to be handled carefully. You
are both material witnesses, and as such are bound
to tell me truthfully all you can of anything bear-
ing on the case. Now, however painful it may be
for you, Mr. Stannard, I must tell you that it is
rapidly coming to a show-down between the two
suspects, and the probability is, it seems to me, that
the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the
wife than on the model. The direct evidence is
perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems to the police
that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier
for Mrs. Stannard than for Miss Vernon. The
wife, let us say, had reason for jealousy, and had
reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial
husband. The little model, while irritated at her
employer's attentions, was in love with another man,
and could easily get away from the artist without
resorting to crime.”
"That's right about Natalie,” exclaimed Barry,
"but it's unthinkable that Joyce should go so far
as to kill "
"You don't know all the provocation she may
have had,” said Roberts. "A jealous wife, or an
unloving wife goes through many hard hours be-
fore she reaches the point of desperation, but she
sometimes gets there, and then the climax comes.
At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn't guilty, Mrs. Stan-


The Emeralds
117
nard is. You can't find two women hovering over
a dying man, and acquit them both. So it's one
or the other, and I incline toward the suspicion of
the older woman."
"But how do you explain the various clues point-
ing to Natalie ?" asked Beatrice Faulkner.
"Let's take them one by one. First, that note
found on the man's desk. Even if that were writ-
ten to Miss Vernon, it needn't condemn her. Even
if she had been in love with the artist, it is no
evidence whatever that she killed him. And the
whole tone of the note is against its being meant
for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can't look
on it as evidence against the model.”
“I agree with that,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “That
letter may well have been to some other woman in-
terested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had
the emeralds, and, through connivance with a serv-
ant, returned them to Joyce last night.”
"No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn't right. I don't
understand the emerald business altogether, but I
thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had them
in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have
the evidence of the dying man's exclamation. That,
I think, is perfectly explained by Miss Vernon's as-
sertion that he meant he loved her and not his
wife.”
"Of course it is,” declared Barry. “I know my


118
Faulkner's Folly
father was madly in love with Miss Vernon, and
though he was fond of his wife, it was not the first
time he had been interested in the pretty face of
another woman. I want to say right here, that I
revere and respect my father's memory, but I can-
not deny his faults. And he was far too careless of
his wife's feelings in these matters. My mother
died many years ago, and for a long time my fa-
ther led a butterfly existence, outside of his art,
yes, and in it, too. Then when he married a sec-
ond time he did not settle down to the generally ac-
cepted model of a married man, but continued to
admire pretty women wherever he met them. Now,
it is more than likely that in his dying moments his
brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him,
he protested his love for the model he admired and
put her ahead of his wife. I do not defend my
father's speech but to me it is explained.”
"It may be so," said Roberts. “Now here's an-
other point. Mrs. Stannard declares she heard her
husband talking to another woman or at least to
somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the
Billiard Room, near the connecting door, Shall
we say this is an invented story of hers?”
"Let me see,” said Barry, "what were the
words ?”
“To the effect that he was not willing to leave


The Emeralds
119
his wife for her, and that as a consolation she could
have the emeralds."
“Practically what was in the note," exclaimed
Mrs. Faulkner.
"Almost," returned Roberts. “Now was Miss
Vernon there and were these words addressed to
her? this question being quite apart from consid-
eration of her as the criminal.”
"If so, then the letter was to her," said Beatrice.
"And it wasn't,” maintained Barry. “My fa-
ther admired Natalie,—made love to her, we'll say,
but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor
did she want him to marry her, as the overheard
conversation implies.”
“Could this be the way of it?” said Beatrice.
"Suppose Mr. Stannard was even then writing that
note "
"But it was found in his desk.”
"Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and mut-
tered to himself the actual wording of it. Mrs.
Stannard says she heard no other voice, so may he
not have been alone in the studio at that time?"
Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. "It
is a possibility,” he conceded. “And then, let us
say, after hearing those words, Mrs. Stannard en-
tered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps
there was a quarrel and in a moment of insane rage,


I20
Faulkner's Folly
Mrs. Stannard caught up the etching needle
and "
"It isn't at all like her," said Barry, "but I can
only say it is more easily to be conceived of in her
case than in Natalie's. I don't want to admit the
possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can
believe it, before I can imagine Natalie doing such
a thing. And as you say, Joyce had motive, and
Natalie had none."
"I won't subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stan-
nard. Miss Vernon inherits a goodly sum, and too,
she may have been incensed at the manner of the
artist toward her "
“No, I wasn't,” said Natalie herself, suddenly re-
appearing. “On the contrary, I had persuaded Mr.
Stannard, that very day, not to ask me to pose for
him, except as a fully draped model. He had apol-
ogised for his previous insistence, and I looked
for no more trouble on that score. I was trying to
get up courage to ask him to let Barry be engaged
to me, but I hadn't accomplished that."
"If Mrs. Stannard had had any angry words with
her husband just before he was attacked, could you
have overheard them?" asked Roberts.
"I don't think so. Not unless they had spoken
very loudly. The door to the Terrace was closed,
or almost closed. And I was not thinking about
what might be going on in the house. Unless


The Emeralds
121
there had been an especial disturbance, I should
not have noticed it.”
“Yet you heard that gasping cry for help through
the closed door.”
“Yes. But that was not a faint gasp, it was a
penetrating sort of a cry. An attempted scream, I
should describe it."
Roberts looked at her closely. Was she innocent
or was she an infant Machiavelli?
"It is a difficult situation,” he said, with a sigh.
"We have but two eye-witnesses. Each naturally
accuses the other and denies her own guilt. One
speaks truth and one falsehood. How can we dis-
tinguish which one tells the truth?”
"Don't say eye-witnesses," objected Natalie. “I
didn't see the crime committed. If I think Joyce
did it, it's only because I went in and found her
there and nobody else about.”
"Suppose," and Bobsy Roberts looked her
straight in the face, “suppose Eric Stannard held
in his hand your picture,—that etching, you know,
and suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. Or, say,
he wasn't talking to it, but what he did say, and
what his wife overheard, was said while he held
your picture, and she thought he referred to you.
Then she, in a jealous fury, resented the idea of
his giving you the emeralds, and— ”.
"I didn't want the emeralds," said Natalie, coldly,


122
Faulkner's Folly
"and I certainly didn't want Eric to marry me, but
even granting your premises right, it takes sus-
picion of the murder from me, and places it on
Joyce.”
"It does," agreed Barry, "and that's where it
belongs, if on either of you two.”
"It must be so," said Beatrice Faulkner, "for if
Natalie had known where the emeralds were, and
if that letter was written to her, and gave her the
gems,—for it really did give them to the one it
was written to,-then she would have kept them
and not have given them back to Joyce."
"By Jove, that's so!” exclaimed Roberts. “What-
ever woman that letter was meant for, is the real
owner of the jewels this minute, according to Eric
Stannard's wish, and if she had them she would be
extremely unlikely to give them up unnecessarily.
But how, then, explain their return?”.
"It wasn't a return," said Beatrice. “Joyce had
them herself all the time.”
“I believe she had,” said Roberts.


IX
One or the Other
OBSY 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, whimsical-
ly, "now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they
might tell me what I want to know.”
The studio furnishings included several small ta-
bles and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-
holes stuffed with old letters and papers. Like most
artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regard-
ing his belongings. Roberts patiently and labori-
ously went over these papers, and found little of
interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with
patrons, old social invitations and such matters
made up the bulk of the findings.
But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied
123


One or the Other
125
and for some reason or other didn't present it. It's
of no great value.”
"No," agreed Bobsy, "except as it proves that his
interest in 'Goldenheart has lasted for some time.”
"Then Goldenheart can't be Miss Vernon,” said
Joyce, wearily. "It seems to me, Mr. Roberts, that
you get nowhere. You make so much of little
things-
"Because we can't get any big piece of evidence.
You know yourself, Mrs. Stannard, that our prin-
cipal clue is the finding of you and Miss Vernon
in a situation which might mean the guilt of either
of you, and must mean the guilt of one of you.”
“Mr. Roberts, I want to say to you very frankly
that I wish to be cleared of suspicion. I did not kill
my husband. I can't quite believe Miss Vernon did,
but at any rate I want the mystery cleared up. I
don't know how to set about it myself, and if you
don't either, I want to employ some one else. This
is no disparagement of your powers, but if you
know of any—more experienced Detective ”
"There are plenty of more experienced detectives,
Mrs. Stannard, but I am anxious to succeed in this
quest myself. Will you not give me a longer time,
and if at the end of, say, another week, I have made
little or no progress, call on whomever you like.”
“Very well. But I must be freed myself. I am


126
Faulkner's Folly
vere
willing to spend a fortune, if need be, but I cannot
live under this cloud of suspicion.”
“Let us work together then. Tell me anything I
ask, and you may be able to give me some help.
First, can you state positively that no person came
in through the Billiard Room and went on to the
studio while you were in the Billiard Room, just be-
fore the tragedy?”
"Why, of course, nobody passed through.”
“The Billiard Room was lighted ?”
“Yes. Not brilliantly, but a few lights were on.”
“Mr. Courtenay had just left you?”
“A short time before, yes.”
"And,—now think carefully,—could you not
have been sitting with your back to the door, or-
perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands,
or for any such reason, could some one have passed
you without your knowing it?".
Joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said,
“No; positively not. I was sitting on one of the
side seats, and I may have had my eyes closed, for
I was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed
through the room I should have heard footsteps, of
course.”
"On the soft, thick rug?"
"Much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is
very acute. Yes, Mr. Roberts, I must have heard
the intruder, if one came in that way."


One or the Other
127
"I do not think one did, but there is no other way
for any one to have entered the studio.”
“Why not by coming in the Terrace door, and
passing Natalie instead of me?".
"The probability is less. The Terrace door was
closed, and, too, Miss Vernon sat back on the Ter-
race, and must have seen any one passing in front
of her.”
"But suppose she did see him, and chooses to
deny it for his sake?”.
Bobsy looked at her. "I've been waiting for
this,” he said. “You mean Barry Stannard. There
is room for thought in that direction. He had rea-
son to be angry at his father, first because of his
refusal to let Barry marry the girl, and also, be-
cause of Eric Stannard's annoyance of the little
model. The father out of the way, the son steps
into a fortune and wins his bride beside."
“But Barry never did it! I confess I've thought
of it as a theory, but I can't believe it of Barry,
I simply can't."
“Mrs. Stannard, somebody killed your husband.
If not a common malefactor, who was bent on rob-
bery, then it must have been one of Mr. Stannard's
intimates. If that is so, Barry Stannard is no more
above suspicion than Miss Vernon or yourself.”
"That's true enough. Well, go ahead, Mr. Rob-
erts. Do all you can, but do get somewhere. You


128
Faulkner's Folly
reason around in a circle, always coming back to
the proposition that it must have been either Miss
Vernon or myself.”
"That is where I stand at present," said Bobsy,
very gravely, “but I shall try to get some new light
on it all,-and soon.”
Joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave
and went away, and as soon as he was gone she
threw herself on a couch and cried piteously.
The visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what
Joyce had said that the gold heart was bought short-
ly before her marriage to Eric. The date was
looked up and the purchase verified. So it seemed
to tell nothing save that it was meant for a gift but
never given. Probably, thought Roberts, it was
owing to Eric's marriage that he concluded not to
give a keepsake to a woman other than his bride.
But, after all, mightn't Goldenheart be Joyce her-
self? No, for the letter found in the desk denied
that. But that letter might have been written a long
time ago. Not likely, for it stated that Joyce would
not be unwilling to consider separation from her
husband. That of course, pointed to the fact that
Joyce loved another, doubtless Courtenay, but more
than all it pointed to Natalie as Goldenheart. Well,
it was not inconceivable that Eric Stannard, the gay
Lothario, had called more than one woman Golden-
heart. Yet had it been Natalie, would he not have.


One or the Other
129
said Goldenrod, especially as he had painted her in
that guise?
And so, as usual, Bobsy Roberts puzzled round in
circles and came back to the old idea that it must
be one of those two women, and could not by any
possibility be any one else.
And now, to prove it. He planned to delve deep-
ly into the recent past of the two, and also into
Eric's behaviour of late, and he felt he must get
some hint or some clue to go upon.
Then, too, there were the missing jewels. The
emeralds had been returned to Joyce,—that is, she
said they had been returned. But the rest of the
collection was still unfound. Bobsy didn't think
they had been stolen or lost, but merely that Eric
had hidden them so securely that they were un-
findable. A queer procedure that. It would seem
that he would have left some record of their hiding
place. But he was a queer man,—careless in every
way. And the jewels might be in a bank or Safe
Deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the
house. The whole business was unsatisfactory,
nothing tangible to work on. An out and out rob-
bery, now, one might track down. But a jewel dis-
appearance that might be all right and proper, was
an aggravating proposition.
So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and
not a little chagrined. He had welcomed this great


130
Faulkner's Folly
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 crim-
inal 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 ? Cer-
tainly 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 mean-
ing to leave the room as she had entered it. But be-
fore she had left the room she heard sounds from


One or the Other
131
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 re-
peated 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 cup-
boards and drawers, for servants had always been
forbidden by. Eric himself to put his personal be-
longings in order, and since his death the police
had stipulated the same.


132
Faulkner's Folly
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 fruit-
less quest. Slowly he went down the great stair-
case, admiring every inch of the way. He had made
rather a study of staircases and this splendid speci-
men, with its big, square landings interested him
greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful new-
els 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.”


134
Faulkner's Folly
The address was given, and the whole epistle
showed an honest and straightforward air, quite dif-
ferent 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 prac-
tised 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'11–
"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."


One or the Other
135
"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 psy-
chic 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 like-
ly 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.”


136
Faulkner's Folly
“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 de-
clared. “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."
e


Orienta
WISH you'd use your influence with Joyce,
and urge her not to have this poppycock busi-
ness 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
137


Orienta
139
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 to-
ward 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 in-
tolerable 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?”


140
Faulkner's Folly
“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 mat-
ters 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 sur-
prised 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
Was


Orienta
141
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 stock-
ings 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 shoul-
der.
"Why do you stay in this room, Barry?
don't like it in here."
I


142
Faulkner's Folly
"Then we won't stay. Let us go out on the Ter-
race 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 aw-
ful 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 re-
member?"
“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


Orienta
143
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


Orienta
145
. "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 sup-
pose. 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 profes-
sional 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


Orienta
147
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 re-
sponsive cordiality, while she returned the greet-
ings.
Selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, Orienta
sank into it, and crossed her dainty feet on a cush-
ion which Barry offered. Her purple hat was like
a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicu-
ous 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 wonder-
fully charming. In looking at her each auditor for-
got 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, Ori-
enta began to speak. “We will waste no time in


148
Faulkner's Folly
commonplaces,” she said, her voice as perfectly mod-
ulated as that of a great actress, “they cannot inter-
est 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 care-
lessly 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 impres-
sion of being frankly so, and not with intent to de-
ceive. 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 sugges-


Orienta
149
tions," 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 pow-
ers 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.


XI
Sealed Envelopes
TITH a high hand Joyce carried the mat-
ter through. She ignored opposition and
met remonstrance with a baffling disdain.
She arranged for a return of Orienta for the ex-
periments 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, "ex-
cept as they affect you people here. It doesn't seem
to me that that woman can say anything to make
me think either Joyce or Natalie committed the
crime, but I don't want her to say anything that will
make either of them uncomfortable.”
"If she does, there'll be trouble,” declared Barry,
gloomily. "I feel as you do, and I want to try her
on any ordinary subject first- "
“But we are going to do that," put in Natalie.
"I'm crazy to see the whole performance, but I'm
scared, too. I wish Joyce would promise not to go
on with it if any one of us doesn't like it."
151


152
Faulkner's Folly
"She won't promise that,” said Beatrice. "Joyce
is bound to see it through. I don't know what
she expects from it, but she has no fear, that's cer-
tain.”
Orienta had stipulated that the séance take place
in the studio, saying that the influences of the place
would go far toward producing favourable condi-
tions for her.
So they awaited her there, at the appointed time,
and within a few minutes of the hour she arrived.
Pausing in the hall to lay off her wraps, Orienta
then glided into the great room where her group of
auditors were assembled. This time she wore a
robe of dark green, as full and flowing as the white
one. There was no suggestion of Greek drapery,
but an Oriental style of billowing folds that would
have been hard to imitate. A jade bracelet showed
beneath the flowing sleeve and a jade ring was on
one finger of the long, psychic hand.
"May I look at it?” said Natalie, as they sat a
moment, before beginning the séance.
“Certainly. It is my talisman,—my charm.
Without it, I could do nothing."
“Really? How wonderful!" and the girl looked
earnestly at the carven stone. "Your power is oc-
cult, then?”
"I think it must be. Yet I would not be classed


Sealed Envelopes
153
with the people who go by the general title of me-
diums. They are, usually, frauds.”
Orienta made this statement simply, as if speak-
ing of some matter unconnected with her own work
or claims. She gave the impression that if fraudu-
lent "mediums” wished to impose upon the gullible
public, it was of no interest to her, but she declined
to be considered one of them. And so secure was
she in her own sincerity, she deemed it unnecessary
to emphasise or insist upon it.
“What is your wish?" she asked, at length.
“Will you try me first on some outside matters or
shall we proceed at once to the question of the
mystery we seek to solve?”
Just then Robert Roberts was announced.
"What shall we do?” exclaimed Natalie. “Tell
him to come some other time?".
"No," said Joyce, “let him come in here with us.
You don't mind, do you, Madame Orienta?"
“No; why should I? Who is he?”
“The detective who is working on the case.”
Orienta shrugged her shoulders. “Of course it
matters not to me. But are you sure you want him
to know what I may reveal? It may incrimi-
nate--"
"I don't care who may be incriminated !” ex-
claimed Joyce. “I want to find out a few things.
As a matter of fact, I asked Mr. Roberts to come.”


154
Faulkner's Folly
į Natalie turned pale. Had Joyce laid a trap?
And for whom? What might they not learn be-
fore the evening was over?
Bobsy entered, and was duly presented to the
visitor. He was courteous, but unmistakably curi-
ous.
"What may I call you?” he asked, as he bowed
before her.
"Priestess, if you please," she returned. “I re-
fuse to be called a medium or a seeress or even a
clairvoyant. I am these things, but the titles have
been so misused that I claim only to be a Priestess of
the Occult. This is no academic title, I simply name
myself a priestess of the cult I express and follow.”
"Priestess, I greet you," said Bobsy, and to those
who knew him a shade of mockery might be detect-
ed in his tone. But it was the merest hint and quite
unobservable to the one he addressed. In most
decorous manner he took a place in the group, and
Joyce announced the plan she had in mind.
"First,” she said, “we will have an exhibition of
Orienta's powers. We will follow her instructions
and she will give us a showing of her methods and
her feats. Then,-if I say so,—we will proceed to
try the other experiment."
"It is well,” said the Priestess. “Remember,
please, I make no claims to magic or to witchcraft.
I have, within myself, some inexplicable, some mys-


Sealed Envelopes
157
large chair, facing the others, who sat in a row be-
fore her. The lights were arranged so that Bobsy
might turn off all at the main switch, save one small
table light, which would give him opportunity to
regain his seat, and then this could be also turned
off.
With everybody raptly watching, Roberts, hold-
ing the envelopes, turned off the lights. The room
was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing on
a small table. Then he handed the lot of sealed
envelopes to Orienta, who took them in a hand-
clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of them.
In another second, Bobsy had taken his seat, and
snapped off the last small light. The room was in
perfect darkness. Barry's hand stole out and
clasped Natalie's, but otherwise there was no move-
ment on the part of any one.
Not a second seemed to have passed before Ori-
enta's soft voice was heard.
"I will read the questions,” she said, "in the or-
der they were given me. This is the first: 'Who
is Goldenheart?' It is signed Joyce Stannard. This
is the answer, as my mind sees it. A woman sitting
on a rocky seat near a rushing brook or river.
There is a man near her. He bends above her, and
speaks endearing words. He calls her Marie, she
calls him Eric. She is small and pale. Her hair


158
Faulkner's Folly
:
is Titian red. Though not beautiful, she is attrac-
tive in a pathetic way. Ah, the vision is gone."
As the low voice ceased, there was a slight rustle
as of some one about to speak.
"No questions, please," said Orienta, "unless you
want this experiment to stop right here. I will now
read the contents of the next envelope. This is,
'Who marred my etched picture?' signed Natalie
Vernon. My mind sees the artist who made it, him-
self scratching it. He is in a fury. It is because
he does not feel satisfied with his own work. He
mutters, ‘Not right! no, not right, yet!' There is
no one with him. He is alone. The vision fades.”
Orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if
exhausted. But in a moment she spoke again.
“You know," she said, "if you prefer to have the
lights, it doesn't matter at all to me. I read these
in the dark because I think if the room were lighted
you might suppose I saw the message in some way
by means of my physical eyes. It is not so, but if
you prefer the light, turn it on.”
"I do,” cried Roberts, and before any one could
object, he snapped on the table light and then the
main key which flooded the big room with illumi-
nation.
Orienta smiled. “I thought you were sceptical,
Mr. Roberts," she said. And then, as if his doubts


Sealed Envelopes
were of little consequence, she said, "Shall I pro-
ceed?"
Joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance
and reproof at Bobsy Roberts, who looked a little
crestfallen, but determined to take no chances.
Orienta picked up the next envelope. She had
laid aside on a table the two she had read.
She did not look at the envelope she now held,
but looked straight at Roberts, as if to convince him
of her honesty.
"This is signed Beatrice Faulkner, and it says,
'Where are the lost jewels ?' My mind sees this
picture. The jewels, not lost, but safely hidden.
They are in a strong box, not a safe, more like a
metal-bound trunk. I cannot tell where this box
is, but it is in a bare place, like a store room or
safety place of some sort. The vision goes."
"May we speak?” asked Natalie, eagerly.
“Not yet, please," and the Priestess smiled at
her. “May I not have my conditions complied
with ?”
"Keep still, Natalie,” said Barry. "Let her have
fair play."
"This is Mr. Stannard's question,” and Orienta
held another envelope in her long fingers, "'Would
it not be wiser not to attempt to solve the mystery,
but to hush up the whole matter?! My mind sees
a picture. It is vague, there is no detail, but it is
May we sat some sort., like a stor


160
Faulkner's Folly
bright and beautiful. There are fair flowers and
soft colours. They shift, like a kaleidoscope, but
always rosy and lovely. It means, yes, it would be
better to give up trying to solve the riddle.
“And now," Orienta spoke in a distinctly scorn-
ful voice, “there is but one more, Mr. Roberts' en-
velope. In it he has written, ‘Are you a fraud ?'
I answer this as carefully as I do the others. My
mind shows me myself, and I see my honest at-
tempts to do my duty and to read aright. No, I
am not a fraud. That is all.”
"For shame, Mr. Roberts !” cried Joyce, angrily.
"I am sorry I asked you here to-night, and I will
now ask that you go away. I am more than inter-
ested in Orienta's work, I am enthralled, and I re-
fuse to have it interrupted or interfered with by
your unjust suspicions and rude behaviour! Please
go away, and let us continue our experiments in
peace.”
"Oh, Mrs. Stannard, please let me stay," begged
the penitent Bobsy; "I'll be good, I promise you.
You see, I'm so interested in the thing, I wrote that
to test it, and Madame Orienta came through with
flying colours. If you will let me remain, I prom-
ise not to offend again, in any particular."
Bobsy had a way with him, and Orienta herself
smiled a little as she said, “Let him stay. I'm glad
to convince him."


Sealed Envelopes
16
So Bobsy staid.
Then Barry proposed that they try the same test
over again, but without signing their papers.
"Thus,” he said, "we will feel more free to ask
what we choose.”
Orienta agreed, and again each wrote a question,
and sealed it in an envelope.
"Seal them with wax, if you wish," said the
Priestess, smiling at Bobsy. “I see there is a seal-
ing set right there on the desk.”
So Bobsy and Natalie sealed their envelopes, and
stamped them with their rings.
"I won't do that,” said Joyce, “it's too silly. We
all know there's no trick in it."
“Shall I read these in the dark or in the light?”
asked Orienta, as Bobsy held the five missives to-
ward her.
"Why not as you did before?” said Beatrice,
"part of them in darkness and part in light. I
think those read in the dark even more wonderful
than in the light.”
"So do I," agreed Joyce. “But we'll try both
ways. Which first?”
"You may choose," said the Priestess.
"Dark, then,” replied Joyce.
So again the room was made totally dark, and
immediately came Orienta's soft, velvety tones.
"'Will what I fear ever happen?!” she read slow-


162
Faulkner's Folly
ly. Then she sighed, “I cannot say, my child.” Ev-
ery one present knew she spoke to Natalie, although
the question had not been signed. "I hope not,-I
think not,-but the vision is clouded. It is better
that you forget all. Forget the past, live for a
bright and happy future. The vision fades."
They had come to know that that last phrase
meant the end of a subject, and the next one would
ensue.
With scarcely a pause and without hesitation,
Orienta went on:
“'What can I do to help?'” No hint was needed,
for all felt sure this was Beatrice Faulkner's ques-
tion. -
The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones,
and said: “Nothing more than you are doing.
Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed
here and they are appreciated."
"The rest in the light?" asked Bobsy Roberts, im-
patiently.
"If you choose," returned Joyce, and Roberts
switched on the electrics.
Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next
envelope in readiness. She seemed not to know
or care whether it was light or dark.
“ 'Am I doing right?' " she read. For an instant
the long lashes on the cheeks of the Priestess lifted,
and she flashed a momentary glance at Joyce. “Yes,


Sealed Envelopes
163
lair.
you are doing right. Continue in the procedure
you have planned.”
A look of contentment passed over Joyce's face.
She showed intense relief, and oblivious to the
others' curious glances she drew a long sigh and
relaxed in her chair.
Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that
the questions were not signed. She knew at once
who wrote each. Next came Barry's.
Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward
him, and read, “'Will the truth ever be known?!”
There was a perceptible pause before she said,
"You do not want it known, because you fear it.
But your secret is safe. That, at least, will never
be known.”
Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry
Stannard had a secret. Pshaw! Not necessarily
because this faker said so! And yet, was she a fa-
ker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put
those sealed envelopes into that long, inert hand.
There they were still, intact, seals unbroken, and
the reader paying no more attention to them than
as if they were so much blank paper. Whatever her
power, it was superhuman. No physical vision
could read through those opaque envelopes, or if
such sight might be, it could not operate in total
darkness. No, there was no chance for trickery.
It was a supernatural gift of some sort.


164
Faulkner's Folly
His own envelope came last. He had boldly writ-
ten, “Who killed Eric Stannard ?” a question no
one else had felt like putting down in crude words.
Orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envel-
ope and her eyes closed.
"At last,” she murmured, in a strained, whisper-
ing voice, “at last we come to the vital question. It
matters not who wrote it, it is what each one want-
ed to write. Shall I answer?"
There was silence.
Orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance
around.


XII
A Vision
TT 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 sever-
est tests, had tossed them aside without noticing
them, and had come triumphant through the ex-
perimental 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, it lurked in their staring
eyes, it was evident in their restless hands, and as
if moved by the same thought, they turned and
gazed at each other.
Beatrice Faulkner looked troubled. She saw the
two young people in their distress, and she looked
at the Detective furtively.
Joyce, however, was the one to whom all turned,
breathlessly awaiting her decision.
“Yes,” she said, and her voice rang out with its
note of determination, "yes, Madame Orienta, tell
165


A Vision
167
“The man,-he is big and dark, confronts the
artist as he sits. The intruder, without a word,
grasps the sharp tool from the fingers of the one
who holds it, and thrusts it into the breast of his
victim. He darts across the room, turns off all
light, and-it is so black, I cannot see him de-
part. But-I hear him-I hear his stealthy tread.
He comes back, past the dying man,—he hears a
groan,—he pauses,- I can see nothing, but I hear
two come in at opposite doors. They stand, breath-
ing heavily in fear-in horror of—they know not
what. As they stand, half-dazed—I hear the man
-the murderer slip past one of them, and out of
the room. The light flashes on. The room is daz-
zlingly bright. I see the two who first entered. They
are women. They gaze affrightedly at each other
and then at the man in the chair. Two others have
appeared. They are at the other end of the long
room. It must have been one of these who flashed
the light on. They are a man,-a servant he is,
and a woman. Both are terrorised at what they see.
The two women near the chair of the dying man
accuse each other of the crime. But this is the
frenzied cry of shock and fright. They do not
mean it—they scarce know what they utter. The
dying man raises his head in a final effort of life.
He sees the scene with the clearness of the dying
brain. He hears the servant say, 'Who did this?'


A Vision
Tho
Orienta opened her eyes, roused her long, ex-
quisite figure to an upright posture, and passed her
hand gently across her brow.
"Is it enough?” she asked. "Are you satisfied ?”
“May we ask questions?” eagerly exclaimed
Bobsy.
“Yes, but only important ones. I am very
weary."
"Then please describe more fully the man who
struck the blow."
Again Orienta's eyes fastened themselves on the
big armchair.
“I see him clearly," she said, clasping her hands
in her tense concentration, “but his back is toward
me as he bends over his victim."
"How is he dressed ?”
"I cannot quite tell. His figure is vague. His
clothes seem merely a dark shadow against the
light.”
“Does it seem to be evening dress?”.
"It may be. I cannot say, surely."
"At any rate, it is not the rough dress of a
tramp or burglar?”
"No,—not that, I think.”
"He is not masked ?”
"No."
"You say he is dark? Pardon me, Madame, but
it is my duty to get these details.”


170
Faulkner's Folly
“Yes, his hair, as I see it, is dark."
"And he has a round, smooth-shaven face?” Rob-
erts spoke eagerly, as if he had in mind a distinct
personality.
"No," said Orienta slowly. "No, he has a long,
thin face "
“Can you see his face, then?” Bobsy fairly shot
out the words.
“Not his face, but an indication of his pro-
file "
“Then is he clean-shaven?”
“No, he wears a beard.”
"Oh. A dark beard? A heavy one?"
“Dark, yes. But not heavy."
"Pointed or full ?”.
“Somewhat pointed-ah, he has turned away. I
cannot tell.”
“Is he wearing a hat? But, no, you see his hair."
“I see no hat."
"Is there a hat on the table? On a chair?"
"I cannot tell. The vision fades.”
“Let up, Roberts," said Barry. “We are sure
now the man was an intruder. Let it go at that. If
you can find such a one, it won't matter whether he
had a hat or not.”
"It is important," insisted Bobsy. “Now, Ma-
dame Orienta, tell us again of his actions. Even
if the vision has faded, tell from your memory


A Vision
171
what'he did. You saw him when he crossed the
room toward the hall door. It was light then?”.
“Yes. He moved swiftly, straight to the electric
switch, and pressed it. Then I could see no more."
"Of course not. But you heard his steps return-
ing, you said."
“Yes, he went stealthily, but I heard him feel his
way by the furniture and walls.”
“And at the same time you heard a sound from
Mr. Stannard?"
“Yes, a sort of gasp or groan.”
"Right. It was this, then, that attracted the at-
tention of Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon, and
they entered at about the same time?".
“So far as I can judge. They were both there
when the lights re-appeared.”
"And in that brief instant the man had slipped
past one of them and escaped.”
“That is as the vision revealed it.”
“Only one more question. Past which woman
did he go?”
"I cannot say. I merely heard a quick footstep
at that end of the room.”
"It couldn't have been past Miss Vernon,” said
Bobsy. “She was too near the door, according to
her own account. And I don't see how he could
have passed Mrs. Stannard, as there was a low


172
Faulkner's Folly
light in the Billiard Room, and she must have seen
him pass.”
“Both women were looking toward the source of
the sound they heard. Also, at that very moment,
the wounded man gave a faint cry of 'Help! An
instant after, the servant turned on the light. In
that instant the man disappeared, unnoticed by any
one. I am not explaining these occurrences, Mr.
Roberts; I am describing them. It is for you to in-
terpret their meaning.”
Bobsy fell into a brown study, and timidly Nata-
lie put forth a question.
"How do you know he said, or tried to say,
'Neither Joyce nor Natalie'?”.
Orienta looked at the girl with an affectionate
expression.
"You are a 'sensitive yourself, Miss Vernon. It
will not be difficult for you to understand. By my
clairvoyance I read the thought in his mind. I
know he feared one or other of the two women he
saw might be suspected. The dying often have
abnormally acute prescience. To ward off any such
danger, and in reply to the servant's inquiry, he
strove to say neither of you were implicated,—he
raised his hand in protest,—but he was physically
unable to articulate clearly, and so his words were
misconstrued.”
“You heard the words,” said Natalie to Beatrice


A Vision
173
Faulkner; "does it seem to you he meant that?"
“Yes," was the reply. "Now that I think it over
I feel sure he did. At the moment, you know, I
could scarcely control my senses, and his voice
sounded so queer and unnatural, it was difficult to
gather his meaning.”
“I think so, too,” broke in Joyce. “I know that's
what he meant. Eric's very nature was against his
accusing any woman of wrong-doing. He meant
just what Madame Orienta has told us. And I am
glad there can be no more doubt about it.”
"Could a man have brushed by you that moment,
Mrs. Stannard ?” asked Bobsy.
“I suppose so. I came from a lighted room into
one of pitch blackness. I heard a quick breathing
from the opposite side of the room, where Natalie
was. I daresay I involuntarily took a step forward,
and the man slipped past, behind me. It all hap-
pened so quickly, and I was so frightened, I can't
describe my exact sensations. But I accept Madame
Orienta's revelation as the truth, and— ” Joyce's
face paled a little, and she spoke very sternly, "I
positively forbid any further investigation of the
whole matter."
“Then you suspect some one?" asked Bobsy,
quickly.
“Not at all,” was the haughty answer, and Joyce
looked like a queen issuing commands. “I have no


174
Faulkner's Folly
idea who the intruder was, nor do I want to know.
But if this story is made public, a dozen men will
be found to fit the description, and it will mean no
end of trouble and injustice. Therefore, I request,
Mr. Roberts, that you let it go no further."
"I can't promise that,” said Bobsy, gravely. “I
am bound to report to my chief. But if he agrees,
I will stop all investigation."
"That won't do,” said Joyce, her dark eyes trou-
bled. “You must promise what I ask.”
"'I think you need have no fear, Mrs. Stannard,
of any injustice being done. One moment, Madame
Orienta. You saw the footman, Blake, followed
by Mrs. Faulkner, enter the room and turn on the
light, just as they testified ?”
"The light was flashed on, and then I saw the
servant, his hand still on the switch. Behind him,
at his very shoulder, was Mrs. Faulkner, her face
drawn with fear and horror. Naturally I turned
my attention at once to the other end of the room,
and there saw, for the first time, the two women
whom I had heard enter a moment before.”
"Thank you, that is all,” and rising, Bobsy Rob
erts made brief adieus and hurried away.
He went straight to headquarters and sought
Captain Steele.
"Got Stannard's murderer," he announced excit-
edly.


A Vision
175
“Again or yet?” asked his unmoved listener.
“Got it in the queerest way, too,” Bobsy went
on, as he fished for his notebooks in the pocket of
the overcoat he had laid off. “Do you believe in me-
jums, Cap?”
“Not so's you'd notice it. Spill your yarn.”
"Well, to begin at the beginning of this chapter
of it, Mrs. Stannard engaged a clairvoyant lady to
see visions."
"Spooks ?”
"Not exactly that, but to-well, to reconstruct
the murder scene,-mentally, you know,and see
who did the stabbing. And by Jove, she told us !"
"Come now, Bobsy, I'll stand for a good deal
from you--"
“Now, hold on, she didn't know she told "
"What! Didn't know what she told— ”.
"If you could listen without butting in every
minute, I'd give you the whole story."
"I'll try," and Captain Steele folded his hands
and listened without a word while Bobsy told him
every detail of the Orienta revelation.
Often he referred to his notes, and again he told
vividly from memory the exact words of the
priestess.
“And you fell for that?” cried Steele, as the tale
ended.
"Sure I did, and so would you if you'd been


176
Faulkner's Folly
there. You can sort of sense the difference between
the professional fake mediums and this—this lady.
She was the real thing, all right. I felt just as you
do, before I saw her, but I was soon convinced.
Why, man, that reading the sealed messages was
enough."
"Pooh, they have lots of ways of doing that.”
“But she didn't use any of their 'ways.' I, my-
self, handed the bunch to her, and immediately she
read them out, and in pitch dark, too. No, there
was no chance for trickery. She read them in dark
or light, equally well. And not a seal broken or
an envelope torn. Now, then!"
"No chance for a confederate ?”
"Not the least. We sat in a row, and she sat fac-
ing us, fully eight feet away. And what could a
confederate do? I handed her the envelopes,—she
gave them back to me, intact. Not one of us
moved. When it was dark, her voice proved she
was in her chair, and when I flashed on the light
suddenly, there she was, without a change of pos-
ture, holding the envelopes exactly as I had given
them to her. I tell you she's the real thing. I've
read up on the trickery business, and all the books
say that while there is lots of fraud, there is also
a certain amount of telepathy or clairvoyance or
whatever you call it, that's true. And that's her
sort."


A Vision
177
“Well, who is the man? Did she tell you?”
“No, she didn't know. But I know.”
“Who, then?”
"Eugene Courtenay."
“What?”
“Of course it is. I've had him in the back of
my head for some time, but I couldn't get a peg to
hang a clue on. Now, I see how he could have
done it. He did do it, just as the lady said. He
slipped in, stabbed his man, turned off the light, and
-slipped out again, past Mrs. Stannard.”
"Why didn't she know it?"
"She did know it! Don't you see? Those two
are in love. They wanted Stannard out of the way.
But I don't think there was collusion. I think it
was this way. You know, it is history that Mrs.
Stannard and Courtenay were alone in the Bil-
liard Room. Of course he was making love to her,
and bemoaning the fact of Stannard's existence.
Now, either he went from her into the studio, and
she knew it, or else, he went away, as they say,
and returned, through the Billiard Room—and she
didn't know it."
"How could she help seeing him?".
“Oh, say she was crying,—or had buried her
face in a sofa cushion, or was sitting before the
fire and he passed behind her. But admit that he
could have gone through that room unknown to


178
Faulkner's Folly
her,—which, of course, he could. Well, he goes in,
and, later, in the dark, he goes out the same way. I
don't know about her knowledge of any part of this
performance, but I think she knew nothing of it, or
she wouldn't have engaged the occult lady.”
"She did that to clear herself.”
“Yes, and Miss Vernon, too. But when the
Priestess, as they call her, spoke of a tall, dark man,
with a beard, Mrs. Stannard was scared to death
and wanted it all called off.”
"A tall man, with a beard?"
“Yes, a dark, pointed beard! Isn't that Courte-
nay?” .
"Sounds like him. Did she describe him fur-
ther?”
“Yes, but only when I dragged it out of her. She
vowed she couldn't see him clearly, and I pretended
I wanted her to say a round, smooth-shaven face,
and little by little I wormed it out, and it was Cour-
tenay to the life. Then, Mrs. Stannard weakened
on the whole show, which proves it."
“You say you've thought of him before?”
"Only vaguely. But you know his story. How
he sat on the lawn bench and watched the lights
go off and on! Good work, that! He himself
turned them off and then escaped to the lawn, and
cleverly sat there to see what occurred, instead of
going home, and thereby being suspected.”


A Vision
179
"And kept still when he found those two women
were accused ?”
"Sure. He knew they'd get off all right, and if
he expected to marry Mrs. Stannard, he couldn't
let himself get into the game. So he made up his
simple, clever yarn, and stuck to it. Yes, sir,
Courtenay's your man!”
"Wait, what about that conversation Mrs. Stan-
nard overheard? She says her husband was talking
to a woman."
"She made that up. Probably she had a glimmer
of suspicion toward Courtenay, and did anything
she could to make it seem somebody else."
"Then she hired this visionary, and that brought
about the very revelation she didn't want !"
"But she never dreamed it would do so. She
had no faith in the thing, and thought it would
merely divert suspicion to some unknown intruder.
And so it would, if I hadn't pinned the Seeress
down to a careful description. Then, the more
Mrs. Stannard showed discomfiture the more I knew
I was right."
"I believe you, Bobsy. Now, how shall we go
about proving it?"
"It will prove itself. It's a case of murder will
out. You'll see!”


XIII
An Alibi Needed
ERY discreetly Bobsy conducted his inter-
view with Eugene Courtenay. The detec-
tive 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 de-
sired to see.
“It's this way, Mr. Courtenay,” said Bobsy, after
a few preliminaries, “in the interests of law and
justice, I want you to tell me a little more in detail
the story you told at the inquest.”
“There are no further details than those I related,
Mr. Roberts. What have you learned that makes
you think my testimony of sudden importance ?”
Clearly, this was not a man to be easily hood-
winked. Bobsy felt his way. “Not of sudden im-
180


An Alibi Needed
181
portance. But all testimony is important, and some-
times by elaboration it becomes illuminative."
"Good word, illuminative,” remarked Courtenay.
“But I cannot help to shed light for you, I fear.
Just what do you want to know ?”.
Here was an opening. Bobsy accepted it as such.
“At what time did you leave the Stannard house
that night?”
"I don't know, really. One doesn't note hours
when not on business matters. It must have been
between eleven and half-past. That's as near as I
can come to it. Why?”
The last word was shot at him, and Bobsy almost
jumped.
"It is my duty to ask,” he said coolly. “At what
time did you reach home? I suppose you don't
know that, either.”
"I do not. But I didn't come home at once
“Yes, I know; you sat on a bench on the Folly
lawn. Were you in evening togs, Mr. Courtenay ?”
"I was.”
“Had you on a hat?"
Eugene Courtenay started. But he answered at
once: “Not a hat. I wore a cap over there. I
often do when I go to a neighbour's.”
“And you had it on when you sat on the bench ?”
"Why, confound it, man. I don't know! I sup-
OL


182
Faulkner's Folly
pose I did. No, let me see. I believe I was carry-
ing it, and laid it on the bench beside me."
“And left it there?”.
Courtenay laughed a little self-consciously. “Yes,
I did. I came nearly home before I thought of it.
Then I went back and gathered it in. Why?"
Again that direct, snapped-out question.
“What was going on at the house when you went
back?”
"How should I know? After events prove that
the tragedy in the studio was then being gone
through with—but I had no idea of that at the
time. I glanced at the house, of course. There
was a light in the studio in fact, lights over most
of the house. I found my cap and came on home.
Why?"
"I'll answer your whys, Mr. Courtenay. Be-
cause the police have reason to think your story is
not entirely true. Because we think it was you,
yourself, who turned off the studio light."
"Do I understand, Mr. Roberts, you mean that
I-let us speak plainly—that I killed Eric Stan-
nard ?"
"Did you, Mr. Courtenay?"
"I refuse to answer such an absurd question!
In the first place, I was out on the lawn, when the
light went out."
“So you say. But who corroborates that?"


An Alibi Needed
185
mit, that if her face was buried in the pillow, she
could not see if a man passed through the Billiard
Room to the studio."
"But no one did!”
"How do you know?”
"Because I should have seen him from the bench
where I sat.”
“No, you would not, because you were the man.”
“You accuse me?"
“I do.”
"I deny it. But I shall say no more to you.
Have you a warrant for my arrest?”
"I have not."
“Then go—and go quickly, before I tell you
what I think of you!"
But Bobsy Roberts was no fool. He said, quiet-
ly, “I'd rather you would tell me what you think
of me. It may help me to get at the truth. There
are reasons why we are inquiring into your con-
nection with this matter—you will hear the rea-
sons soon enough. There is peculiar but direct evi-
dence that you are the man who stabbed Mr. Stan-
nard.”
"Evidence? What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. But never mind that. You
have nothing else to tell me? No proof to adduce
that you were just where you claim to have been
when the studio was darkened?"


186
Faulkner's Folly
"No! No proof, because none is needed. You
can't have evidence—it is impossible!”
"Then that is all, Mr. Courtenay. You needn't
tell me what you think of me. Your opinion doesn't
interest me. But perhaps after you hear the evi-
dence I speak of, you'll sing another tune. Oh, I'm
not going to tell you about it. Ask Mrs. Stan-
nard."
"I asked you not to mention that lady's name.
Good-morning, Mr. Roberts."
"Good morning." And Bobsy went away, filled
with conviction of Eugene Courtenay's guilt.
Courtenay went at once over to see Joyce.
"I've missed you so,” she said, simply, as she
met him on the Terrace. "Why haven't you been
here?”
“I thought better not, darling. I can't control
myself sufficiently to hide my love for you. And
I feared it might bring embarrassment on you if
I let it be seen by any one. Oh, Joyce, it seems so
long to wait! Must it be two years? I can't live
through it."
"Hush, Eugene. It seems sacrilege even to
speak of our love and poor Eric dead so short a
time. Be patient, dear heart. We are both young.
You couldn't love me, or respect me, if I failed in


An Alibi Needed
187
ordinary behaviour toward a husband's memory.
And Eric was good to me."
“Good to you! Losing his head over every pretty
woman he met! Joyce, how could you ever marry
him?"
"He made me. Don't you know how some wom-
en succumb to cave-man wooing? I don't under-
stand it myself, but his whirlwind love-making car-
ried me off my feet, and I had promised him before
I knew it."
"If I had been here at the time, it would never
have happened.”
"I think it would. I was fascinated by his very
vehemence. Now, I know better. I want only
your gentle, dear love, that will comfort and con-
tent me as he never could.”
"You poor little darling. I wish I could give it
to you now. Mayn't I kiss you once-just once,
Joyce ?"
"No, Eugene. Not yet. Some day—when I
can't be patient any longer. When the hunger for
your big, sweet affection becomes too intense—the
craving too uncontrollable.”
She turned away from him and looked off to-
ward the glowing richness of the autumn foliage.
"When the robins nest again,” she said, with a
little pathetic smile at the quotation. “But now,


An Alibi Needed
189
“Yes; until that.”
“Then some one could have passed you—you
wouldn't have heard a soft step?”.
“No, I probably shouldn't-but, Eugene, it
wasn't you? Say it wasn't you!"
"It was not. But I have to prove this, Joyce-
and it will be difficult.”
"Oh, does any one think it was you?”
"Yes, the police think so."
“The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why-
why did I ever have Madame Orienta come here?
But we will prove it was not you, my Eugenewe
will prove it."
“Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must.
To whom have you told this story of sitting with
your face bowed in the pillow ?”.
"To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house,
of course. Barry and Beatrice, and, of course, lit-
tle Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when the
Priestess story seemed to clear Natalie and me of
all suspicion of guilt. But if it has implicated you,
that is a thousand times worse!”
"No, not worse. A man can fight injustice better
than a woman. Have you told Roberts?”
"About the pillow ? No, I don't think so. But
he'll find it out. That man digs into everything.”
"You invited him, yourself, to the séance?”
“Yes. I thought it wise. I thought it would im-


190
Faulkner's Folly
plica why diejoyce
plicate some stranger and I wanted him to hear."
"Why did you think it would accuse a stranger?
Look here, Joyce, you didn't employ that woman to
cook up a yarn, did you?”
"Mercy, no!" and Joyce opened her eyes full at
him. “Eugene! What an idea! Of course I
didn't. Why, I believe in her as fully as—as I do
in you! I can't say more than that! She is honest
and earnest in what she tells. Whether she sees
truly, is another thing, and one over which she has
no control. But all she says is in sincerity and
truth."
"It may be. But she has surely woven a web
around me. That is, if others share your belief in
her. Now, I'm going to work, Joyce, to find my
alibi."
"What do you mean?”
"I'm going to scare up somebody who saw me on
that bench and will swear to it."
“Swear falsely?” Joyce whispered the words.
"If need be. But I hope to get an honest wit-
ness. May I speak to your outdoor servants? And
the house staff, too, if necessary?”.
"Of course. Find the head gardener, Mason,
he'll round up the rest. Oh, Eugene, you will find
some one, surely. They are about the grounds
every night. And perhaps Barry saw you. He was
out with the dogs.”


An Alibi Needed
191
“I'll find some one, dear. Don't worry.”
Courtenay went away, and Joyce went into the
house. She went to Beatrice Faulkner's room, and
found her there.
"May I come in?" asked Joyce, at the door.
“Always, any time. Why, what is the matter,
dear?”
"Beatrice! You don't think Eugene killed Eric,
do you?”
“Of course not! What nonsense!"
"Well, they suspect him of it, and he's going to
make up an alibi-or whatever you call it.”
“Not make one up! Don't ever say that, Joyce.
You mean, he's going to find proof of his own testi-
mony."
“Yes, it's all the same. But, oh, Beatrice, if he
did do it I can never marry him
“Hush, Joyce! You mustn't talk like that!
Don't you want to save Eugene ?”
“Of course I do, if he's innocent."
"Then believe him innocent! You wrong-minded
woman, to doubt the man who loves you, at the
first breath of suspicion !"
“Then is he innocent, Beatrice? Is he?” .
"Look in your heart and answer that yourself.”
"I do look,” said Joyce, solemnly, “but I can't
read the answer.”


XIV
From Seven to Seventy
ISTEN, 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 be-
fore 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 feel-
ings as long as he could, and that night-in the
Billiard Room, he-he lost control-and he said
he-he c-couldn't stand it. You know he thought
Eric didn't treat me right-
"And Eric didn't. But even if Mr. Courtenay
did lose his head for a moment, that doesn't mean
he was the murderer, and you mustn't suspect him,
Joyce."
"But you know what Orienta said—about a dark
man with a pointed beard. Who else could it have
been?"
“Other men have dark hair and beards. And
Orienta couldn't see him clearly, you know.”
192


From Seven to Seventy
193
"I know. And you are a comfort, Beatrice. But
I never can marry Eugene if he has even a shadow
of doubt hanging over him. I want him cleared.”
"Of course you do. And as he is innocent, he
will clear himself.”
"Maybe not. If he can't find anybody who saw
him out there on the bench, he will be arrested,
and "
"Oh, no, he won't. Why, somebody must have
seen him!”
"If any of the servants had, they would have
said so.”
“They weren't asked. What about Barry?”
"Oh, I think Barry was off in the other direc-
tion, down by the orchards. But, Beatrice, maybe
Mr. Wadsworth saw him. Didn't he leave you
just about that time?”
“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 iş


194
Faulkner's Folly
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 Wads-
worth 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 trou-
bled 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.


From Seven to Seventy
195
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 de-
cided 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 par-
tially 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 un-


From Seven to Seventy
197
"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 inter-
est. 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 morn-
ing. 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 spir-
itism?”
"Spiritualism?"
"No; spiritism. They're quite different. Spir-
itualism is the old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping
performance. Spiritism is the scientific considera-
tion of life after death."
“Of course, I believe in life after death ”


198
Faulkner's Folly
"But do you think the dead can return and com-
municate 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 tes-
timony 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 eve-
ning 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


From Seven to Seventy
199
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 un-
tiring efforts. I'm ready to work with you, Cap-
tain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one you say.
Or I'll work alone. But solve the mystery I'nı
bound to!”
Courtenay's manner went far to convince all who
heard him of his own innocence, though Bobsy
Roberts afterward growled something about "pro-
testing 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 princi-
pals ?"
Stiles produced the document, and they went over


200
Faulkner's Folly
m
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 re-
marks."
"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. Stan-
nard'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


202
Faulkner's Folly
"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 ac-
cuse 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 Stan-
nard 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 con-
clusion."
"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


From Seven to Seventy 203
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-


204
Faulkner's Folly
“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 some-
body 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 deterinined to sift things to the bot-


From Seven to Seventy
205
tom to lay my hand on Eric's murderer. Primari-
ly 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
TATALIE! 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. Suspi-
cion 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--"
206


Natalie in Danger
207
"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 wor-
rying 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
eal
IS


Natalie in Danger
209
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


Natalie in Danger
211
“Barry, I must go away. I've-I've good rea-
sons."
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 committedcrime?”
"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."


Natalie in Danger
213
"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 inter-
rupted 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 sug-
gestion 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.


216
Faulkner's Folly
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— ".
The light laugh that greeted her slip of the
tongue served to break the tension of the moment.
“Forgive me,” she said, and her dimpling smile of
embarrassment would have turned the head of an
anchorite. "You see, I've heard you called that,
and, though I didn't mean to be familiar, I-I got
sort of mixed up."
"All right, Miss Vernon, it doesn't matter at all.
One Robert's as good as the other."
"It's funny to have two names alike, isn't it?"
and Natalie's voice shook a little.
“Yes," and then with an effort, Bobsy returned
to the attack. "You know nothing of the change
in the will, then, Miss Vernon?”
"I certainly don't. Did somebody change the
text?"
“Yes. It's a mysterious affair. But if you know
nothing about it, we must ferret it out as best we
can.”
He spoke lightly, but his eyes never left Nata-


Natalie in Danger
217
lie's face. In fact, Roberts was by no means ask-
ing her because he attached any importance to her
spoken answer, but because he hoped by her ex-
pression or by some inadvertent slip, to learn the
truth, even though she tried to conceal it.
"Mr. Roberts,” she said, suddenly, “if I wish to
go away from this house, is there any reason I
should not do so?”.
“I'd rather you would ask somebody else that,
Miss Vernon."
“Whom shall I ask?”
“Captain Steele, or— "
"I am answered. You mean I would not be al-
lowed to go."
“I think it would be better for you to remain
where you are. There may be developments short-
ly, that will call for your presence, though they
may not affect you seriously. Please don't plan to
go away just now, but, also, don't think my advice
more indicative than it is meant to be."
Roberts went off, and the four people he left
behind him sat in a constrained silence.
At last, Beatrice spoke. “We must all band to-
gether to save Natalie,” she said, very seriously.
“There is no use deceiving ourselves; Natalie is
in danger. We know and love her, so we can't
connect her in our minds with any wrong-doing,
but to outsiders the case looks different. Let us,


XVI
Confession and Arrest
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 wish. Come on, let's go in
the studio, and try it, at any rate.'
"I'd rather not,” said Beatrice Faulkner. “In
a way, Barry has asked me to keep you from this
sort of thing, and I feel a certain responsibil-
ity- "
"I understand," said Natalie; "and you needn't
take any part. Just sit by and look on."
“No, I'd rather not. If you don't mind, I'll go
to my room. I've letters to write, and I'm sure
220


Confession and Arrest
223
off the light. She ran to Beatrice Faulkner's room
and entered without knocking.
"What is it?" said Mrs. Faulkner, looking up
from the letter she was writing, “Oh, Joyce, what
has happened ?”
"Somebody turned off the studio lights! Be-
atrice, who could have done it?”
“Turned off the lights! What do you mean?”
“Yes, Natalie and I sat there, Natalie thought
she would go into a trance, you know- "
"That foolish girl! Did she?”
"No. But we heard-oh, I can't tell you now!
Come with me back there, do!"
Rising hastily from her desk, Beatrice followed
Joyce downstairs and into the studio. There they
found Natalie standing by a table in the middle of
the room, looking with a staring gaze at a large
leather case that was on the table.
"The jewels!” cried Joyce. "Eric's jewels !
Where did you find them, Natalie ?"
“Right here on this table. I haven't touched
them.”
"What do you mean?” and Beatrice looked curi-
ously at the girl. “How did they get there?”
“I don't know," said Natalie, dully. She seemed
as one bereft of her senses. “When Joyce turned
on the lights- "


226
Faulkner's Folly
have been some human agency. I don't believe for
a minute that Eric's ghost returned the jewels.”
"But Natalie says he has haunted this studio
ever since he died. She says he will continue to
do so, until his murderer is found and punished."
"I have heard of such things, but I can't believe
it in this case.”
“What will Barry say? He was so imperative
that Natalie should not try the trance business."
"I know it. But I can't see that she has done
any real harm. The jewels are here—isn't it mar-
vellous, Joyce? How could they have been brought
in without your knowing it?”.
"Oh, as to that, I'm sure Natalie produced them
after I left the room. I wish now I'd stayed here.
My one thought was to get somebody else to cor-
roborate the mysterious happenings.”
“You're sure the jewels were not here on the
table when you went out of the room?”
"I can't say positively. They might have been.
You see, I never thought of looking for them. I
looked about the room to see if any person were
present, and I looked thoroughly, too. But I didn't
look on the table.”
"Nobody could have come in at the Billiard
Room door?"
"No, we sat right there, you know. The case is
just the same as on the night of the murder. That's


Confession and Arrest
227
why Natalie insists that Eric's spirit turned off the
lights and put the jewels on the table.”
"Are the jewels all there? Are any missing?"
"I've not looked them over. At a first glance,
they seem to be all right.”
"It must be that some one stole them, and just
now returned them. There's no other possible
explanation, Joyce. It throws suspicion back to
Mr. Truxton or— ".
“Or Eugene Courtenay, you were going to say!
Now, he didn't do it, Beatrice I know he didn't.”
Weary and afraid, full of nameless horrors and
uncertainties, Joyce locked the jewels in her dress-
ing-room safe, and went to bed.
She and Beatrice both felt they could stand no
more that night, and notifying the police of the
finding of the jewels must wait until the next day.
And next day, when Bobsy Roberts came and
heard the strange story he was probably the most
bewildered man on the force.
"Tell it all over again," he said, after hearing
the tale from Joyce.
Patiently she repeated the details.
"Where is Miss Vernon?” he asked abruptly.
"You can't see her to-day,” returned Joyce, "the
poor child is prostrated.”
“What did she hope to gain by her trance per-


Confession and Arrest 229
while you thought she still sat by your side.
Weren't your eyes closed ?”
"No, they were wide open. She did not leave
her seat. The lights were turned off by a hand
other than hers, whether mortal or spirit, I cannot
say."
"Well, the whole affair was of her invention and
carrying out. She is responsible for your hus-
band's death, Mrs. Stannard. There is no doubt
whatever of Miss Vernon's guilt.”
“Just take that back, Roberts,” and Barry Stan-
nard came into the Reception Room where the
speakers were sitting. "Miss Vernon is as innocent
as an angel in this business. I'm ready to confess.
I killed my father, and I own up to it, rather than
have Natalie suspected. If you had been any sort
of a detective you would have known from the first
that I did it. But you had your head set in one
direction and nothing could change you. You know
perfectly well I had motive and opportunity. It
was not premeditated, I did it on the spur of sud-
den indignation.”
"Barry," cried Joyce, "what are you saying?
You didn't kill Eric!"
"Yes, I did. I thought it might blow over, and
remain an unsolved mystery. But if Natalie is to
be suspected of my crime, I would be less than a


230
Faulkner's Folly
man to keep still. Take me along, Roberts, I give
myself up."
Bobsy Roberts stared at him. “My plan worked,”
he said, slowly. “I thought it was you, really, all
along, but I thought, too, the only way to get a
confession from you, was to seem to suspect Miss
Vernon. As you say, no man could sit still and see
a woman bearing the blame that belongs to him.
You came in through the Billiard Room?".
"Yes," said Barry. “Mrs. Stannard didn't see
or hear me pass her. I went on through to the
studio. I accused my father of persecuting Miss
Vernon, and he turned on me in a furious rage.
We are both impetuous, we said little, but those
few low words roused all my worst nature, and,
snatching up the etching needle, I stabbed him,
scarce knowing what I did. It was all over in a
moment, and I had but one thought, how to escape
from that room. I flew across and turned off the
lights as a precautionary measure, and then- "
"Then how did you get out?" asked Bobsy,
breathless with interest.
"I was behind the hall door, when Blake opened
it, and after he turned on the light, I slipped behind
him and Mrs. Faulkner out into the hall. They
were so bewildered at the sudden flash of light-
and—what it revealed, that they didn't see me at
all."


Confession and Arrest
233
true, I must ask you to go with me to Headquar-
ters.”
"I am ready,” said Barry, simply, and the two
men went out.


Alan Ford
235
I had no notion which way to turn. But now, even
though he says so, I can't believe it was Barry."
“Barry! Of course it wasn't Barry!"
“But he confessed, Natalie.”
"Of course he confessed. He couldn't help it !"
As she spoke, Natalie was getting out of bed, and
seating herself at her dressing table began to do
up her hair. “If you don't mind going, Joyce, I
want to dress. Run along now, I'll be down very
soon.”
"What are you going to do?" Joyce looked at
the girl uncertainly, for she was brushing her hair
with unwonted vigour. Her eyes were tear-filled,
but her face showed a brave, determined expres-
sion, and she hurried her toilet as if important
matters impended.
“Go now, Joyce," and rising, Natalie pushed her
gently toward the door.
Some minutes later, Natalie came downstairs, in
a trim out-of-door costume. Her smart little hat
was veiled, and she had a motor coat over her arm.
“May I take the little electric, Joyce, and drive
it myself?"
"Why, yes, of course. Where are you going?”
"First, to see Mr. Roberts. And if I'm not home
for some hours, don't be alarmed. I may go to
well, I may take a long drive. But I'll be back to
dinner.”


Alan Ford
237
:
didn't kill Mr. Stannard. Barry didn't, either. But
he says he did, to save me. Now, I want some one
who can find the real criminal and so clear both
Barry and myself.”
“And you expect me to recommend somebody?”
"Oh, I do, Mr. Roberts, I do. I know you're big
enough and honest enough to admit that you are at
the end of your rope, and if you know of any one
. I don't care how much he costs, I must have him-
I must! Tell me, won't you?”
“Yes, I'll tell you, because I can't refuse you,
but also because I know he will only verify our
conclusions. You must know, Miss Vernon, we've
had our eye on young Stannard all the time.”
"Oh, I thought you were sure the criminal must
be Mrs. Stannard or myself.”
“We did think that at first-you see, we have to
think what the evidence shows."
"Well, never mind that now. Who is this man
you have in mind ?”
“Alan Ford. He's not one of the story-book
wizards, but he's a big light in the detective field,
and he can find out if any one can.”
"Where is he?"
Bobsy gave her the New York address of the
detective, and Natalie rose to go. Then, acting on
a sudden impulse, "Come with me," she said.
"To New York?” cried the amazed Bobsy.


Alan Ford
243
“It wasn't Eugene !" whispered Joyce, her face
drawn with new apprehension.
“Of course it wasn't,” said Beatrice, soothingly.
“Don't worry over that, Joyce, dear. Mr. Wads-
worth has exculpated Mr. Courtenay."
“But nothing seems sure,” Joyce said, with a
sad shake of her head.
"Well, it will be sure, once Alan Ford gets here,”
declared Barry. “I can hardly wait to see him.”
Alan Ford arrived the next morning. When he
entered the Reception Room, his tall, commanding
presence seemed to fill the whole room. With per-
fect courtesy, he greeted Joyce first, and then the
others, and finally seated himself, facing the group.
Though not to be called handsome, his face was
fine and scholarly, and his iron grey hair made
him look older than his fifty years. His manner was
quiet, but alert, as if no hint or lightest word could
escape his attention.
"Let us waste no time," he began, "for my busi-
ness engagements are pressing, and what I do here
must be done as quickly as possible. I can prom-
ise you nothing, for the accounts I have read of
this case make it seem to me that your local work-
ers have done all that could be expected of them.
The whole affair is mysterious, but sometimes a
new point of view or the opinions of a different
mind may lead to something of importance.”


Alan Ford
245
That is why I took an interest in the case. Also, I
am willing to admit, I paused for a glance in at the
studio door, as I came into the house, and before I
entered this room.”
"A queer man,” thought Natalie. “Why should
a great detective talk about such foolish details as
large or small rooms? Why should he take an in-
terest in a case because of them?”
The others had similar thoughts, but no com-
ment was made on the visitor's peculiarities, save
that Beatrice Faulkner seemed to feel obliged to -
defend her husband's architectural ideas.
“The rooms are carefully proportioned," she
said, pleasantly, but with a touch of pride in the
fact. “The architect who designed them knew just
what measurements were most effective from a
technical and artistic point of view.”
“The rooms are all right,” said Mr. Ford, smil-
ing kindly at the speaker, "the trouble is with my
own foolish vagaries."
Then led by Barry, they all went into the studio.
Alan Ford looked around him, with the most
intense admiration expressed on his fine face.
“Magnificent !" he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, your
late husband was indeed a genius. I have never
seen a more perfectly proportioned room, or one
more appropriately and effectively decorated. The


XVIII
Questions and Answers
wers
CYTILL studying the face of the artist, Alan
Ford indicated his desire to begin the suc-
cessive 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 artistic temperament was responsible
for his being blamed far more than was just or
right.”
“That is probably true," said Ford, seriously.
"To a man of that sensitiveness to beauty many
things seemed right that were not. Now, Mr. Stan-
nard, will you please tell me everything about the
actual facts as you know them, regarding the hour
or half hour in which the crime was committed ?
Don't shade or colour your story to shield Miss Ver-
248


Questions and Answers
251
and I got awful mad and I said if Father didn't
stop his nonsense with her, I'd kidnap her and run
away. And Natalie knew that if we did that, Dad
would cut us both out of his will,—and she isn't a
bit mercenary, it wasn't that.”
“What was it, then?”
"Why, only that we're—why, hang it all, decent
people don't do those things.”
“Decent people don't commit murder, either,"
said Ford, very gravely.
"No, I know that. Well, Natalie begged me not
to quarrel with father,—said she could manage him
herself. And I thought she meant by being sweet
to him, and all that, and I got mad at her, and I
walked off and left her there."
"Without a word?”
"No. I told her I was going to give the dogs a
run. I was going to, too, but as I walked away, I
fell a-thinking, and I just strolled round the place
alone."
“Whom did you see?"
"Nobody at all. Maybe Courtenay or Mr. Wads-
worth or some of those people passed me, I don't
know. I was just thinking about Natalie, and then
Halpin came running out and told me to come in
the house, my father was ill.”
"And you went right in?”
"Yes, and when I saw what had happened, I felt


252
Faulkner's Folly
afraid Natalie had killed him—and I ran out and
tried to make the window frame look as if a bur-
glar had broken in. I suppose it was foolish.”
"It certainly was. But I don't blame you. It
was natural to try to shield the girl you loved from
possible suspicion.”
"Possible suspicion! If you had seen the situa-
tion! There were the two women, both shivering
with fear and terror, and there was the dead or
dying man between them! Why, Mr. Ford, it
wasn't suspicion, it was certainty that one or the
other had stabbed him!”
“And why have you changed your mind since?"
"Partly because of that clairvoyant person. I
don't believe in those things, but—well—do you?”
“I do not. But I can see how she would turn
suspicion away from the two women in question.
Who sent for the clairvoyant?”
"Mrs. Stannard did, but, first, the Priestess, as
she likes to be called, wrote and asked for a
séance."
"She did! How did she know she was wanted ?”
"She didn't know. Said she read about the case,
and got interested."
“Ah, a professional medium.”
"She said not. Said she only offers to help in
cases that appeal especially to her.”


Questions and Answers
255
nard's death. Tell only your own part, only what
you, yourself, did or saw.".
"You suspect I killed my husband?” said Joyce,
in a choking whisper.
“It will depend on your story, what I suspect.
Do not be afraid and do not distrust me, Mrs. Stan-
nard. I want to help you, in any case. Whatever
the truth, I can help you, and I want to assure you
of that.”
The infinite gentleness of his tone, the kind light
in his eyes and the utter sympathy evident in his
whole manner reassured Joyce, and in a low voice
she began.
“I have told it so many times, I know it by heart.
I was in the Billiard Room with Mr. Courtenay. I
will not explain or defend the fact that I was there
alone with him, but merely state that I was. He
left me, and as I was heartsick over my own private
and personal affairs, I buried my head in a sofa-
cushion and cried. Not a real crying spell of sobs
and tears, but an emotion which I endeavoured to
restrain or control that I might meet others with-
out causing comment. As I bowed my head there, I
am positive I heard my husband talking to some
woman."
“Miss Vernon?"
"I thought so at first, now I am not sure it was
she.”


258
Faulkner's Folly
Joyce went slowly out of the studio, and in a
moment Natalie Vernon came in.
"Am I afraid of you?” she asked, as she sat fac-
ing Alan Ford. "Need I be?”
Her questions were not prompted by coquetry,
that was evident. Her tone was serious, and she
looked at the detective wistfully.
“No, Miss Vernon,” he answered, seriously, "you
have no reason to be afraid of me, but I will tell
you frankly, you have great reason to fear the con-
sequences if you tell me anything but the exact
truth. Pardon me, if that seems a rude speech, but
great issues are at stake and prevarication on your
part to the slightest degree would baffle all my plans
and hopes."
"I will tell the truth,” Natalie sighed, “so far as I
know it. But sometimes it's very hard to be sure
of what is true.”
"Yes, I know it. Now, Miss Vernon, just one
word about the time and scene of the crime. When
you came into the studio, because you heard-what
did you hear?”
Alan Ford's manner was calculated to set the
nervous girl at her ease, and his kindliness made her
calm and un-self-conscious.
"I heard Eric moan.”
"Did you know at once it was Mr. Stannard ?"


Questions and Answers
259
"Oh, yes. It sounded like him, and I suppose he
was in there."
"What did you think ailed him?"
"I don't believe I thought of that. I just heard
the curious gasping sound, as of somebody choking,
and I ran in. I didn't think,-I only wondered
what was the trouble.”
“And when you entered the room was it light or
dark?”
"Honestly, I don't know, Mr. Ford. I've been
so quizzed and questioned about it, that I can't
seem to remember clearly.”
"But the lights went out?”
“Yes, just as I entered, or a minute before."
"Well, then, what was the first thing you saw ?”
“Must I tell that?”
“Yes, and truly.”
“Then, the first thing I saw, as the light flashed
on-and it rather blinded me at first, you know.
You see, I had been sitting on the Terrace, which
was almost dark, then I entered the dark room, and
so when the light came suddenly, it dazzled me,
and I naturally looked straight ahead of me. I saw
Mrs. Stannard, behind her husband, and near the
Billiard Room door."
“As if she had just come in from that room?"
"I think so,-now. I didn't think so then. I


260
Faulkner's Folly
thought she had killed him, and had sort of stepped
back, you know— "
"Why did you change your mind ?”
"Oh, because of Madame Orienta. Haven't you
heard about her? She cleared up the mystery as
far as Joyce,-Mrs. Stannard and I are concerned."
“Yes, I've heard all about her. You believe in
her supernatural powers ?”
"Oh, yes. Only I don't use that word. I call
them psychic powers."
"But it was supernatural to read the sealed mes-
sages as she did ?".
"Well, I suppose it was. I suppose clairvoyance
is supernatural, but we psychics prefer other terms.
You know I'm a psychic.”
“Ah, is that so? And you can read sealed mes-
sages in the dark ?”
"No, indeed, I can't. I wish I could. But per-
haps I shall be able to some day. I can—Mr. Ford,
you believe me, don't you?”
Natalie looked at him, and a slight flush came to
her pale cheek as she saw his slightly quizzical ex-
pression.
"Miss Vernon, I believe all you've said, so far.
I want to continue my confidence in your state-
ments, so please be very careful not to exaggerate
or over-colour the least mite. Now, just to what


Questions and Answers
261
extent do you know you're a psychic? Not imagine
or hope or think, but know."
"Well, I only know that I've heard the voice of
Mr. Stannard's spirit since his death, as clearly as I
heard his mortal voice that night he died.”
“You are sure of this ?”
"I am sure, Mr. Ford.”
“Tell me the exact circumstances.”


Ford's Day
263
"Why, what could it mean?”
"It meant, Miss Vernon, that the light was
switched off by a mortal,-flesh and blood hand.
Had it been supernaturally extinguished there
would have been no sound.”
“I heard it, I'm sure I heard it. But I think
the spirit of Mr. Stannard haunts the whole room,
and it was he who turned the light off.”
"By means of a material switch?”.
Natalie looked a little uncertain. Varying ex-
pressions passed over her face as she thought it out.
Then she said, “Don't spirits ever use material
means?”
"Not to my individual knowledge,” returned Alan
Ford gravely. "I fear, Miss Vernon, your belief
in the spiritual influences at work in this affair is
about to be rudely shattered. Now, did you hear
any other sound,—a click or thud,-after the light
went out?"
"No. You see, Joyce, Mrs. Stannard jumped
right up and ran across the room and turned on
the light."
"Turned it on? It had been really turned off,
then?”
"Oh, yes. And she turned it on. Then she
opened the door and Blake was in the hall, where he
belonged. He had seen no one and had heard
nothing."


Ford's Day
267
could scarcely speak. She stumbled up the
stairs
“Why, did you see her?”.
“No, I heard her. I was at my writing desk, and
the house was still. Then she flew into my room,
without knocking "
"Is it her custom to knock ?"
“Oh, yes, she always does. And she begged me
to go down stairs with her, and I did. The rest you
know?"
"Yes, and a strange tale it is. How do you sup-
pose the jewels came to be on that table?”
"I cannot say," Beatrice looked sad. “There
seems to be only one explanation. That whoever
had them or knew where they were, placed them
there."
"And how did the bearer of the box get into the
locked room?"
"I can't imagine. The only thing I can think of
is that Natalie didn't lock the door as thoroughly
as she thinks she did.”
"Mrs. Faulkner, tell me this. I assure you I will
not use your information unless absolutely neces-
sary. Do you suspect the footman Blake of any
connivance-or of any wrong doing in the whole
matter?"
Beatrice Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, “No,


270
Faulkner's Folly
“What material?" asked Ford, and Barry looked
at him in surprise. What kind of a great detective
was this who inquired concerning the texture of a
costume?
“Why, it was silk, I think,-yes, heavy silk,
wasn't it, Joyce?”
“That, or a silk poplin. It was not a modern,
modish gown at all; it was like a draped shawl.”
“Drapery hanging from the shoulders?”.
“Yes,” Natalie answered, her mind so intent on
giving Ford the right idea, that she didn't think of
the queerness of the question.
“Double skirt?”
“Yes—or, that is, a skirt, and then an over dra-
pery in full long folds. Oh, it was lovely!"
“Are you apt with your pencil, Miss Vernon?
Could you draw a rough sketch of that gown?"
"I can't but Mrs. Faulkner can. She's good at
sketching draperies. Here's a paper pad, Beatrice.
Will you draw it for Mr. Ford?”
“Certainly,” and taking the paper, Beatrice rapid-
ly sketched an indication of Orienta, in her flowing
robe.
"That's just right,” said Natalie, "but the folds
were fuller, I think.”
“Never mind,” said Ford, "this will do. I only
wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked,".


Ford's Day
271
and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them
into a waste basket.
The talk drifted to the house and its architecture.
“The whole house is a gem,” said Alan Ford, en-
thusiastically, “but the staircase is a marvel. No-
where in this country have I seen its equal. Your
husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner ?"
"For years. He took great pride in building this
house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece.”
“Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of
it? I should like to see them. Architecture is one
of my hobbies.”
"No, I haven't the plans, Mr. Ford.”
“Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with
the title deeds.' Have you them, Mrs. Stannard ?"
“No, we never had them. I never thought about
them."
"Doubtless they are among Mr. Stannard's be-
longings. They must have been given to him. It
doesn't matter. I oughtn't to take time to look at
them, anyway. But one thing I do want to see,
and that is the picture of Mrs. Faulkner that Mr.
Stannard was engaged on at the time of his death.
I'm told it is an example of his best work. May
I have a glimpse of it?!!
Beatrice Faulkner looked a little flattered at this
request, but she said only, “Certainly, Mr. Ford. It
is in the studio.”


274
Faulkner's Folly
Stannard could return to earth and manifest itself
in any way, it would prove-
"Prove what?" asked Mrs. Faulkner, as the de-
tective paused.
"Well, I may be foolish, but it would seem to me
to prove that he wanted us to stop these investiga-
tions and let the matter remain a mystery.”
"You really think that!" exclaimed Bobsy, as his
estimation of Alan Ford's genius for detective work
received a sudden setback.
"I think I agree with Mr. Ford,” said Beatrice,
thoughtfully. "If Eric wanted us to continue our
inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave.”
“Oh, Mr. Ford,” and Natalie gave a little gasp,
"do you really think, then, it was Mr. Stannard's
spirit that I heard in the studio? Do you think I
am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real mani-
festation?”
“Those things are hard to tell, Miss Vernon. But
I am going to ask the privilege of spending to-night
alone in the studio. Then if any demonstration oc-
curs, I shall, as I told you, think there is reason to
believe-
Ford's pause was eloquent of deep feeling.
Truly the man was in earnest, whether he was right
or not.
“May I not stay there with you?" asked Roberts,
a little diffidently.


Ford's Day
275
“No, please. I want to be alone. I shall lock
myself in, and I must ask not to be disturbed in any
way."
"I wish I could stay with you,” and Natalie
sighed. “But I suppose you wouldn't want me to.”
“No, please," said Ford, gently. “I must be
alone."


278
Faulkner's Folly
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 posi-
tion 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 occa-


280
Faulkner's Folly
"You know all?" she said, and her great despair-
ing 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 mo-
ment 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 stu-
dio were high ceiled. The staircase well reached to
the roof. There was no explanation of the discrep-
ancy 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


On the Staircase
281
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 ordi-
nary 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 Bea-
trice 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 wor-
shipped, 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 trou-
bles and couldn't keep it. Eric Stannard bought it,
and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married


On the Staircase
283
11
tice,
emi
and then I resolved to go to Eric, by the secret pas-
sage, 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 tran-
scended 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


286
Faulkner's Folly
lat?"
“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 fas-
ten 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 ap-
peared in the studio to-night—that was a trap,
wasn't it?"
"Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, it was a trap. I knew who-
ever had been playing 'spirit by the use of the pan-
elled 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 detec-
tive. It helps a little to know you are sorry for
mem"
“How did Orienta read the papers? The pocket-
light method ?”
“Yes. She is very clever; I've known her for


On the Staircase
287
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
mnean 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


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Faulkner's Folly
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 etch-
ing needle, exactly like the one that had killed Eric,
and drove it into her own breast, Ford wheeled sud-
denly 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 Bea-
trice's story. She sank down beside the wounded
woman and took the drooping figure in her arms.
"Forgive— ” moaned Beatrice. "Joyce,-for-
give, 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 or-
ders 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?"


On the Staircase
289
"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?”
Timeline
Oh, wat
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 Recep-
tion Room ceiling lower than the studio ceiling, be-
cause 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 conven-
ient 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
a gate


290
Faulkner's Folly
reached here I saw at once that there was a dis-
crepancy in the heights of those two ceilings, and
I worked from that. I was sure the spirit mani-
festations were made possible by human means
working through that concealed space, and I found
I was right. I assumed it was probably Mrs. Faulk-
ner 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, with-
out 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 stu-
dio last night I should drop the case to-day, I
meant because it would be solved. But Mrs. Faulk-
ner thought I would give it up as unsolvable, so she
played ‘spirit' again. I had in my hand a tiny mir-
ror 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


292
Faulkner's Folly
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. Courte-
nay 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' manifes-
tations, 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 mis-
taken 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?”


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Faulkner's Folly
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 hap-
piness, and all united in a sad pity for the beautiful
but misguided woman whose hand wrought the
tragedy of Faulkner's Folly.
THE END