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Title: Face Cards
Date of first publication: 1925
Author: Carolyn Wells (1862-1942)
Date first posted: Sep. 9, 2013
Date last updated: Sep. 9, 2013
Faded Page eBook #20130907

This eBook was produced by: David T. Jones, Paul Ereaut, Al Haines
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




    BY CAROLYN WELLS


    THE OUTLINE OF HUMOR
    THE FOURTEENTH KEY
    CROSS WORD PUZZLE BOOK
    FACE CARDS






    Face Cards

    By
    Carolyn Wells
    Author of "The Fourteenth Key," etc.



    G. P. Putnam's Sons
    New York & London
    The Knickerbocker Press
    1925



    Copyright, 1925
    by
    Carolyn Wells Houghton




    Made in the United States of America





                 CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                         PAGE

        I.--THE KING OF CLUBS          3

       II.--LULIE                     21

      III.--MASKS AND FACES           39

       IV.--MORE MYSTERY              57

        V.--THE CLEARMAN DOOM         76

       VI.--UNITED STATES MAIL        94

      VII.--SCOTT'S QUESTIONS        112

     VIII.--WHERE IS LULIE?          132

       IX.--THE ACCUSATION           150

        X.--PAINTING STONES          168

       XI.--GALLEY WEST              187

      XII.--TWO INVESTIGATORS        206

     XIII.--TONY BARRON              224

      XIV.--HAMILTON CHILDREN        242

       XV.--THE RED-HAIRED GIRL      259

      XVI.--BOBBED HAIR              277

     XVII.--A PERILOUS DESCENT       295

    XVIII.--THE QUEEN OF HEARTS      313






FACE CARDS




CHAPTER I

THE KING OF CLUBS


The constructor and interior decorator had done their work; such scars
to the grounds as piles of unused building material had been removed;
and today, with the new addition and appointments complete and in
order, a few week-end guests were expected at Clearman Court by way of
celebration.

These guests were few, and not entirely easy in mind. House guests had
not been usual at Clearman Court since the master's astounding second
marriage. For one thing Stephen Clearman and his wife rarely cared for
the same people, and just as rarely did the guests at Clearman Court
desire to go again.

They might pretend to be amused at the legend of the Curse of Clearman
Court, yet there was an undeniable spell of Oriental exoticism
saturating the place. One felt it even in the Clearman limousine
that called at the station for one; although it bespoke Detroit or
Indianapolis in every glint of its body, every thrum of its motor,
within it the guest thought of bamboo, teak wood, gongs, idols.

Perhaps the car had a strangely sweet perfume in it. It would not have
been beyond Stephen Clearman to have put some curious scent in the
upholstery just to foster respect for the legend of the Curse. There
was no amusement in the legend for him.

What an extraordinary composite the man was! His cultured side was
evident to the world at large. He was wealthy, educated, basically
intelligent. A cosmopolitan, having traveled and lived in many
countries, he had the poise anywhere he found himself of a notable
man-about-town. In short, like his exclusive kind, he was well-bred,
well-fed, well-read.

He belonged to a great number of clubs, some of which he had himself
organized and most of which had at one time or another called him
President. Worthwhile clubs they were, the great city clubs, the
exclusive country clubs, clubs of a special sport or game and the
wiseacre clubs devoted to lore and research.

To so many of these had he given assistance, both in the way of
prestige and financial support, that he had come to be known by the
title of the King of Clubs. This pleased him and he had his note paper
engraved with a miniature King of Clubs copied from a playing card.

Now the other side of Stephen Clearman, the bizarre side, was known
only to the few house guests who came up from the city to Clearman
Court for week-ends--and to his family and servants, of course.

It was a side of him that scorned civilization, that reveled in the
savage, the barbaric, the primitive.

He claimed, himself, that this odd deflection of his personality was a
birthright, that he inherited it from his forebears. For since the time
long ago when an ancestor of his had traveled in far distant lands, and
had come home with many strange tales and fancies, there had always
been a member of the family who had followed the lead.

It was nearly two centuries since old Dathan Clearman had fared forth
and his wanderings had taken him to islands near New Guinea, where
strange rites and ceremonies prevailed then, even as they do now in
such far lands.

Dathan Clearman had come home, the legend ran, to find that his son had
added to the Connecticut homestead, building a wing here and raising a
roof there, until the house had lost its original symmetry and type.
The stern old New Englander, seething with white rage, cursed his son
in many terrible blasts, disowned him, and sent him away.

As a guardian of the Clearman homestead against further alteration,
Dathan formally and solemnly set up on the manteltree of the great
hall a hideous mask which he had brought home, and which was known in
the savage tribe from whom he obtained it, as the Duk-Duk.

In its native home, the Duk-Duk is the great arbiter of morals, and is
a supreme power, who accuses and punishes at will. So, argued Dathan
Clearman, who was a convert to the heathen religions, the mask of
Duk-Duk will protect my home from further despoiling.

For with the mask went a great curse, a malediction on any descendant
of Dathan, who should add to or take from the building as it stood.
Even so much as the cutting of a window or the addition of an ell,
would be punished by speedy and violent death to the offender.

Ever since, the monstrous, frightful-looking thing had stood where
Dathan had placed it, untouched by any desecrating hands.

Twice in the passing years, however, the curse had been scoffed at, and
the consequences braved. Additions and alterations had been made in the
old house, and in both instances the originator of the improvements had
quickly died--not a natural death. Such was the legend of the Clearman
Curse.

At any rate the future heirs were benefited by the ill-fated changes,
for now the old home stood, a great and noble structure, symmetrical,
harmonious, beautiful--bearing little resemblance to the first
Clearman homestead built so many years ago.

It fronted on a wide terrace, of century old flagstones, through whose
uneven crevices the grass-blades crowded. The view from this terrace
included some of the most picturesque hills and lakes of New England,
and below, down a mile or so of winding road, lay the tiny village
of Valley Falls, quite evidently named with a careful attention to
topographical detail.

The present owner of Clearman Court, the King of Clubs, paced the
terrace in the late June afternoon.

"Yes," he said, as with vigorous step and pocketed hands he strode back
and forth, "the place is just about perfect now. I have it all exactly
as I want it, and all I shall do, from now on, will be in the way of
polishing off and finishing up. Thanks to you, Raynor, for following my
instructions so meticulously. Few architects would have been willing to
obey implicitly. You are a rare type."

"Yes," Jack Raynor grinned, assentingly, "they don't make 'em like me,
often. I'm mighty glad you're pleased and all that, Mr. Clearman, but
I feel I must say that I might have kicked over the traces if I hadn't
agreed with your ideas in my own heart. Now, if you don't drop dead, we
can look upon the whole matter as an overwhelming success."

"Oh, I shan't drop dead. We should never have proceeded if I were not
sure of circumventing old Duk-Duk. I'm immune."

"I do hope so," said a sweet tremulous voice, and Miss Phoebe Clearman
looked up with a gaze of troubled apprehension.

The placid little woman was a physical contrast to her big stalwart
brother, but there was a similarity of feature, and a decided likeness
in their quiet way of speaking, and the never failing correctness of
their manner.

"You see, Mr. Raynor," she turned to the young architect, "Stephen is
unafraid, always,--but he has braved the curse,--the family curse----."

"That's all right, Phoebe," her brother broke in, "don't mull over that
any more. I'm sure Raynor is tired hearing about it."

"No," the architect returned, "not that, for I admit a certain
apprehension. When a curse has made itself felt twice, one can't scoff
at the possibility of a third time."

"But there's no possibility, Jack," his host insisted. "I know more
than those ancestors of mine who fell under the ban. I know how to ward
off the danger, and I shall never suffer the punishment."

"So far, so good," and Raynor shrugged his shoulders. He had no wish to
see Stephen Clearman overtaken by the threatened fate, but he had a
trace of the almost universal fear of the supernatural.

To be sure, the architect's knowledge of the occult was largely derived
from book lore, but just because he had never before run up against
what he called a real, live Curse, he was deeply interested to see how
it worked out--or failed to do so.

If Stephen Clearman carried through, if he suffered no inexplicable
disaster or stroke, then Raynor was ready to believe the stories of the
past were all poppycock. But if Clearman should be mysteriously killed,
then--well, it would give food for thought.

It was hard to connect the idea of death with the big, hearty figure
striding the terrace. Few men showed more brawn and brain; more energy
and vitality than Stephen Clearman. His broad shoulders were square
and firm and his coats hung from them as from a well built rack. At
sixty-three, his graying hair was the only sign of advancing age, and
his impatient will power and hair-trigger intellect were as young as
ever they had been.

The architect of course was an important factor at the week-end
celebration, and he had been permitted to invite a friend of his own,
one Nicky Goring, who was expected on the next train.

Raynor was the son of a college chum of Clearman's and, besides being
a first-rate architect, was an all-round good fellow. If he was a
trifle in love with Clearman's wife, that was merely because she was
the only woman around except the elderly Miss Clearman, and Raynor was
accustomed to feminine worship.

Called Jack of Hearts by his chaffing friends, he did live up to the
title.

He hit it off all right with Stephen Clearman, for in the matter of
planning the changes in the house, their ideas were seldom at variance,
and readily adjusted. Both were diplomatic, so there had been no
friction.

The new building was practically self-contained, being a large wing
that should house only Clearman and his wife. It included bedroom, bath
and living room for each, but these, with their attendant dressing
rooms, halls, balconies and sun porches, made up what almost equalled a
good-sized house.

The plans being perfected and settled upon, the Clearmans had gone
off for a long trip to Eastern lands, and Raynor had pushed the work
through as expeditiously as possible.

He had had occasional slight misgivings whether the curse might not
fall vicariously on him, but nothing untoward had happened, and now the
owner was back to resume the command--and the danger.

Yet who could look for trouble, this lovely, soft June afternoon,
the distant hills quivering under the passing purple shadows, the
glistening lakes coquetting with the darting rays of the setting sun.

And then Carlotta Clearman trailed out from the house. Long, slender
and pointed were all her effects.

Her exquisite face was long and delicate, with a pointed chin and her
long dark eyes were full of hinted possibilities of passion and sorrow.

Yet Carlotta was a merry thing and often kept a whole company amused
with her drolleries.

Her gown, of trailing black tulle, was long and pointed, and on the
points of its draperies dangled jet tassels. Her long jet earrings did
not dangle, but, for the most part, hung quietly, a frame for her pale,
perfect face.

Though she was more than thirty years her husband's junior, they were
congenial in many ways and compatible in all ways,--or, all but one.

He had married her for her beauty, she had married him for his money.
Not a unique instance, but one which had turned out rather better than
might have been expected.

As his passion was for rare antiquities of certain sorts, so hers was
for diamonds. No other gem did she care for; diamonds she adored. And
he had showered them upon her. In all cuttings, of all sizes, but of
only the rarest quality, he had given her the jewels, until she well
deserved the title that so naturally ensued, and was called the Queen
of Diamonds.

Now, her black gown was caught here and there with a few diamond
buckles and a slender string of perfectly matched stones hung round her
throat.

Never did she overdo her ornamentation. Never did she wear too many or
too large ones for the occasion.

Yet they were so much a part of her, that it would have seemed strange
to see her without them. As one of her friends observed, "Carly could
wear a tiara to breakfast, and get away with it!"

She trailed across the terrace and sat herself on a low balustrade,
drawing one knee up and clasping it in her arms with a careless grace.

Her husband came toward her, and she looked up into his face and
smiled, as she asked, "When the old Duk-Duk gets you, will he get me,
too?"

Her air was half serious, half whimsical, and Clearman looked down on
her, his eyes full of admiration.

"I hope to Heaven he will!" he said fervently, "I'll never depart this
life and leave you behind. You're too beautiful!" He lifted her pointed
chin with one forefinger, kissed her lightly on her wistful lips, and
turned away, as his ear caught the advent of a newcomer.

It was Nicky Goring, the friend of Raynor's, an alert, wide-awake
young man, who had caught sight of the marital caress and was faintly
smiling.

Clearman's greeting was hearty and unembarrassed. It would take much to
disturb his poise.

Raynor introduced the visitor, and then tea came, and they all felt
acquainted and friendly at once.

Stephen told briefly of their wanderings in strange countries and among
quaint primitive peoples, and narrated a few instances of tragic or
humorous interest.

"And did you enjoy it all, Mrs. Clearman?" Goring asked.

"Not all," and the long pointed eyes smiled as she turned them to her
husband for an instant. "There were so many places not--well, not so
clean, you see."

"Yes, my wife's housekeeping instincts were sadly shocked by Oriental
squalor," Stephen chuckled. "I'm sure she wanted, more than anything
else, to show those poor, benighted heathen how to use a vacuum
cleaner."

"Indeed, I should," returned Carlotta, with spirit, "but it would have
been wasted on them. The heathen in his blindness, kneels down to wood
and stone, but he wants that wood and stone properly dirty. He wouldn't
worship clean wood and stone."

"My goodness, Carly, is it as bad as that!" exclaimed Phoebe, "I'm glad
I didn't go with you two. How did you ever stand it?"

"It was awful," Carlotta shuddered at the remembrance; "and,
incidentally, it's the dirt that's largely responsible for the
heathen's blindness."

"Oh, child, the hymn doesn't mean that kind of blindness----"

"Well, they have all kinds of blindness,--and all kinds of dirt----"

"For Heaven's sake, Carlotta," Clearman broke in, "do stop talking
about it! You women seem to revel in revolting subjects----"

"Not half so revolting as your old mud masks!" his wife flung back.
"Do tell me _you_ don't like mud masks, either," she turned to Nicky
Goring. "My husband and Mr. Raynor are crazy about them."

"Yes, we eat 'em up," agreed Raynor, watching the play of smile and
frown on Carlotta's lovely face.

"They're not on my _menu_," Goring declared, "and as a matter of fact,
I'm almost entirely unacquainted with them. Are they like birds'-nest
pudding? Do they agree with you, Miss Clearman?"

"They're terrible!" Phoebe said, in her quiet way, that often carried
more weight than vehemence. "They're fearful! But they're not
edible,--you know."

"I say, Goring, aren't you up on the things?" Stephen Clearman shouted.
His boisterousness equalled his sister's placidity. "Well, then, you've
a treat ahead of you! After dinner, I'll show you my collection, and
before the evening is over, you'll know more about masks than you ever
dreamed there was to know."

"Oh, not tonight, dear," his wife begged, her eyes full of pleading;
"Lulie is coming home, and you know how she dislikes the things."

Clearman looked at her, as if he were studying some beautiful but
inanimate object.

"That's a good gown, Carlotta," he said; "those jet points suit you
perfectly."

Then he turned back to Goring and said, as if uninterrupted, "yes,
after dinner I'll initiate you into the fascinating lore and mysteries
of the East."

"Is Miss Clearman coming tonight?" asked Raynor, partly to change the
subject and partly because he wanted to know more about it. "I've never
met her, you know."

"And you nearly missed out on it this time," Phoebe informed him. "Yes,
the child has been visiting friends in the South, and stopped for a
time in New York. She expected to stay there another week, but plans
were changed, and she'll be here for dinner. Bless her! It will be a
joy to have her back."

"What's she like?" asked Raynor, idly, with the freedom of intimacy.

"Like a fair, pale lily," said Miss Clearman. "Like a Burne-Jones
picture, like a Blessed Damosel or a Lily Maid of Astolat."

Stephen Clearman laughed.

"Fine, Phoebe," he exclaimed, "but I can't have my daughter maligned
like that. She's just a sweet, dear, everyday girl,--isn't she,
Carlotta?"

"Yes, dear, but you are both right; Phoebe as to her appearance, you as
to her real self."

"Is she real?" asked Goring. "It doesn't seem as if a young lady
answering to such descriptions could be real."

"She is my daughter," Clearman asserted, with a mock swagger. "So she
must be more or less of a paragon, eh, Carly?"

His second wife looked at him with a quizzical smile.

"Am I supposed to agree to your being a paragon?" she chaffed. "Well,
_I_ certainly think you one."

"Ha," cried the King of Clubs, "that's the thing! All for love and the
world well lost! Now, Carly, since you're so devoted to me, I'll let
you take this rather fascinating Mr. Goring for a stroll in the garden
before dinner. Don't flirt with him."

"Shan't promise," said the Queen of Diamonds, her gems flashing as
she rose and caught the last flickers of the sinking sun. "Come, Mr.
Goring, we have peacocks and a family spectre. I can't promise to show
the spectre, but the peacocks may be on view."

"Never mind the enumerated live stock," Nicky said, following her down
the terrace steps. "Just let's stroll through a rose garden or by a
lily pond. I daresay I shall get enough excitement this evening. Lead
me to some bosky dell where all is peace and quietness. That's my
_métier_, always."

"Really?" and Carlotta turned an inquiring face. "You seem so--so
energetic, so----"

"So fidgety, I suppose you mean. Well, I am. But I am trying to
overcome it, and acquire a supine elegance. My first governess taught
me 'all haste is vulgar,' and though I continually forget it, it comes
back to me now and then."

"What brought it to mind just now?" The tone was chaffing but the long,
dark eyes seemed to demand a serious answer.

"I don't know. Wait, till I run over my sequence of thought--oh,
yes, without doubt,--that was it! I have it! I was impressed by the
word picture Miss Clearman drew of the young lady who is arriving. I
gathered she would not like a fidgety man."

"If opposites are likable, she would. Lulie is the calmest thing in the
world, the most serene, most imperturbable, but, and perhaps for that
very reason, she rather favors more lively types."

"And old Raynor has never seen her?"

"No,--it has so happened that she has never been at home when he was
here. She was brought up in a convent abroad,--that is, after her
mother died. And, lately, she has traveled or visited with friends a
great deal. As you must know, Mr. Goring, a stepmother and stepdaughter
is not always the happiest of relationships. Yet, I think I can say
that Lulie and I get along better in most ways than she does with her
own father."

"Yes, I gather that Mr. Clearman, fine as he is, is not as wax in any
woman's hands."

"He is in mine," Carlotta cried, quickly, as if in some way her vanity
had been touched.

"Oh, well," and Nicky resumed his bantering tone, "if a second wife
can't twist a man round her finger, nobody can."

"True, and if a woman can't wind any man round her finger,--she
isn't----"

"Isn't much of a siren."

"No; and, surely, to be a siren is the first duty of woman?"

"Oh, surely." Nicky was beginning to enjoy himself. "I know you have
Jack Raynor completely under your spell. But, that's not so much of a
feat, for he is, you know, called the Jack of Hearts."

"I won't have my spell belittled like that! As a punishment, I shall
charm you."

"Do, I'll help. By the way, are you all Face Cards up here? Jack tells
me your husband is widely known as the King of Clubs and yourself
as----"

"As the Queen of Diamonds, yes. I love the stones, not colored ones,
only pure, flawless white ones, and large, but not too enormous."

Carlotta spoke as if half to herself. She was running through her
fingers the necklace of small, pure stones, like a chain of light. She
watched it with a rapt look, then suddenly remembering herself, dropped
the chain and turned to him with a slightly abashed smile.

"When you know me better," she said, "you'll know my love for diamonds
is not a pose, it's an innate and ineradicable fetish."

"I didn't think it was a pose," he said, simply. "And if it's a fetish,
as you call it, it's a very beautiful one."

"There is, there must be, I think, a barbaric strain in my nature that
makes diamonds an obsession----"

"Not exactly barbaric,--to me that word connotes glaring colors and
blaring sounds----"

"Not necessarily. But perhaps I mean savage. Anyway, it's some
throwback,--or whatever they call it, that makes my love for diamonds
stronger than any other passion I have ever experienced."

"If necessary, you would steal them--" he whispered, for the mere fun
of leading her on.

"Yes," she whispered back, "or kill for them. Or betray my friends for
them. The most heinous sin would be nothing to me, if it brought me my
treasures."

Again she had picked up her long chain, and was caressing it almost as
a snake charmer might fondle a serpent.

Goring looked at her curiously.

Of course she was fooling. She had already shown herself quite ready to
meet his gayest banter, quite ready to respond with seeming seriousness
to his most absurd chaff.

"We must go in and dress for dinner," she said, in a matter of fact
tone. "Lulie brings a friend with her, and there will be one or two
stray guests."

"And after dinner,--mayn't I come out here with you and see the
peacocks again, instead of seeing the Mudheads?" he said, coaxingly.

She laughed outright.

"I'm glad you liked the peacocks," she said, "but after dinner, you
must obey my husband's behests, whatever they are, or----"

"Or what?"

"Or the Duk-Duk will get you!"

"And you don't want to lose me yet----"

"No, not yet."




CHAPTER II

LULIE


The dinner guests were all assembled when Lulie and her friend appeared
in the drawing-room.

"This is _not_ to make an effective entrance," Lulie declared,
laughingly, "but because I couldn't get Nan ready any sooner. Isn't she
wonderful!"

Lulie Clearman presented her friend as if she were a work of art, and
the pretty girl, with her dark hair and eyes and her flame-colored
frock was an arresting sight. Nan Loftis smiled impartially around,
greeted everybody as she was presented, and finally singled out Jack
Raynor as her quarry, and sidled to him with a plaintive, "Please like
me."

"I do like you," returned the Jack of Hearts, with enthusiasm, but with
an involuntary glance at Lulie herself.

Lulie Clearman, a complete contrast to Nan, was well worth many glances.

She was, as her aunt had said, distinctly of a Burne-Jones type, but so
modernized or rather vivified, that it was like a picture come to life.

Of medium height, slim, graceful and gracious, she was also alert and
perceptive. Her hair was of the true ash blonde, so often seen in
England, so seldom over here. Her eyes can only be described as amber
or beryl or tawny, or any of those hackneyed terms for that peculiar
brown with glistening lights in it.

Her face was pale, with the merest touch of makeup, and she wore a
simple chiffon gown of a deep ivory color, that by its contrast made
her hair almost golden.

"I say, but you know how to dress!" was Nicky Goring's low-voiced
comment, as they went together to the dining room.

"Praise my clothes, if you like," said Lulie, indifferently, "but don't
tell me how beautiful I am."

"You must be sick and tired of hearing it," he returned, fervently.
"You remind me of that wonderful poem written by somebody or other in
that book about the Queen's Doll House."

"Haven't read it,--what is it?"

"I don't remember it all, but the principal line is: 'I am a Doll
and very beautiful.' I don't know why, exactly, but I think that's a
wonderful line."

"The line is all right, but why do you think me a doll?"

"I don't. In fact, I haven't had time to classify you at all yet. But
the line seems to fit you. It has your calm."

"My calm is my pride and delight. I glory in it."

Lulie spoke with a quiet seriousness that made Goring look at her twice
to see if she were chaffing him. And still he didn't know. Nor care. He
adored girls, and gratefully accepted each new one as Heaven's last,
best gift.

"Your friend is pretty, too," he said, conversationally.

"Yes," Lulie agreed, amused at this casual wag, and accepting his
structural plans for talk. "But she is muffin-minded."

"She would be. Sports girl, in civilian dress, isn't she?"

"Yes. You knew it from her muscles."

"And from her face. She has that eager, prize-is-set-before-us look."

"Yes, she has," and Lulie looked appraisingly at Nan. "Tell me about
Mr. Raynor. He seems charming."

"Oh, he is. He is Prince Charming and Jack of Hearts and Paris and
Apollo and all the gods at once."

"Shall I adore him?"

"Of course. Every girl does."

"The man that all are praising is not the man for me!"

"Good! Take me, then. Nobody praises me, though I richly deserve it. I
say, after dinner your father is going to take us to his study, and
show us Mudheads,--or something."

"Well?"

"Well, they don't interest me. I asked Mrs. Clearman to go strolling in
the moonlight with me instead, but she refused. Won't you go?"

"Not if Dad orders otherwise. He's King of the Home as well as of
Clubs."

"What a tyrant! And you put up with it?"

"Hug my chains. I adore Dad. Except----"

"Except when? But I've no right to ask."

"No, you've no right to ask."

"Tell me about this Mudhead complex. What's it all about?"

"You'll get enough of that after dinner. Let's have fun now."

So they did. Goring was quick-witted and his type of wit pleased Lulie,
who met him halfway in his jesting.

But when, dinner over, Stephen Clearman decreed an adjournment to his
study, none was brave enough to demur.

The great room was a museum, and its curios and treasures were of
surpassing interest, even to uneducated observers.

There were collections of fearsome looking death-dealing instruments,
daggers and swords of various centuries and various countries. There
was armor and there were battle flags, as well as more peaceful effects
of musical instruments and curious carved chests and cabinets.

But most important of all was the great collection of masks, and these,
a novelty to most of the audience, interested them more than the curios
more frequently seen.

They were, for the most part, hideous, monstrous faces, which,
though repulsive to look at, held the attention by a sort of leering
fascination.

"Now, don't think," Clearman was saying, "that these are merely a lot
of junk. On the contrary, they are a power, and they may be a menace, a
foe.

"The mask," Clearman began to take on his professorial manner,
"is nearly as old as humanity itself. The first mask, that of the
aborigine, was, of course, merely paint, as--" he smiled as he glanced
round at the women's faces, "as it is now. But rapidly the cult or
habit progressed and masks were made of wood, of wax, of _papier maché_
and even of clay."

"Did people really wear them?" asked Goring, interested in spite of
himself.

"They did and they do. In Australia, in New Guinea, in South America,
New Mexico, Alaska, in many countries, the mask is still in use----"

"But what is its use?" interrupted Nan Loftis. Her eyes were sparkling
with interest; she waited breathlessly for information.

"Its main, its primitive use," Clearman went on, "is the propitiation
or coercion of spirits."

"I knew there was a catch somewhere!" exclaimed the irrepressible
Nicky. "Nothing but a Spiritualist lecture!"

"Not a bit of it," declared Clearman, good-naturedly. "Not spirits, as
the mediums and their dupes regard spooks. Nothing of that sort. It's
magic, the real old dyed-in-the-wool magic. Primitive man, and some
of his descendants today, believe in the strongest and most powerful
spirits. These, whether good or bad spirits, can, they believe, be
persuaded or coerced, frightened or propitiated by masks----"

"Worn?" put in Nan.

"Sometimes worn, sometimes carried----"

"I didn't know they were ever carried," Carlotta said, musingly. She,
of course, was more or less familiar with the subject in hand.

"Yes," her husband said, a little impatiently, "of course they are
sometimes carried, but more often worn. It is a protection. Then
again, it is merely an ornament or decoration, to be worn at funerals,
weddings or other ceremonies."

"Not much decoration about that one!" declared the frivolous Nicky.
"Is that their idea of ornamentation?"

He indicated a particularly hideous face that leered and glared in a
diabolical way.

"That is a funeral mask of the Alaskan Indians. They dance in it at the
burial, and then leave it at the grave for the dead man to use in the
other world, as a protection against demons."

"Hard on the demons," Nicky murmured.

"Yes, you know they visit the grave twice a day,--I mean, the demons
do,--to pester the poor corpse."

"Hard on the corpse, then, too. Here's a really lovely one!"

"Yes, that's a ghost mask, and beautifully ornamented. That's to charm
the dead man back to earth again."

"Does he come?"

"They say he does, and brings presents to his family. Now, here's a
skull mask. This is Toltec, and is used to denote the impending murder
of a chief. This merry event is gracefully described as a 'going-away,'
and this mosaic mask is hung on his ancestor-post by way of recompense."

"It's got me!" said Goring, seriously. "I'm going to study up these
matters. I'm already interested--I mean it."

"You can't help being, once you start in," Clearman told him. "Now,
here's the Mudhead. Perhaps the plainest, least melodramatic of the
whole bunch in appearance, but one of the most feared. The Zuni Indians
pray to him, and watch their step mighty carefully, lest they offend
him."

"How did you come to take up this study, Mr. Clearman?" Nan asked,
curiously.

"Because my ancestor, Dathan Clearman, did before me. He was a traveler
and an antiquarian, and he started this collection. But he believed in
the Magic himself, at least, I think he did. I have his old diary, and
it seems incredible, I know, but he was nearly as much under the spell
of these things as the savages themselves."

"And by the way, dear," said Carlotta, "I found a few more leaves of
that old diary today."

"You did! Where are they?"

"I'll give them to you later. If I give them now, you'll immerse
yourself, and be lost to us all." She smiled at him, and he resigned
himself to her decree with a whimsical scowl of impatience.

"And have you no belief in the Magic part of it?" asked Jack Raynor,
looking at the King of Clubs a little quizzically.

Clearman reddened a bit, then laughed outright.

"I may as well confess," he said. "I don't think I really believe in
the whole confounded business, but I've studied and pored over it so
much, that--well, I began it in fun,--but now, I----"

"I'll tell you what he does!" cried Lulie, laughing. "He sits here in
this room for an hour every morning, with a mask on----"

"What!" cried several voices at once.

"Yes, he does," averred the girl. "He locks himself in, but while he is
in here alone, he wears one of the masks!"

Clearman looked a little sheepish at first, then his face grew stern,
and he said:

"Well, I suppose I've a right to. If it's superstition, many a man has
a pet foible of that sort. If it's mere silliness, that surely is no
crime."

"No, it isn't," cried Carlotta, with quick sympathy. "Lots of men carry
a rabbit's foot, or won't walk under a ladder, or sit at table with
thirteen! Stephen has as good a right to a bit of superstition as the
next man!"

"Of course he has," agreed Raynor, promptly. "But, I say, Mr. Clearman,
_is_ it superstition?"

Clearman smiled. "I think it's habit," he said; "that, and tradition.
My ancestor, Dathan, firmly believed in it all. Other ancestors have
dabbled in it more or less, and, so far as I am concerned, I'm--amused
by it."

"Only amused?" asked his sister Phoebe.

"Well, now, look here," Clearman spoke as if cornered, "these heathen
people wear a mask to frighten away evil spirits, or to propitiate or
coerce them to good. If I choose to wear a mask for those same reasons,
does it harm anyone? Does it matter to anyone? My wife likes diamonds,
my daughter likes to paint her face, my sister likes to tell her
fortune by cards or tea-leaves. Harmless foibles, all of them. May I
not be allowed to ride my hobby, too?"

"Of course you can, Dad," Lulie cried, gaily, "of course you shall, of
course you do! Doesn't he, West?"

She spoke to West, the valet and body servant of Stephen Clearman. West
had been long in the household, and by reason of having held various
consecutive and even simultaneous offices was more or less a privileged
character. Yet he had never presumed on the favors shown him, and
merely answered, "Yes, Miss Lulie," in a monotone.

West was a character by reason of his very lack of characteristics. A
perfect valet, he could also be a chauffeur, a gardener, a handy man or
perform whatever office might be suddenly demanded, yet in pursuit of
each calling he was the same colorless, unobtrusive servant.

He rejoiced in the rather impressive cognomen of Gallagher West, but
Clearman had long ago condensed this to Galley West, and the name stuck.

"You see," Lulie went on, for she loved to rag her father, "Dad sits
in here of a morning, writing letters, and wearing,--yes, actually
_wearing_ one of these heathenish contraptions,--sometimes one,
sometimes another,--I suppose according to what sort of evil spirit he
wants to exorcise."

"Or in an endeavor to keep away from you certain evil spirits that
would be justified in tormenting you!" her father retorted, pretending
to scowl at her.

"And where is the Duk-Duk?" asked Nicky, not knowing if the sparring
might not get serious.

"The old original that my ancestor brought is down in the hall," said
Clearman, "but here is another, which I brought home myself. It is
equally authentic, of course, as a heathen mask, but it hasn't the
power of the family curse, as the one downstairs has."

"You believe in that curse, then?" asked Goring.

"Not so you'd notice it!" Stephen declared. "Do you suppose I'd have
built this wing if I had? That is,--don't misunderstand me,--I believe
old Dathan cursed us all right enough, and I believe he expected to see
that his Duk-Duk carried out the specifications of his decree, but--and
here's the little joker, I have learned enough of this sort of thing to
know how to circumvent and render harmless----"

"Oh, come now, Stephen," said his wife, laughing, "really, we've all
had quite enough of this sort of thing. If anyone wants to stay here
with you and delve deeper into these mysteries, let him, the rest of
us are going down to the hall for a dance."

"Good!" cried Nan Loftis, "I'm glad of it. I love this old, wise lore,
but--well, a little of it goes a long way with me. Let's dance tonight,
and duck ducks tomorrow."

Most of the party agreed and trooped off to descend the great staircase
to the hall.

Nicky Goring tarried a while with Clearman and his sister, as the rest
disappeared.

"Don't mistake my interest for curiosity," Nicky said, "but do you
really do this mask-wearing business? I ask you as man to man, not as
an idle question."

"As man to man, Goring, I do. If I am a fool, it is a harmless
foolishness. And if, as may be," his eyes seemed to look far away,
"there is anything in it, it may save me--may have already saved me
from tragedy."

"You are in earnest?" Nicky was astonished. He had fully expected
Clearman to say it was all a jest.

"Very much so, and not at all ashamed of it."

"Put one on," Nicky begged, "let me see the darned thing in action."

Without hesitation, the King of Clubs selected a terrible affair of
carved and painted wood, with fearful protruding eyes and a malignant
gaping mouth. It was, it seemed, of light weight and easy adjustment,
and apparently not at all uncomfortable, yet on Clearman the effect was
so frightful as to make even the practical Nicky quiver.

Miss Phoebe surveyed her brother critically.

"That's from Ceylon," she said; "that's the mask that cures leprosy.
The doctor puts it on and dances around the patient three times a day."

"Right!" said Clearman as he took the mask off. "Good for you, Phoebe!
You know a heap!"

"As I said," Goring went on, "I'm intrigued. I'm going to study up
these things. May I look in this room tomorrow?"

"If I'm here," Stephen replied. "No one may come in here in my absence."

"Right-o! Now I'll run down for a dance, but I fear I'll make a savage
dance of it! I shall, in my mind, anyway."

He went off, and the brother and sister sat alone amidst the grinning,
scowling faces of the painted primitives.

"I don't like it, Stephen," she said, at last.

"Don't like what, sister?"

"Oh, the whole thing,--this new building of yours, this idea of yours
to ward off the curse by a mask, for I know that's why you wear it an
hour every day."

"Oh, come now, Phoebe, don't be foolish. The curse hasn't struck yet!"

"No,--but in the other two cases it delayed for a time----"

"All right, never cross a curse until you come to it. Now, skittle, old
lady, I'm going to read."

"Aren't you going downstairs?"

"Not unless I have to. Not unless Carlotta demands my presence. Did you
hear what that rascal said? That she has found some more leaves of old
Dathan's journal?"

"Where did she find them?"

"I don't know. I suppose up in that old loft, where she's everlastingly
rooting, in hopes she can find something that will please me."

"Has she ever?"

"Lord, yes. She unearthed several old letters and documents of more or
less interest, genealogically. She's a brick, you know, Phoebe. Think
how she traveled with me all through those heathen places, when she
hated them and was just longing to get to Paris and civilization once
more."

"Yes, she's a good wife to you, dear. Are you getting her some more
diamonds?"

"No, the child has enough for the present. How beautiful she looks
tonight!"

"Yes, and Raynor thinks so, too."

"Raynor may think what he likes. I trust my Carlotta implicitly."

"She's a good woman, Stephen. But very different from Lulie's mother."

"I should say so! Lulie's mother was a saint, Carlotta is a siren. Run
off, now, Phoebe, I want to read."

Miss Clearman went off obediently, and the King of Clubs became so
absorbed in his books that he thought of nothing else until a laughing
voice cried:

"Well, old bookworm! Going to read all night?"

Two soft arms went round his neck, and the lovely woman he had called a
siren made good her claim to the title.

"Where are those leaves of the journal?" he asked, ignoring her caress.

"I'll get them--want them now?"

"Yes, of course. Why didn't you leave them for me before you went
downstairs?"

"Forgot it. Kiss me--don't be a Mudhead!"

"Bring me the papers, then I'll kiss you."

The papers were brought, a kiss was given with a somewhat preoccupied
air, and Stephen Clearman settled down to the examination of the new
find.

Carlotta went to her room and went to bed. The others had all retired,
and save for the study of the master of the house, the place was in
darkness.

Servants had put out the corridor lights and no sound was heard for an
hour or more.

Then there rose a scream, a loud shriek from somewhere, that was
audible all over the still house.

It seemed to come from the other wing, the part of the house opposite
the new addition.

Clearman jumped from his books and flung wide his study door. Almost
simultaneously, Carlotta appeared in her door, slipping into a kimono
as she moved. Behind her stood, hovering, her maid, Violet, a tall,
slender negress, who, looking scared herself, kept close guard on her
mistress.

"What is it, Stephen? Who is it?" Carlotta asked, but Clearman was
already striding along the corridor. He flashed on lights as he went,
and at last came to his sister's room.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed in a state of collapse. A wrap
had been hastily flung round her shoulders, and she was shivering with
fear and sobbing hysterically.

"I saw it, Stephen!" she cried, as he sat beside her and put his arm
round her.

"Saw what, Phoebe? Saw what, dear?"

"The Skull mask! Oh, Stephen, it is the warning! Oh, my boy, the curse
is about to fall!"

"Phoebe, stop! Pull yourself together! You are disturbing the whole
house. You have had a terrible nightmare, I'm afraid. Go back to bed,
dear--Shall I send Violet to you?"

Violet was the inappropriate name of Carlotta's gaunt negro woman.
Phoebe was not inclined to have a maid of her own, being of a certain
old-fashioned type; she preferred to do for herself.

"Violet? Nonsense. And it was not a nightmare, Stephen. I was wakeful,
and so I wandered about, as I often do, when I can't sleep. And I
stepped out into the hall, and there it was moving slowly along, high
in the air--a head without a body--a mask--nothing else, just the
terrible, dreadful Skull mask! Oh, Stephen, the curse will get you--it
_will_!"

"Hush, Phoebe, you are hysterical. No, it won't--come in, Carlotta--see
if you can help quiet her."

Carlotta came, followed at a respectful distance by Violet, but Phoebe
wanted no such comforting.

"Go to bed, Carlotta," she ordered. "Violet, put your mistress back to
bed. Stephen, you can go too. Nothing can be done about it. I tell you
I _saw_ that thing. I had no nightmare, it was not imagination. I saw
it----"

"How could you see it?" asked Carlotta. "Wasn't the hall dark?"

"Yes, but the thing shone--_shone_, I tell you. Oh, Steve," and she
wept in her brother's arms.

"There, there, Phoebe," he soothed her. "Forget it, dear. As you say,
we can't do anything about it. Go back to bed, won't you?"

"Of course I will. What else is there to do? Go back to your room,
Lulie," for the girl's fair head was peeping into the hall.

Other doors had opened a little and closed again. Phoebe Clearman was
as good as her word and went back to her bed.




CHAPTER III

MASKS AND FACES


The next morning was Sunday, but breakfast was served at nine o'clock,
as on other days. There was no compulsion but the family usually
drifted to the dining room soon after the hour.

All except Lulie. She was the only one who cared to sleep late, and she
was never disturbed until she chose to make her appearance. None of the
women at Clearman Court cared to breakfast in her room, so the morning
meal was generally rather a pleasant function.

This morning when Stephen and Carlotta came down, they found Phoebe and
Jack Raynor already there and eagerly discussing the strange episode of
the night before.

Almost immediately Nicky Goring appeared, and then Nan Loftis came
flying in, her carefully dressed bobbed hair shaking as she excitedly
flung herself into a chair.

"What was it?" she cried. "Oh, Miss Phoebe, what did you see?"

"How do you know I saw anything?" demanded the spinster, looking
sharply at Nan.

"Because we heard you. I'm in the next room to Lulie, and she stuck
her head out of the door, but she wouldn't let me stick mine out, she
ordered me back to bed, and--you know what Lulie is!"

"What is she?" asked Raynor, with interest.

"Why, she's a--oh, a power,--a compeller,--how can I put it strongly
enough? I mean, when she tells you to do a thing, why--you just do it,
that's all."

"Yours not to reason why----"

"Yes, just exactly that. And she doesn't raise her voice, or speak
sternly or anything like that. It's sort of like 'England expects,' and
you just do as she says, without thinking about it. She's always like
that. At school, we all obeyed her unquestioningly."

"You loved her?" Jack asked.

"Oh, of course, nobody could help it." Jack nodded assent. "But it was
a love tempered with a sort of----"

"Fear?"

"No--not quite that, but a terrible uncertainty as to what she would
expect next. But, I say, Miss Phoebe, tell us what you saw?"

"Nonsense, Phoebe," put in her brother. "Don't be foolish enough to
recount that nightmare story!"

"It was no nightmare," said Phoebe, doggedly. "I saw what I saw. I'm
no addlepated ninny to think I'm awake when I'm asleep. I was wandering
about, wakeful, you know, and I stepped from my own little hall, out
into the big hall and there was that head, floating high in the air,
luminous, ghastly----"

"Ooh!" screamed Nan, wriggling with half-scared, half-pleased
excitement.

"It's too absurd--" began Stephen, but Carlotta interrupted him. "No,
dear, it isn't absurd. You can't tamper with these mystic things and
not have them come back at you." She spoke gravely. "You've braved the
spirits or demons or whatever they are, and now they're accepting your
challenge. You have invoked the curse,----"

She stopped, her eyes full of horror at the thoughts which came
flocking to her brain.

"What are you talking about?" said Lulie, calmly, as she entered and
took her place at the table.

"About the spook last night," said Nan, with a half hysterical giggle.

"Don't say spook," Clearman said, angrily. "I hate that word!"

"Don't speak to my guest like that, Father." Lulie raised her eyes at
him, and their translucent depths showed a slumbering fire. "Nan shall
call it a spook if she likes. I saw the thing, myself."

"What!" cried two or three voices at once.

"Certainly I did," Lulie was as calm as if speaking of the weather.

"You weren't in the hall," said Carlotta, but Lulie returned.

"I know, but I had just opened my door a moment before and I saw the
thing floating high in the air, just as Aunt Phoebe describes it."

"Who did it?" asked Nicky Goring. "Might as well own up now. It was a
good joke while it lasted, but it's lasted long enough."

"Are you implying it was a practical joke of somebody's?" demanded
Miss Phoebe, with an injured look, as if she resented having her scare
spoiled.

"Exactly, ma'am, you've grasped my meaning perfectly," Nicky responded.
"And I wish the joker would own up, before I get any scareder."

"You're wrong," Phoebe spoke with decision. "It could not have been
anything of that sort, for there was nothing to it but that terrible
head, that frightful Skull mask, moving slowly along toward my
brother's door."

"From where?" asked Raynor, who had been quietly listening.

"I don't know. It didn't seem to be going from one point to
another,--it just--just hovered,--you know."

"Yes," Lulie agreed, "it just wavered,--floated,--as if it were a
disembodied spirit,--and then, it was gone."

"Lulie, hush!" commanded her father, sternly. "You're making all that
up. You didn't see anything of the sort, you know very well. And you're
pretending you did by way of chaffing me. I won't stand it. Stop it, at
once!"

Lulie slowly turned her head, until her gaze rested on Clearman's face.

"Don't you tell me I lie, Dad," she said, and though her tones were
soft and even, there was a glint in her eyes that showed a deep anger.
"It was exactly as I said. I glimpsed it only for a moment, but it was
the Skull mask, and it did float and disappear."

"It did not! It couldn't have done so! The Skull mask is in my study,
where it belongs. Don't you dare to contradict me, you chit! You silly!"

For answer Lulie looked her father full in the face and smiled.

It was a most irritating smile. The sort of smile one would give to
a child or a half-wit. A tolerant, amused smile and with just enough
disdain in it to make Clearman furious. He was accustomed to deference
from his wife and sister and to have this slip of a girl try to put him
in wrong was too much.

"Go to your room!" he stormed, with a maddened look at her.

"Indeed I won't," she said, calmly. "I'm hungry for my breakfast."

"Then I will," Clearman said, with equal calm, and rising,
deliberately, he left the table.

Lulie gave a clear, ringing little laugh.

"Poor old Dad," she said, "I have to teach him his place."

"You were very rude," Carlotta commented.

"I had to be, Carly. Dad and I have always been like that. We have
fearful spats, though we love each other dearly."

"But did you see the spook?" queried Goring.

"Oh, I don't know whether I did or not. I guess so. Anyway, Aunt Phoebe
did, so it must have been there. Didn't you, Auntie?"

"I won't speak to you. You are a wicked girl to talk to your father
like that. Don't speak to me."

Lulie sighed.

"Auntie thinks I'm still a child," she said, looking round on the
company at large. "Carlotta thinks so, too. Dad thinks so. I have to
assert my independence to let them know I've grown up. Will you stand
up for me, Mr. Raynor?"

"Against the world!" Jack declared, fascinated by the smile she gave
him.

Lulie's smiles were rare gifts. Usually her calm face was serious,
almost grave.

"We'll all stand up for you, Lulie," Nan offered, "but you oughtn't----"

Whatever cautionary advice Nan planned to give never left her lips,
for a glance from Lulie stopped it. Surely, thought the two young men,
Lulie Clearman is a power--of some sort!

The maid, coming in with a dish, looked in surprise at Clearman's
vacant chair.

"What is that, Ellen?" Lulie said.

"It's Mr. Clearman's custard, Miss. Shall I leave it here?"

She stood, irresolute, and Lulie said:

"No, give it to me. I'll eat it. I love it."

"Oh, Lulie," Carlotta remonstrated, "your father will want it."

"He can have some more, then. I want this."

"What is it?" asked Nan, curiously, "looks like a dessert."

"It is, almost. It's a cup custard, flavored with bitter almond. It's
Dad's regular morning stunt, instead of a cereal. I don't see why we
don't all have it."

"None for me, thanks," said Nan, sniffing at the delicacy. "I hate that
flavor. I say, who's for tennis? The day is great."

The two young men and the two girls proved to be the answer to that
question and Phoebe and Carlotta drifted out to the terrace.

"I'm sorry Lulie is so quick-tempered," Phoebe said, as if she were
responsible. "But she and her father often have a little flare-up. It
doesn't mean anything."

"I suppose not," the other returned, slowly. "You see, I don't
really know Lulie yet. She seems a strange combination. That gentle
calm,--covering that fiery temper."

"Quick,--scarcely fiery," Phoebe observed. "She gets her calm from him,
her vivacity from her mother."

"Oh well, let it pass, so far as I'm concerned," Carlotta shrugged her
shoulders. "Of course her father can take care of himself. Tell me
about the--the apparition, Phoebe. What did you think you saw?"

"Don't put it that way, Carlotta. I did see a mask,--I know them, you
know, and it _was_ the Skull mask. That portends death. It means what
they call a 'going-away' and it is meant for my brother."

"Don't be so absurd----"

"It isn't absurd. As you know he dared the curse, and the curse will
get him. Within a few days my brother will be dead."

"Phoebe Clearman, stop! You give me the shivers! I won't listen to such
stuff."

"You don't know the masks, and I do. I've studied them--it's surprising
how little you know about them, definitely."

"No, I don't care for that sort of learning, that's all. Stephen
often tells me about them, but I stop him, or--go to sleep. I have no
interest in them, and of course, no belief."

"Yet you hunt in the loft for old papers."

"Oh, yes, because he is so pleased when I find any. He is, even now, I
suppose, poring over those pages I found yesterday. Oh, my goodness!"

"What?"

"I just remembered. I merely glanced over the old writing myself, but
it was all about the appearance of a mask and the death that followed!"
Carlotta looked aghast. "I wish I hadn't given them to him. It will get
him all stirred up!"

"No, it won't. He says he can get around the mask demons----"

"And so he can! It's all rubbish, Phoebe. You know very well,
there's no truth in it. Those old Clearmans died by accident or
coincidence,--not by the sinister influence of a mask or a curse--and
as soon as it's twelve o'clock, I'm going to see what he says about it
all."

It was Clearman's invariable rule to shut himself into his study,
behind locked doors, every morning from eleven to twelve, and only
the most vitally important reason was sufficient to allow of his
disturbance.

What he did was no secret; he usually wrote letters, read, studied his
heathen lore or perhaps amused himself with a lighter book, but that
hour was sacred to his solitude.

In case of an urgent message or letter to be sent, he might summon West
to take it for him, and it was on such occasions that West had seen his
master wearing one of the grotesque masks.

At first it had startled and frightened the man. But now, accustomed to
it, Galley West was no more afraid of the masks than they were afraid
of him.

Today, Clearman sat absorbed in the leaves of the diary which Carlotta
had found.

It was a very old diary, of a long ago Clearman, and had lost its
binding and many of its leaves.

Occasionally a stray page of it came to light, or a page or two of
other writing, a letter or a document; and whenever Carlotta, by
diligent grubbing among the old archives found any such thing, it was
welcomed warmly by her husband and not infrequently was rewarded by a
gift of diamonds. Probably she would have been given the gems anyway.

But diamonds had been less frequent of late. For Clearman had a new use
for funds in a plan in mind that was to provide missionary stations for
certain Far Eastern peoples, who, he thought, might be benefited. Not
religious missions, but schools for practical instruction and training
in Domestic Economy and business efficiency.

He had conceived this idea when he and Carlotta had traveled among the
ignorant and benighted people, and together they had talked over and
planned for some means of helping them.

And so, today, when he read his great-great-uncle's diary, and realized
how one long dead Clearman had braved the curse of the house, and had
fallen a victim to it, it gave him pause, and he was forced to bolster
up his belief and conviction that his processes would save him from a
like fate.

Clearman was very superstitious, partly because of inborn tendency that
way and partly because of his travels and sojourns in the hotbeds of
heathen traditions.

His firm belief was that the spirits of good and of evil could be
cajoled or threatened to the extent of changing their plans and designs.

He argued that this belief is innate in the human breast, or why do men
pray for rain, or pray to end a war, or believe themselves miraculously
cured of disease?

But his beliefs took him into the field of demonology, and he believed
with the savages who had taught him, that when he put on a mask, he was
in some way released from his soul and it could do things and perform
deeds that he could not compass in his own identity.

He believed that as he sat there, masked, and attended to his daily
avocations, his soul roamed at will, placating the evil spirits,
circumventing the curse and protecting his life.

He knew he had broken the law of his tribe, he knew he was under the
ban, but he proposed to conquer fate and emerge triumphant.

This state of things had not come about suddenly, but had grown on
him by reason of his long and continued devotion to the study of the
subject, and doubtless, even more by the desire he had to have his way,
and avoid the consequences.

He rang for West, and that functionary appeared.

"Galley West," he said, "here's only one letter this morning, but it
must be dispatched at once. Don't merely put it in the box on the
porch, take it to the post-office yourself, and at once."

"Yes, sir," returned West, looking unmoved on the spectacle of his
master, sitting at his massive carved table desk, garbed in his usual
morning suit, but wearing on his face a hideous totem mask, painted in
glaring colors and showing a demon grin.

Through the large eye holes, Stephen Clearman's eyes looked at West
in normal fashion, and West took the letter and departed; whereupon
Clearman relocked the door and went on with his work.

In the hall, Galley West chanced to pass Violet, Carlotta's maid.

"Has he got it on?" the negress asked in a whisper, rolling her eyes
toward Clearman's closed door, with a look of fear and curiosity
blended.

"Yes," said West, "a terrible one! Looks like this!" and he made a
grimace at the woman with the intent of startling her.

She gave a stifled scream, and West said, crossly, "Don't make that
noise. Don't you know any better than that?"

"Huh?" said Violet, "Whatcha sayin'? Don' you know I'm deef? Speak up,
man!"

But with a further gesture warning her to silence, West took his own
noiseless way down the stairs.

West was a perfectly trained servant, and though Violet well knew the
rules, as she often expressed it, her "deefness" kep' her out of a lot
of house news.

Outside, the young people finished their tennis and then after a short
hobnob on the terrace, broke up into pairs and strolled off.

Raynor corralled Lulie.

"Come on, beautiful doll," he said, "let's hop round the Rose garden."

"I'll hop, but I wish you wouldn't call me a doll."

"You don't understand. I don't mean Doll as the vaudeville songs have
it. I mean, as Goring said, the line that runs,

"'I am a doll, and very beautiful.'"

"Yes, I know; but I can't see the difference."

"There's a great difference. The doll we mean isn't spelled with a
capital."

"How queer you are! I don't understand you."

"You will, though."

"Why?"

"Because I shan't leave you until you do."

"And will you leave me then?"

"That depends on your decision."

"My decision as to what?"

"As to whether you want me to leave you or not. Look here, Lulie, I
may as well tell you at once. I'm in love at first sight. Bowled right
over. Clean gone."

"On Nan?" and Lulie looked calmly inquiring.

"No." Raynor's calm equalled her own. "On your own beautiful self. Are
you in love with any one else?"

"No."

"With me?"

"No."

"No matter. You will be. I suppose I couldn't expect it so soon."

"Is this your regular proceeding with every girl you meet?"

"Nope. Never was in love before in my life."

"But they call you the Jack of Hearts----"

"That's because of my flirting propensities. But here I am, almost
thirty years old, a rising young architect, indeed I may say a risen
young architect, and I vow I never loved a woman before. Do I get you?"

"How do I know? Certainly not, unless I learn to care more for you than
I do now."

"Oh, you will! I'll look out for that. And anyway, I'm still alive! You
didn't kill me for my speech!"

"No, I don't make a practice of killing people. It isn't done."

"Yet you could kill, on occasion."

"Why do you say that?" Lulie looked a little curious.

"Well, some old philosopher said, 'We are all capable of crime, even
the best of us.' So there you are."

"No, that isn't the reason you said it. Just why did you?"

"I'm glad you ask that. I don't want a wife who accepts everything I
say without question. Well, then, I think there's a trace of the killer
in you. You're a little of the Lucrezia Borgia type,----"

"Oh, thank you!"

"A little of the Messalina,----"

"With a touch of Jael and Herodias, I suppose!"

"How quick you are, and what a knowledge of the Scriptures."

"Well, I promise if I do marry you, not to kill you."

"Oh, Lord, I don't care what you do with me, if you'll only marry me!
That's a sort of promise, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, it isn't meant as one. To tell you the truth your proposal
doesn't interest me strangely. You see, you began the wrong way round.
You should have made me love you first, and then ask me to marry you."

"But that's the hackneyed way, the old-fashioned way. Oh, Lulie, do say
yes,--do be engaged to me. It would be such a lark to be engaged on
less than twenty-four hours' acquaintance!"

"Oh, don't be silly! Besides, Carlotta looks on you as her especial
property."

"Mrs. Clearman! What nonsense. Why she's a devoted wife."

"I know it, but devoted wives like to have rising young satellites."

"You're wickeder even than I thought. No wonder your Dad scolds you!"

"Oh, that was nothing. You see, Dad and I are more alike than we seem.
And when the alike sides of our natures collide, the sparks fly, that's
all. But I daren't let him boss me at all, for if I do, he'll boss me
all the time. He's by way of being a bit of a tyrant, you see, and
neither Carly nor I will stand that."

"Mrs. Clearman adores him."

"So do I adore him. He's a wonderful man----"

"Yes, I know he is."

"But some day he and I will have the big clash, and I'm not sure which
one will come off conqueror."

"I know. You will."

"Perhaps not. It will largely depend on the subject of our clash."

"Oh, let me be it! Mr. Clearman isn't a bit fond of me, though he is
satisfied with my work on the house. But you let me ask his permission
to marry you, and you'll have the materials on your hands for the
finest scrap in the world. Will you?"

"But I'm not a bit fond of you, either."

"May I ask you to look me square in the eyes and repeat that?"

Lulie looked at him, but his frank, straightforward eyes, even though
they showed a mocking smile, demanded the truth.

And the truth was that Lulie had a suddenly aroused but very persistent
interest in the Jack of Hearts, though she was far from ready to
acknowledge it.

Calling all her calmness to her aid, she said, in a cold voice:

"This jest has gone quite far enough. Please don't keep it up."

"Admirable!" said Raynor, in a tone of admiration. "I say, I wonder how
you'd look with your hair bobbed."

"I'd look like the very old scratch," opined Miss Clearman.

"I'll bet you wouldn't. I'll bet you'd look fine. It would take off
that Saint Cecilia edge and give you a little more of the human touch.
Try it, won't you?"

"Most certainly not! If you were a landscape gardener instead of an
architect, you'd see that it wouldn't suit me at all."

"Oh, dear, you won't do anything I want today. Will you be more amiable
tomorrow, do you think?"

"Yes, Jack, dear," and though the smile was more than ever mocking, the
voice held such a tender note that Raynor had to clamp down his heart
to keep it from bursting.




CHAPTER IV

MORE MYSTERY


It was after dinner Sunday evening, and they all sat on the terrace.

There was no suggestion of repairing to the study, nor had Goring
carried out his proposed plan of going there through the day to learn
more of the lore of masks and magic.

In fact, the ever effervescent spirits of the waggish Nicky were rather
affected by the general atmosphere of unease that seemed to pervade the
whole party. Reference was not made to the experience of Miss Phoebe
the night before, for Stephen Clearman had made it decidedly evident
that the subject was distasteful to him.

Yet there was no gloom, the talk was light and desultory, and Nicky
hoped by degrees to raise it to gayety. He always felt he could not
breathe among people in a serious or depressed state of mind, and he
fully meant to raise their spirit level, as he expressed it to himself.

"Lulie," said Carlotta, suddenly, "come for a little walk with me in
the garden. I want to consult you about something. Then we'll come back
and see what we can do to entertain our guests."

"Just come back soon and let us look at you,--that is entertainment
enough," Nicky called after them, as the two strolled away together.

"Are we as funny as all that!" retorted Lulie, over her shoulder.

"Everybody's funny," remarked Nan, as the two disappeared in the
shrubbery. "You're funny, of course, Nicky,--in almost a professional
way----"

"Oh, amateur, please!"

"Well, skilled, expert, anyway. Mr. Clearman is awfully funny, with his
masks and such things."

Stephen bowed, with a slight ironical smile.

"You, Miss Phoebe, are delightfully funny, with your quaint, humorous
outlook on life and your original comments."

"Don't skip me," begged Jack Raynor.

"You?" and Nan looked at him meditatively. "You're the funniest thing
in the world--to fall madly in love with a girl you haven't known
twenty-four hours."

"But I have," Raynor looked at his watch. "Nearly twenty-six now. Did
she tell you?" He looked hopefully at her, as if the idea pleased him.

"Tell me? No. She has nothing to tell. But you spread the news abroad.
Your every glance, every look tells your secret to the universe at
large."

"It's no secret," said Raynor, calmly.

"Fiddlesticks!" said Nicky, coming to the aid of his friend's possible
embarrassment. "I've known old Jack of Hearts to fall quicker'n that!
Why, once at Atlantic City----"

"That'll do, Goring. We don't want my life history just now. I say,
Miss Loftis, may we think you're funny, too?"

"Of course," said Nan, "but you must tell me why and in what respects."

To the surprise of all, Stephen Clearman responded.

"You're funny," he said, "and by funny I suppose we all mean unusual
or paradoxical, as one does when referring to human nature,--because
you never get angry. I've been watching you two girls today, and where
my Lulie flares up and loses her temper, Miss Nan merely smiles and
returns a soft answer. And yet Lulie is noted for her calmness----"

"Oh, Mr. Clearman," Nan cried, "I only ignore those digs you mean,
because they're beneath notice. I really can't bother to resent them."

"I know. But they're beneath Lulie's notice, too. Yet she flies off
on a tangent. She's far less patient with me than she used to be.
Sometimes she flies into such a rage, that she almost frightens me."

"Frightens you how, dear?" said his sister, looking anxious.

"Oh, I don't know. I think she'll throw something at me, or stab me in
the dark."

"I told you Mr. Clearman was funny," broke in Nicky, not at all pleased
with the trend of the conversation. "Just think, afraid of a terrible
curse and afraid of his terrible daughter!"

"I'm not afraid of the curse," said Clearman, but he let the rest of
the insinuation stand.

And then Carlotta and Lulie returned. They were laughing softly, as if
at some secret joke.

"Come and defend yourself, Lulie," Raynor said, with an inviting
gesture toward a seat beside him on the wicker lounge. "They're saying
that your father is afraid of you."

"He'd better be!" she returned, laughing, but with a mock ferocious
glare at her father. "If a girl of today can't intimidate her own
father, how can she expect to keep a husband in order?"

"Oh, so you're just trying a 'prentice hand on me?" and Clearman
laughed lightly.

"Something like that," said Lulie, indifferently. "Who wants to go in
and dance?"

"I do," said Carlotta, promptly. "What are you going to do, Stephen?"

"I'm going up to the study--to look over some papers."

"The diary?" she said, a little anxiously.

"No; I've become interested in getting into shape my mission plans. I
think to start with two or three stations as an experiment----"

And then West, who was never far in the background, came, to assist his
master in any way he might.

"There's a funny man, if you like," Nicky said to Nan Loftis, as they
passed into the house. "I don't get that West person at all."

"Whatever does he do for Mr. Clearman,--he isn't an invalid."

"Oh, that part's all right. West is quite as much of a secretary as a
valet. He fetches the books or papers Mr. Clearman wants, and does his
errands and mails his letters and all that, as well as looks after his
clothes and belongings. But he's such a queer personage. So solemn and
automaton-like."

"Aren't proper servants like that?"

"Yes, but different. The butler, now, he's stolid, and unimaginative,
never sees an inch beyond his work. But Galley West is on to
everything. I mean, he watches and listens, though he doesn't seem to.
He's quiet, but deep. He knows all about the masks, and I suspect he
has, on occasion, worn some himself."

"Nicky, your imagination is working over time. And, too, I don't care
if West is a Demon in disguise, he is all right in his part, and it's
none of our business. Come on, let's dance."

Phoebe Clearman stayed to watch the dancing. She loved the rhythmic
motions and the gay music. The music was machine-made, but it served
its purpose and as the partners were uneven, there was always one to
sit and talk to Phoebe.

"I say, Miss Clearman," Nan said, as she came to sit beside her,
"haven't you an extra bed in your dressing room or something? I want
to sleep in your part of the house tonight and see if that thing comes
again. I'd love to see it, and Lulie simply won't let me look out of my
door."

"You don't want to see it, Nan, dear," said the elder lady, gazing
kindly into the sparkling eyes raised to her own. "It isn't a pretty
sight."

"I know, but it's frightfully interesting. And, you don't really think
it portends any--any trouble, do you? Why, those old traditions haunt
lots of houses. And, you know, usually the explanation of the ghost is
a practical joke by somebody with a distorted sense of humor."

"What I saw last night was no practical joke," Phoebe said, speaking
solemnly. "Nobody in this house could contrive to make that fearful
head float round, high up in the air. Nearly up to the ceiling, and
nothing but the head----"

"Just suppose--just for a minute, Miss Phoebe, dear,--that it was a
joke. Couldn't it--I mean, wouldn't it be possible, if somebody had,
say, attached a sort of balloon to the mask, and had held a string----"

"Mercy, no, child! In that case, I should have seen the balloon, the
string and the person holding it. No, Nan, there was nothing like that
going on. I'm no longer young, but my eyesight is as good as ever it
was, except for reading fine print. I saw that face as plainly as I see
yours this minute. It glowed with a soft, rather faint light, and that
showed up clearly the details of the awful face, and I realized at once
that it was the skull mask. You see, I know the different masks and
what they mean."

"But why did it appear to you, Miss Phoebe? You've done nothing to
incur the curse."

"No, but of course, it was merely by chance that I saw it. Had I not
chanced to see it, and give that involuntary cry, it would have gone
straight on into my brother's room----"

"Through closed doors?"

Miss Clearman looked at her tolerantly. "Certainly through closed
doors. If the thing was demoniac, which it was, of course, it could go
through closed doors."

"Ooh! I don't believe I want to see it after all!"

"Of course, you don't. Better not meddle with such things. I'll say
good-night now, and let us all pray that all evil spirits be kept away
from this house."

The little old lady looked pathetic, as her eyes filled with tears and
her voice trembled.

The young people gathered round, and Goring escorted her up to the door
of her own suite.

"Good-night, dear Miss Phoebe," he said. "My prayers are not much good,
but I'll put 'em up for your peace and safety this night."

"I am not in danger," she returned, "but Stephen is. Oh, Stephen is!"
and with these words, almost sobbed out, she left him and closed her
door.

"Rum go!" soliloquized Nicky as he went back downstairs. "Wonder
what is up with the old dame. Superstition or just nervous fear.
Wonder if Clearman's afraid, too. Well, the girls aren't. I think the
superstition business is confined to the brother and sister. They're
really the only blood relations of the old Dathan terror. Except, of
course, Lulie. That girl is afraid of nothing, I believe, not even
her august Dad. Queer household, but interesting enough so far. I'm
inclined to think that Galley West is the real little joker. Dunno
why, but he seems so well fitted for a mysterious _rôle_."

And by that time, Nicky was downstairs, and stepped off the last step
to the time of a gay jazz tune, and at the next step caught Lulie, who
was waiting, in his arms and they danced away.

It was rather late when Carlotta herded them all to the dining room for
a little light supper, and then sent them peremptorily to bed.

"And keep in your rooms," she said. "If the Duk-Duk gets on the rampage
he may not prove so harmless as the skull mask Miss Clearman saw."

Her mocking eyes betokened her own lack of faith in Miss Phoebe's weird
story, though she had never openly expressed a doubt of it.

But an attempt on Nan's part to revive the subject of the mask bore no
result save a further admonition to go at once to bed and stay there.

Carlotta was the last one up, and the house servants were already
locking windows and doors and putting out lights below stairs.

"Good night," she said, her voice a little weary, as she trailed away
toward the new wing, looking over her shoulder with a smiling nod.

And then bedroom doors closed, and soon Clearman Court was again
wrapped in darkness and silence.

Carlotta had been in bed about an hour, when her door softly opened and
a hand lightly touched her shoulder.

She knew at once it was Stephen, and sitting up she whispered, "What is
it?"

"Come," he said, in a voice barely audible, and she obediently left her
bed and stood at his side.

He put an arm round her, and led her noiselessly into the great hall.

There, in the darkness, high in the air, was the Skull Mask,
motionless, faintly glowing, sinister.

She trembled in his protecting arm, and whispered, "Oh, Stephen, what
does it mean?"

"That's what I'm going to find out!" he said. "You stay here," and with
a spring, he rushed toward the mask.

But before he reached it, it had disappeared. Not floating away, not
sinking to the floor, but merely ceasing to exist.

When, in three or four strides he reached the place they had seen it,
it was gone.

Carlotta began to cry from sheer nervousness.

He went quickly back to her, and reproached himself for frightening her.

"But I had to call you," he explained, "to corroborate my story. No one
would have believed it otherwise."

"Will they believe it now!" she asked. "Will they believe me?"

"You saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes--oh, yes!"

"Then why shouldn't they believe you? Carly, perhaps it means I can't
propitiate old Duk-Duk after all."

He spoke grimly, as one who after a long hope begins to sense despair.

"Go to bed, dear," he said. "Call Violet,--where is she?"

"In her room, of course. Probably asleep. I don't need Violet."

"Yes, you do," and Clearman himself rang the maid's bell.

In a few moments Violet came, trying to look wide awake and alert as
she straightened the coverlets on Carlotta's bed.

"I wouldn't have called you, Violet, but Mr. Clearman----"

"Look after your mistress," Stephen said, curtly, as he went back to
his own rooms and shut the communicating door.

"Are you going to say anything about it?" asked Carlotta, as, with her
husband, she descended the stairs at breakfast time next morning.

"Say anything about it? Of course I am! Why not? It's no secret. And
look here, Carly, I know,--mind you, I know it cannot have been
anything like a joke or a trick, done purposely by anybody. Only, when
I tell the story, you watch the faces of all listening, and see if you
detect even the slightest tremor or sign of self-consciousness. Oh, I
know it isn't possible, but"--he added a little lamely,--"but I wish it
might be."

And so, for the second time, the breakfast table was enlivened by what
Nan called a real, live ghost story.

She listened in silence, her eyes big with interest, until Clearman had
finished, then turned to Carlotta for corroboration.

"Yes," she said, "I saw it, too. It was just like that, Nan. Just
as Stephen has described it. But it doesn't mean anything. It was
hallucination, you see. Don't you know how often when you expect to see
a thing, you think you do see it? That's the way all those wonderful
East Indian tricks are done."

"Hypnotism?" asked Nicky, dubiously.

"Well, a sort of self-hypnotism. Sub-conscious, I suppose."

"You mean," Raynor said, "as when you will yourself to wake up at a
certain time in the morning to catch a train. You always do it, you
know. And in this case I suppose you both thought so surely the thing
would appear that you both imagined you saw it."

"Yes," said Carlotta, "that's what I mean. But I don't mind confessing
it scared the wits out of me!"

"I should think it would!" cried Nan. "But I want to see it! I know it
will scare me to death, but I love to be scared. You couldn't have been
really scared, Carly, with Mr. Clearman right there by you."

"I was, though," and Carlotta looked a little abashed. "You see, it
looked so awful----"

Miss Clearman rose from the table and left the room.

"Poor dear," said her brother, "she can't bear to hear the horrid
details repeated. Now, you young people, don't think any more about it.
If it is a supernatural appearance, it certainly is a very innocent and
harmless one. If it is a warning, well--nothing has happened yet, and I
assure you that I, for one, don't think anything untoward will happen.
As I have told you all, the way to manage these things is to fight
fire with fire. If these manifestations are genuine magic, they can be
rendered harmless by other magic,--which I know. And if they are, by
any chance, fakes,--then there is surely no cause for alarm."

"I wish Lulie was down here," said Nan. "May I go for her?"

"No," said Clearman, decidedly. "Nothing upsets our Lulie like being
called in the morning. And I don't want to bring about any of her
tantrums today. I've quite enough demon business on my hands as it
is. She'll be along soon, any way. West, get me another custard. I'll
indulge a little this morning."

"This visiting ghost is getting to be a habit, isn't it?" said Raynor.
"I'm like Nan, I'd like to see it myself. Can't we have an observation
party tonight, Mr. Clearman? Say we agree upon a signal, and whoever
sees the ghost first, shall call the others."

"It isn't a ghost," said Clearman, pettishly. "That word annoys me
almost as much as spook. The appearance of a Skull Mask is a sign of
death, but it is in no sense a ghost or apparition."

"A sign of death!" exclaimed Nan, with horror in her eyes.

"Yes, but remember, I can ward off that death. There is no danger to
me, because I understand just what to do. I can't explain all this to
you in detail, because you haven't enough rudimentary and statistical
information to understand it, but I assure you that I am in no more
immediate danger of death than any one of you--than _any_ one in normal
health and condition."

"I'm mighty glad to hear that," said Nicky Goring.

"You may rest assured," Clearman went on, "that I have no fear. A
poison is harmless if you have a sure antidote. A shot cannot harm the
man who wears a coat of mail. A secret foe cannot overtake you if you
are prepared for him."

"And your ritual, or whatever it is, protects you?" Nicky asked,
greatly interested.

"Yes. As you are so keen on the subject, Goring, I hope you will take
up the study, if not seriously, at least, to a degree. You know masks
are not unknown in the world of today. Secret societies usually affect
the mask, from the Ku Klux Klan down."

"And there are masquerades," put in Nan.

"Yes," Clearman agreed, "and masquerades on a large scale, like Mardi
Gras carnival, and in lesser way, the children on Hallowe'en or
Thanksgiving Day. But those are all piffle compared to the real thing.
Now, the Duk-Duk----"

"Oh, Stephen," Carlotta begged, "don't give us a dissertation now. Mr.
Goring may crave it, but the rest of us don't. Mr. Raynor is bored
stiff, and so are Nan and I."

"Bless my soul, so you are!" and Clearman laughed. "When I get on my
hobby, I suppose I'm a regular nuisance!"

"Never that," and his wife smiled at him, "but your hobby needs
curbing. Now, Nan, I'm going to do some intensive housekeeping for a
while, then I'll play tennis with you until Lulie comes down. She'll be
along shortly."

"And until the game is called, I'm going, if I may, with Mr. Clearman
to stalk the festive mask," said Nicky, with an inquiring glance at
Clearman.

"Certainly, glad to have you," was the response, and if it lacked
cordiality, Goring failed to notice it.

The two men went off to the study, and Raynor observed, "Nicky oughtn't
to push himself in like that. Mr. Clearman doesn't want him. As a
matter of fact he wants me this morning. We have to settle up a few
matters about the contracts and estimates."

"Give him a half hour with Nicky," suggested Carlotta, "and then take
half an hour yourself. It's ten now, and you know Mr. Clearman won't
see anybody between eleven and twelve."

"Do you never speak to him during the sacred hour?" asked Nan,
wonderingly.

"Oh, yes, if it's really necessary. But it seldom is. West sometimes
goes in and out, but only if rung for. You know Steve wears a mask
during that hour."

"Yes, I know," said Nan. "I think the man is a little touched on that
subject."

"If you mean his brain is really affected, you're dead wrong," Carlotta
defended her husband. "He has a hobby, but it's nothing more than that.
As some men have a hobby for sport or for business, or a religious
mania."

"That's what it is most like," observed Raynor, "a religious mania.
It doesn't matter that it includes heathen religions, instead of the
Christian beliefs, it's a mania all the same."

"Yes," Carlotta was forced to agree, "yes, you're right."

She went off to consult with the cook, and Nan and Raynor drifted out
to the garden.

"Can't I amuse you until your innamorata puts in an appearance?" the
girl said, smiling at the Jack of Hearts.

"Yes, indeed, if you'll let me talk about her. Which is her window?"

"Come, sit in this arbor,--there, now you can see them. The three just
above the _porte-cochère_. Perhaps she'll peep out in a minute."

"Does she sleep all the morning, or does she putter about her dressing
room?"

Nan laughed. "Aren't you a little intrusive? No? Well, she does both."

"You don't mean she putters in her sleep?"

"Oh, no, not both at the same time. But when she has nothing better to
do she fusses about her rooms. All girls do."

"Yes, I know. I have three sisters,--born putterers."

"But usually Lulie is downstairs fairly early when there are guests.
Especially, guests she likes. Oh, I have it! She's dawdling on purpose
to tease you! That's a good sign, isn't it?"

"I don't care about signs, I'll get that girl signs or no signs. I say,
you're awfully good to let me rave on like this----"

The raving was interrupted by Nicky Goring who came strolling toward
them.

"Fired," he explained, briefly. "The old chap was pretty much on edge
about the warning or whatever it was that appeared last night, and
he was in no mood to give First Lessons in Maskology to an inquiring
neophyte. And he said to tell you, Jack, that he'd postpone that talk
with you until after luncheon."

"All right," Raynor agreed. "Did he don his mask before you left?"

"No, but he was just about to do so. He was looking them over,
apparently undecided which one was the proper caper. I say, what a nut
he is!"

"I thought you believed in it all--a little," Nan said.

"Oh, not _believe_ in it--I'm interested as in a new study, that's all."

"Did he lock himself in?"

"Yes, I heard him turn the key. Mrs. Clearman is writing letters,--why
doesn't Lulie come down and play with us?"

"She will soon, I'm sure," said Nan.

"I'm going to throw pebbles at her window," Nicky declared, "it's all
foolishness, her neglecting us like this."

"No, don't," Raynor commanded, as Nicky swept up a handful of gravel
from the path. "Let her alone, let her sleep."

"A dormouse couldn't sleep like that! I don't believe she is sleeping
still," and before Raynor could stop him, the gravel was shot up at
Lulie's window. It clattered against the upper pane, some fell in at
the open lower sash and more rolled back down the roof below.

But there was no response.

"She's in her bath," and Nan nodded her head, sagaciously. "Or else,
sound asleep. Anyway, don't do that again, Nicky, she won't like it."

"Oh, all right, let's go for a little walk in the woods."




CHAPTER V

THE CLEARMAN DOOM


Galley West was a creature of routine.

As methodically as a clock he did the same thing at the same time
every day of his monotonous life. He was tall and thin,--almost
gaunt--physically, with sparse brown hair and a long, lean face, which
might be described as static.

Nicky Goring had once said that West's eyes were "steady by jerks," and
he had meant, which was the truth, that ordinarily the orbs in question
presented a steady, respectful stare, but that on occasion, they jerked
quickly to right or left, only to return to front at once.

In manner West was deferential yet dignified. Stagg, the butler, strove
to copy this masterly combination, but only succeeded in achieving a
velvety cringe that was remindful of Uriah Heep together with certain
qualities of a floorwalker.

At precisely two minutes before twelve, West walked through the great
hall, carrying a tray. Carlotta, from the small writing room off the
hall, glanced up, saw him pass, and resumed her writing.

On West's tray was a cup of bouillon and two biscuits, with which
Stephen Clearman was always regaled at noon.

West allowed himself two minutes for the journey upstairs, as, if he
met anyone in the hall, he might be delayed a few seconds.

He reached the closed door of the study with half a minute to spare.

He stood quietly, scrutinizing the appointments of the tray, and at
twelve o'clock he tapped at the door.

There was no response and he tapped again.

There was still no sound from within and Galley West gave one of his
quick glances to the left and another to the right.

He saw no one and returned at once to the business in hand, which was
to effect an entrance to the study.

But continued rappings brought no summons to enter, and as this state
of things was unique in his experience, West felt obliged to establish
a new order of precedent and he turned the doorknob.

But the door did not open, and the feel of it told him it was locked.

Whereupon, after one more rap, he whispered through the keyhole, his
employer's name.

Still no answer, and as one who stoops to a necessary though
distasteful indignity, West knelt and looked in at the keyhole.

But he could see nothing of importance, and so he stood up again, for
once in his life thoroughly nonplussed.

Not excited, merely bewildered, and with a strange fear tugging at his
nerves.

Setting the tray on a hall table outside the study door, Galley West
went downstairs again.

He went out of the servants' door and straight to the garage, a portion
of which gave housing to such matters as lawn mowers, garden hose and,
incidentally, several ladders.

West selected a long one, and without a word to anybody carried it back
to the house and placed it against the one great window that lighted
Stephen Clearman's study.

This was what is known as a studio window, high and wide, with many
sections and panes.

Some of the top sections were open, as ventilators, and two or three of
the smaller lower sections, which swung on pivots.

Through one of these, having climbed his ladder, West could see
distinctly into the room.

He saw the rather frightful sight of Stephen Clearman sitting at his
large table desk, wearing a mask.

West was familiar with the sight of his master in a mask, but in this
instance the peculiar effect of the ferocious face and the inert body
gave him a shock.

Why was Mr. Clearman sitting like that--as if asleep, or----

West could not get in at the window. The lower panes that opened were
narrow, none more than eight inches wide, and their iron frames were
immovable.

After another look at the still figure, he descended his ladder, and
went into the house.

He found Mrs. Clearman still in the writing room, and asked her if she
would tell him where Miss Phoebe might be.

"What do you want of her?" asked Carlotta, for the inquiry was an
unusual one.

"I'd like to speak to her, if I may," said West, and so strongly did
that peculiar quality of domination show in his manner, that Carlotta
only said:

"I think she is in her own apartments,--you may go up if you like."

So West went upstairs again, and, seeing Violet in the hall, asked her
to arrange that he should have speech with Miss Clearman at once.

The colored woman gave him an inquiring glance, but did his bidding.

And in a moment, West found himself in Miss Phoebe's sitting room.

"I come to you, Madam," he said, "rather than to Mrs. Clearman. The
study door is locked and Mr. Clearman does not answer my knocks. I felt
alarmed, and I fetched a ladder and looked in from the outside. Madam,
he sits at his desk, strangely quiet,--motionless----"

"He is masked?" Phoebe Clearman spoke quietly, but her small old hands
clenched themselves together.

"Yes, Madam."

"He is dead?"

"I think so."

The two speakers could not have seemed more composed if they had been
talking of the weather. But both hearts were beating wildly.

"You have not told Mrs. Clearman?"

"No, Madam, I feared----"

"It is all right." She well knew that what he feared was a violent
hysterical outburst, and he had, rightly, come to her first.

"The situation must be met," said Miss Phoebe, and with a fugitive
gasp, she rose to meet it.

"I--you will tell Mrs. Clearman?" said West.

"Certainly, and at once. She must direct."

They went downstairs, West a careful two steps behind, and found
Carlotta still writing.

"What is going on?" she said, looking up with undisguised curiosity.

"A grave matter," Phoebe said, coming into the little room and sitting
beside her. "Stephen's door is locked, and West can't get in."

Carlotta stared at her sister-in-law.

"It's always locked in the morning," she began, but Phoebe interrupted:

"That's not all; West has looked in at the window and Stephen sits at
his desk--motionless----"

"Asleep?"

"Asleep--or ill--or dead."

Phoebe spoke with a strange effect of callousness, with the air of one
who accepts as a fact an expected calamity.

"Nonsense!" Carlotta rose, "he's only thinking. I'll go and get in."

She ran up the broad staircase and straight to the study door.

"Stephen, Stephen dear,--let me in, please. It's after twelve."

But her soft tones called forth no more response than had West's
knocking.

She turned a white face to Phoebe.

"What is it?" she whispered, "what does it mean?"

"I don't know," said the older woman, "but we must get into that room."

"Yes, yes, of course." And again Carlotta rapped on the door and called
through the keyhole.

"How can you get in?" she said turning to West.

"Only to break in, ma'am."

"Very well, do so then. We must know. You think, don't you, Phoebe,
that he is just absorbed in his work,--or maybe a little cranky and
doesn't want to be disturbed?"

"He never has acted like this before," Miss Clearman said, troubled as
she too called her brother's name.

"No, however angry he might be, he would open the door and tell us so,"
Carlotta declared. "Break in, West. Will you need help?"

"Yes ma'am. I'll get the mechanician."

In a few moments West had disappeared and returned with Rogers, the
mechanician from the garage, who carried a chisel and one or two other
tools.

And at the same time the party of three, returning from their walk in
the woods, entered the hall from the front door.

"What's the matter?" Nicky sang out. "Lost a trunk key?"

"No sir," and West dropped back, as Rogers went on his way. "There's
trouble in the house, sir. Mr. Clearman is locked in his study----"

Then Phoebe called West from upstairs and he hastened away.

"Come on," Nicky said, "if there's trouble we're more likely to be of
help than hindrance. Come on."

He was already halfway upstairs and acting on impulse, and spurred by
Nicky's words, Raynor and Nan followed.

They saw at once the group in front of the study door, and went
straight to them.

"Can I help?" Raynor began but Carlotta motioned him to silence, and
just then Rogers deftly removed a panel of the door.

Quickly, West, standing close by thrust his hand inside and turned the
key in the lock.

Then in silence he opened the door and held it ajar.

Carlotta started to pass through then, terrified, turned back, and
threw herself into Nan's waiting arms.

"Oh,--I can't!" she cried. "Phoebe, you go in first."

"Let me go," and Jack Raynor stepped forward.

Even his strong nerves were shaken at the sight that confronted him.
Clearman lay back in his chair, in a not unnatural position, his hands
gripped the chair-arms and his body seemed relaxed.

But on his head was a fearsome, ferocious-looking mask.

It was one Jack had never before seen, with great staring eyeholes and
an enormous open mouth. The expression was that of a hungry monster,
about to devour anything that came his way. It was painted in crude,
glaring colors and its leering effect was diabolical.

Raynor made a half motion to take the grisly thing off before the
others could see it, but West's voice at his elbow murmured, "Better
not touch him, sir."

Then, for the first time, Raynor sensed real tragedy.

Phoebe was already in the room.

"So it came to him," she said, "just as he thought it would."

"I say," exclaimed Nicky Goring, following in, "seems to me you all
take a lot for granted. How do you know the poor chap is dead?"

"What do you think?" said Raynor, as they stood looking at the still
figure.

"Let's see," and Nicky gently felt for the heart of Stephen Clearman.

"Not beating," he said succinctly, as he withdrew his hand.

"What is there to do?" said Carlotta's voice, plaintively, as she came
nearer the desk. "Let me be, Nicky, I am not afraid of a mask. I've
seen too many of them."

"That's a war mask," said Phoebe, and Nicky thought, with disdain, how
ready she was to display her erudition.

"It is one that works a special and disastrous magic," she went on, but
more as if talking to herself than to another. "And there on his desk,
is the peace mask,--that one of painted bark cloth,--that he meant to
don as soon as this one had done its work. But----"

Phoebe broke off with a sort of wail and sank into an armchair, burying
her face in her hands.

"Something must be done," said Raynor, insistently. "Who shall take
charge, Mrs. Clearman? You oughtn't to and Miss Phoebe can't. Shall I?"

"Oh, please do," begged Carlotta. "Do everything, anything, that is
right and proper. Are you--are you sure----"

"That he is dead? Yes,--there is no doubt about it,--but I'm sure it is
right to send for the doctor."

"Oh, yes, do--do that. I--I can't seem to think--Where's Lulie?"

To be sure--where was Lulie? Not up yet.

"I'll call her," volunteered Nan, though she dreaded the errand.

"Yes, do," said Raynor, suddenly thoughtful. "You're the best one to do
it. Waken her and help her dress----"

He turned to the telephone and Nan went to Lulie's room.

Having called the doctor Raynor began to get his wits together, and
cleared most of the people out of the room.

He begged both Carlotta and Phoebe to go to their rooms and rest, for
they would be subjected to difficult ordeals later on. He bade Violet
attend them both, and he asked Goring to stand by while the doctor made
his inquiries.

But before the doctor arrived, Nan returned to them, wild-eyed and
breathless.

"I can't find Lulie anywhere. Her bed isn't made, but she's gone
somewhere, and nobody knows where."

"Gone on some errand," said Carlotta, indifferently. "She often gets up
and flies off without a word to anybody. But I wish she was here. Of
course, she'll be back soon, she won't stay away long with you young
people here."

Nan looked relieved, but before they could discuss the matter further,
the doctor came.

Doctor Jepson was a young man, alert, talkative, and possessed of what
is known as the superiority complex.

He was firmly convinced that what he didn't know about modern therapy
wasn't worth worrying over.

Of a positive, even aggressive personality, he took the whole matter
into his own charge, even as he stepped across the threshold of the
study.

But his poise was jarred a little by the horrifying sight of the mask,
with its threatening yet grotesque expression.

"What--what--" he began, stopping short and then backing a little.

Raynor began to explain, for though both Carlotta and Phoebe had left
their rooms and were hovering just outside the door, he felt they
should not be drawn into it.

"It was Mr. Clearman's habit to wear a mask at certain times,"--he
said, but Doctor Jepson had already recovered his equanimity, and
strode forward to the desk.

With swift, practised motions he felt the heart and pulse of the dead
man, nodded his corroboration that he was dead, and then raised his
hands to remove the mask, but paused.

"It's a most unusual condition," he said, speaking rapidly, "most
unusual. I've no notion what caused his death,--no notion at all. The
coroner must be called--but first, I must call the constable,--yes, the
village constable----"

"Oh, come now, Doctor Jepson," Raynor said, "surely that is not
necessary. You can discover the cause of death, and if a heart attack
or something equally probable, why subject the family to unnecessary
publicity?"

Jepson looked at the speaker. He was a man who frequently accepted the
advice of other people, but invariably pretended he was acting on his
own initiative. He had never before encountered a mysterious death, and
he had vague ideas of not touching the body till the Coroner came, and
equally vague ideas as to his own proper procedure.

"Take off the mask," ordered Nicky Goring, who was greatly excited.
"You must find out what caused his death--if he is dead! Take off that
mask and find out. If you don't, I will. He may be merely in a state of
coma or unconsciousness----"

"His heart has ceased to beat," said Jepson, oracularly. "But, as I
say, it is necessary to remove this strange headgear to learn the
facts."

The mask, though it looked like iron, was made of _papier maché_, and
was really of very light weight. It was held on by a pair of leather
thongs, tied behind the head.

Somewhat gingerly, Doctor Jepson untied the knot and removed the mask.

The dead man looked astonishingly lifelike.

There was no sign of foul play, no hint of violence of any sort.
Apparently Clearman had died suddenly, while engaged at his desk.

All eyes were fastened on the dead face, save those of Nicky Goring.

His inquisitive mind was already wondering what it all meant. Was it,
could it be, the curse of old Dathan Clearman?

He darted his glance over the desk fittings, the desk itself and the
nearby furniture. All was in order, there was nothing out of place, no
sign of a struggle--but, the doctor was speaking----

"I find no evidence of any sort of attack by another," he said, for
once speaking slowly, and seeming to choose his words carefully. "And
as I know Mr. Clearman's physique, constitution and physical condition
perfectly, having been his physician ever since his return from his
long trip abroad, I can state positively that he had no heart trouble
nor any organic disease or affection that could have induced a sudden
death. Can any one present throw any light on the matter, or give me
any information?"

Nobody volunteered a reply, and there seemed to be a tacit resolve not
to mention the subject of the family curse.

"It's too absurd," Raynor thought to himself. "It isn't possible that
is the explanation of his death, and, anyway, there's no use discussing
it now."

A mere glance passed between Carlotta and Phoebe, but it pledged them
both to silence.

"He was in his usual health this morning?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, sir," West said, as no one else replied. "He ate his usual
breakfast, and pursued his usual routine, sir."

"And his mask? Will someone please explain it?"

Jepson turned from West, as if ignoring the underling, and looked
straight at Raynor, who took up the burden of the tale.

"It will doubtless seem strange to you," he said, "but Mr. Clearman had
a habit of wearing a mask for an hour every morning in the privacy of
his study."

"Whatever for?" exclaimed Jepson, wide-eyed with astonishment.

"It was part of a rite that for some reason commended itself to him,"
Raynor returned, trying to make the matter seem dignified rather than
absurd. "Anyway, he did, and as you have seen, death overtook him this
morning during the time he was masked."

"I see--" Jepson valiantly strove to hide his amazement, and treat the
mask habit as not unusual in his experience. "Many of my patients have
strange manias--er, that is--customs. I daresay Mr. Clearman indulged
in other peculiar habits, connected--er--with his experiments in
mysticism."

"You know of his mysticism, then?" asked Raynor quickly, glad of this
support.

"Oh, yes," Jepson proceeded to draw on his imagination, "he has often
talked to me about it."

"Ah, you know of the Curse, then?" Raynor felt it must come out, and
the sooner the better.

"The Curse?" Jepson dared not prevaricate further. "No," he said,
frankly, "what curse?"

"I prefer that subject shall not be brought up," Phoebe Clearman said,
stepping forward, and taking the floor. "Doctor Jepson, you must
examine my brother's body more thoroughly, and I am sure you will find
a natural cause for his death."

There was something in the peremptory manner of the little old lady
that quelled Jepson's suddenly roused curiosity, and checked the eager
questions that had risen to his lips.

He turned again to the man in the chair, he looked closely into his
eyes, made one or two other tests, and finally sniffed at his lips.

"Ah," he cried, wheeling suddenly round, "prussic acid! Mr. Clearman
has taken poison,--or," he added quickly, "it has been administered to
him! I can smell the unmistakable odor----"

"Pardon me, sir," West's low voice interrupted him. "May I explain that
Mr. Clearman always eats for his breakfast custards strongly flavored
with Bitter Almond extract? May it not be that which you smell? This
morning he ate two."

Jepson glared at him. He resented the blow to his theory.

"Of course that might be," he was forced to admit. "The odor is
lingering,--often remains for hours. Moreover, I see no container
about,----"

"It's out of the question to imagine my brother killing himself," Miss
Phoebe broke in. "He not only had everything to live for, but he was
most fond of life and eagerly looking forward to happiness in his home,
which he had recently had remodeled and refitted. Was it not a stroke
of some sort?"

"There are no indications of a stroke," Jepson rejoined, coldly. "Had
there been, I should have said so at first. I cannot explain it, I'm
afraid. Though young in years, I have had rather wide experience in
sudden deaths, but I have never before been in the presence of what may
be called a mysterious death, which this one certainly is. There are
no symptoms, no reactions that I can discover, that hint at any known
cause. It is as if the man died, by an act of God. I know that phrase
is often used to cover ignorance of cause and effect, but I can think
of nothing else."

It was clear that the doctor's pomposity and conceit had given way.
He had come into the room, prepared to give a striking exhibition of
brilliant diagnosis and erudition. He was baffled, and so thoroughly
baffled, that he was forced to admit it.

His speech, though received without comment, showed its effect on the
faces of several present.

The men preserved, for the most part, immobile expressions, but Phoebe
Clearman sank into a chair and gave way to stifled, subdued weeping.
Carlotta hurried from the room to her own apartments and Violet
followed her closely.

Nan Loftis, stirred beyond all thought of policy or even tact, cried
out: "It was! that's just what it was! the act of _some_ god! Oh, I
never believed in it all, but I do, now!"

"May I inquire exactly what you mean?" said Doctor Jepson, sensing
at once that some knowledge had been withheld from him, and deeply
resenting it.

"I will tell you," Raynor said, seeing that the truth had to come out,
and preferring to tell it himself.

And then, in as few words as possible, he gave to the amazed doctor a
straightforward account of the Clearman ancestor, Dathan, his curse
and his strange mask of the Duk-Duk. He told, briefly, of Stephen
Clearman's foolhardiness in braving this curse, and also of his sojourn
in the Far Eastern tropics and the lore he had learned there, and the
trophies and masks he had brought back with him in the firm conviction
they would preserve his life and safety.




CHAPTER VI

UNITED STATES MAIL


Doctor Jepson listened with an obvious incredulity that turned to scorn
as the narrative proceeded.

"You can't mean that you, a sane, sensible man, believe all that
stuff," he exclaimed, as Raynor neared the end of his story.

"I'm not quite ready to say I believe it,--in fact, I'm ready to say
I don't believe it, if--you can suggest any other explanation of this
strange death. It was no suicide;--I know, none better, how keen Mr.
Clearman was to live. He had many interests, he was deeply in love with
his wife, he was fond of his daughter, and he had a most congenial life
work in his antiquarian research and his study of strange religions and
cults."

The latter part of this seemed to be above the Doctor's head. He had
but a slight notion as to what cults were and he knew practically
nothing of antiquarian research.

But the whole idea floored him. That a man of Raynor's obvious good
sense and rational mind, could even suggest that death came through the
influence of some magic power was almost more than he could believe.

"I don't get it," he said, as Raynor finished. "You think the old curse
is responsible for this mysterious taking-off?"

"I don't say so," Raynor hedged, "but I'm not the doctor. What is your
opinion?"

"I cannot state any," Jepson said, slowly. "Clearly, it cannot be
suicide, as there is no instrument of death anywhere visible, and no
sign or hint of the method employed."

Nicky Goring, who had sat silent, for the most part, listening to the
conversation, now spoke.

"Might it be," he said, slowly, "that the man died from sheer fright? I
mean, suppose he saw an apparition----"

"I don't admit the possibility of an apparition," said the doctor
stubbornly, "but I will agree that he may have thought he saw something
of the sort, and died from fright at the hallucination. Yet, I know
Stephen Clearman, and such a thing is most improbable."

"It's absurd," declared Raynor. "The last thing that would frighten
him would be any sort of a supernatural appearance, whether imagined
or really seen. Why, when he saw one last night, and his wife saw
it, too, the first thing he did was to make a rush for it. He afraid?
Never!"

"That's the way I see it," Jepson agreed. "He had no fear in his
nature, and yet,--if he saw, or thought he saw a terrible, menacing
danger----"

"If he did," Raynor said, quietly, "it was human, not supernatural."

"Murder?" said the doctor, in an awed whisper.

"Ridiculous!" Nicky cried out. "How could that be when the room was
locked so securely that we had to break in to reach him?"

"That's so," said the doctor. "Well, there's only one thing for me to
do. That's to call the constable. Shall I telephone from here?"

There was a telephone on the dead man's desk, and Doctor Jepson used it
to summon Constable Blair.

While waiting for him, the three men were rather silent. Indeed,
there seemed to be nothing to say. Stephen Clearman was dead, there
was no visible or apparent explanation of his death, and the known
circumstances were in the highest degree mysterious.

His wife and sister had gone to their own rooms, but Nan Loftis came
back and seated herself by Nicky.

"I'm wondering about Lulie," she whispered to him. "Where do you
suppose she can be?"

"Doesn't anybody know where she went? The servants or anyone?"

"Nobody seems to know,--but I've only asked Carlotta's maid and West.
They don't know anything about her."

"Oh, well, she'll come back to this horror soon enough. She must have
gone to the village on some errand and been detained."

"It isn't like her," Nan said, musingly.

Constable Blair arrived.

He was a big, burly man with far more brawn than brain.

Nicky looked at him, wondering why constables always looked inefficient.

Moreover, the man was so awed by the strange surroundings in which he
found himself that he could scarce collect what wits he had about him.

"W--what are all those things?" he inquired, in a jerky, scared voice,
as he stared at the masks all about.

And, indeed, to one who had never before been in Stephen Clearman's
study it was an awesome sight.

"Never mind that now," said Jepson, unwilling to take the time to
explain. "Here's a mysterious death. What are you going to do about it?"

But this sudden responsibility thrust upon him had the effect of
frightening the poor man worse than ever.

"Yes, yes," he murmured, rubbing his hands and trying to pull himself
together.

As a matter of fact, Blair had ordinary common sense, though lacking
in experience as to procedure in a case like this.

"You see," broke in Nicky, who was sorry for the man, "Mr. Clearman is
dead, and we don't know what killed him----"

"Don't Doctor Jepson know?" Blair turned on the medical man in reproach.

"No, I don't," the doctor returned. "It's a mysterious death, I tell
you. If I knew what killed him, it wouldn't be mysterious, would it?"

Both men were marking time. Neither knew what to do next, and each
wanted to put it up to the other.

"What's the symptoms,--yes, the symptoms?" Blair inquired, feeling he
had at least struck the right word.

"That's just it,--there aren't any," and Jepson looked at the dead man
with a real resentment.

"What? No symptoms?" Blair hung onto his word.

"No, no more than if he had died by a stroke of lightning. Not so much,
for there is no burn or any sign. It must be--it's got to be heart
failure,--but I happen to know that his heart was as sound as a dollar."

"Hum--hum--bad business," and Constable Blair, beginning to feel a
little more at ease, walked over to the still figure in the chair and
examined it more closely.

"Well, well,--" he said, rather meaninglessly, "Stephen Clearman--well,
well."

"Well, aren't you going to do anything?" cried Nan, for the scene got
on her nerves. "Something ought to be done!"

Her speech startled everybody.

Doctor Jepson looked at her in silent reprimand. Raynor gazed at her
thoughtfully, and Nicky nodded approval.

Galley West, who had stood silently near the door, began to move about
the room, straightening a book here or a paper there, as if unable to
repress his habit of tidying up things.

"Don't touch a thing, you!" Blair thundered at him. "This is a case for
the Coroner. It is a mysterious death, as you say, Doctor Jepson, and
who knows that it ain't murder? Anyhow, it ain't for us to say. The
Coroner must come,--yes, that's what!"

Evidently his slow wits had worked at last and that was his decree. No
one gainsaid him for a moment, and then Nan spoke out:

"Absurd! Jack, don't let them get in the Coroner! Whatever it is, it
isn't murder! How could a murderer get in and out of locked doors?
Who would want to kill Stephen Clearman? A good, a great man! Mr.
Constable, don't you disgrace this innocent household like that!"

Her eyes shone with excitement, her bobbed hair shook, and her voice
rang out clearly, though not raised to a high pitch.

By a sudden trick of memory, Nicky recollected that Lulie had told him
Nan was muffin-minded. He wondered what she meant. Surely, this did not
seem like it. Nor was it like Lulie to malign a friend. He concluded it
was some momentary tiff between them that had made Lulie throw out the
remark, and that she didn't really intend anything mean.

Anyway, Nan was refuting it now.

Constable Blair, disliking to speak sternly to a woman, was debating in
his slow mind how he could put it to her that he had to do his duty to
the state, and that he now saw clearly what that duty was.

"It will have to come, sooner or later, Nan," Nicky said to her. "May
as well make up your mind to it. Isn't that right, Jack?"

Raynor was thoughtful. "Well, Nicky," he said, "it seems right to me,
but I'm sure we ought to ask Mrs. Clearman or Miss Phoebe or both. If
Lulie were here,--and I wish she'd come,--we could ask her things. Yes,
I know Carlotta said for me to take charge of Doctor Jepson's visit and
all that, but I don't want to exceed my authority. And I don't like to
say send for the Coroner----"

"Lord bless you, man," Blair broke in, "you ain't sending for the
Coroner,--I am. It's my bounden duty. Why, I guess I know what a
constable is up against. I ain't never had a case like this before, but
Lord, man, I know how to take care of it."

Blair had come into his own, it seemed, and Doctor Jepson nodded
complete acquiescence.

Then, gaining assurance with each passing moment, Blair ordered
everybody out of the room, and followed them out, locking the door
himself.

The panel that had been removed, left a gaping hole, but no one could
enter without the door key, which Blair put in his pocket.

"I'll stick around here," he said to the doctor. "You can go, but be
where I can find you this afternoon, if Bailey wants you. I daresay
it'll be sorter hard to locate him, but I'll get him somehow."

Turned out of the study, the household was at loose ends.

Nan, having entirely lost her air of bravado, was trembling on the
verge of a nervous burst of tears.

"I want to go to Carlotta,--or I want to see Miss Phoebe,"--she said,
"but I don't know that I ought to intrude. Let's try to find Lulie,
Jack."

"What shall we do, telephone?"

"Yes,--I suppose so. I can't think of anything else to do."

But just then, Carlotta appeared.

"I'm all right," she said, trying to be brave, while a sad little smile
struggled to show itself, "I know all you dear people would say--all
you would do, but I'd rather you wouldn't sympathize too much--it--it
makes me break down----"

"All right, I understand," said Raynor, with true insight. "Brace up,
Carlotta, dear, we'll all help. What are you going to do now?"

For Carlotta, with a steady step and a determined air was going across
the hall and toward a side porch. She held a letter in her hand, and
Nicky realizing that she meant to put it in the mail box on that porch
started up to take it for her.

But Nan drew him back. "Let her alone," she whispered. "Any little
thing she can do, she'd better do."

"Yes," said Raynor, "let's all treat her just as we always do. It's
better for her than expressed sympathy,--just at first, anyway."

Carlotta didn't return immediately, and four or five minutes had
passed, when they heard her voice calling, faintly, "Jack,--oh,
please,--Jack!"

Raynor hastened to the side porch, and there, her face drawn with pain
and anxiety, he saw Carlotta, her hand partly in through the narrow
opening of the iron letter box.

"Oh, Jack," she cried, helplessly, "I can't get my hand out!"

"Why,--what have you done?"

Greatly concerned, Raynor saw Carlotta's right hand firmly caught in
the iron grip of the mail box.

"I--you see,--I tried to get my letter out after I put it in--and my
ring has caught below the edge----"

That was it. Thrusting her hand in the box in an endeavor to retrieve
the letter she had slipped in, she had put her slender, delicate little
hand so far through, that a large diamond ring had caught and her hand
could not be withdrawn.

"A bad business," Raynor said, gently touching the now red and swollen
hand. "Does it hurt?"

"Oh, fearfully! What can we do?"

"Two things," said Raynor, thinking quickly, "get the mechanician to
come and break open the box, or wait for the postman. Isn't he about
due?"

"Yes, in a few moments,--but--I can't stand it. Do get Rogers,--Oh, do!"

By this time, Nan and Goring had come out on the porch.

"You poor dear!" Nan cried. "Oh, Carly, how did you do it? What were
you trying to do? Get a letter back? You ought to know you can't do
that!"

"Yes, I can," Carlotta said, "I've done it before. But I forgot I had
this big ring on. It's caught--oh, it hurts terribly!"

"I say," Nicky put in, "I hate to have you suffer, but you know it's
against the law to break into a letterbox. I don't believe you'd better
let Rogers do that. Surely the postman will be here in a minute----"

"Yes, he's due now," said Nan, and she ran out on the lawn to look for
him. "I see him," she reported, "he's at the next house but one--wait
for him, Carly, dear, he'll get you out all right."

"He can't get me out," moaned Carlotta, "he can only open the little
door in the side of the box."

"Well, he'll take charge of the thing," said Nicky. "I'll have Rogers
standing by."

Goring went off to the garage, and the others waited impatiently until
the postman came.

"Serious matter, ma'am," he said, "you musn't try to get back a letter
after it's posted. What did you want of it?"

"Never mind all that now," cried Nan, angrily. "Can't you see the lady
is suffering agonies? How can we get her hand out?"

"Have to bust the box," said the stolid postman, with little or no
concern on his weatherbeaten face. "Serves her right for interferin'
with the United States Mail. It's agin' the law, I tell you."

"There are circumstances above the law," Nan flared up. "There's been
a sudden death in this house, we are all in a terrible emergency. She
is,--anyone would be excusable for wanting to get back a letter in the
circumstances!"

"Which letter is it?" asked the man, who had unlocked the box and taken
the letters from the lower part.

"Oh, I don't know," Carlotta cried. "Never mind, Nan, I don't want it
now."

"Yes, you do," Nan persisted, "here, this is the one! Isn't it, dear?
This is the one I just saw you bring downstairs. I recognize your
paper----"

"Oh, I don't know,--take them all--" Carlotta said, faintly.

"No, you don't, ma'am," said the callous postman. "Here, you mark this
one, miss, and I'll ask at the post office if it can be returned to the
lady. Why do you want it back, ma'am?"

"What a question!" cried Nan. "After a sudden death, any one might want
to retract a letter----"

"But she just mailed it--" began the man, perplexedly.

"So you did," Nan said; "what do you want it for, Carlotta?"

"I--I forgot to date it. Oh, never mind, take it along--how am I going
to get my hand out of here?"

"Here we are," and Nicky reappeared. "Here's Rogers, he'll take the
box apart, and Mr. Postman can stand by and bear witness that it is a
necessary procedure."

The box was rapidly demolished, and with a dubious expression the
postman watched the performance.

"I believe," Nan said, indignantly, "you'd leave her hand there till
the crack of doom, before you'd lift a finger to free her!"

The postman made no reply, but shouldered his bag and went off,
apparently in deep thought.

As he went out the gate he passed the Coroner and another man coming
in. He gave a start, as if for the first time he had realized that
there was a tragedy in the house, but with a satisfied shake of his
head, he went on smug in the knowledge that he had done only his duty.

He had the letter in his pocket that the lady had wanted to get back,
and at the post office, he would report it all to the higher officials,
and his responsibility would be at an end.

He had but one rule to cover such a point.

A letter in the mail box was the exclusive property of the United
States Mail and no living human being outside the postal authorities
had a right to meddle with it in any way.

In the house, tender hands were ministering to the suffering Carlotta.

Owing to her frantic struggles to disengage her hand from the
letterbox, the fingers were badly swollen and the whole palm and back
scratched and bruised.

No bones were broken, nor did there seem any sprain, but the
lacerations were painful and the aching joints sent a sympathetic
misery up through her whole forearm.

"It was silly of me," she conceded, "but I scarcely know what I'm doing
this morning. Aren't we going to have any luncheon? I'm not hungry,
exactly, but I am faint."

"Yes, it's ready now," Nan said, seeing Stagg hovering in the doorway.

"The Coroner is here," said Raynor, looking thoughtful. "Suppose you
people go on and have lunch, and I'll go up and look after things. I
hate to have the Coroner's inquiry go on with none of us there."

"Won't West do?" asked Carlotta. "And is it what they call an Inquest?"

"No," Nicky told her, for Raynor had already left them, "not that, just
a sort of preliminary inquiry as to the details."

"Oh," and Carlotta shuddered, "all that awful story to be gone over
again?"

"Yes, just that. So there's no necessity for any of us to bother about
it. Jack will look after everything. Now, you girls try to eat some
lunch. You'll need all the physical support you can get."

"Where do you suppose Lulie is?" Nan said, for the twentieth time, as
they sat at table. "Where do you think, Carly?"

"She must have gone to town," said Carlotta, her attention all on her
wounded hand, which was proving refractory as a means of carrying food.

"You poor child," said Nicky, with his ready sympathy. "Shall I feed
you or will you have Violet?"

"Violet, please," and the quiet, well-mannered colored maid came to
wait on her mistress.

So apt and deft was she, that Carlotta was fed and waited upon with
the most unobtrusive efficiency, and Nan felt relieved, for she had
apprehended a lot of inconvenience from the wounded hand.

Upstairs, in the study, the Coroner was holding his inquiry with a
briskness quite in contrast to the uncertain attitudes of Constable
Blair.

The Coroner, whose name was Bailey, was a small, wiry and very alert
person. His eyes were black and little, and they darted quickly about
as he talked or listened, seeming to prefer the latter.

When Raynor arrived, he had heard the main facts from Blair, and was
questioning Galley West, who, for some reason, was in a contrary frame
of mind.

Raynor listened with surprise, for West was usually suave if not genial.

"You often saw Mr. Clearman wearing these masks?" Bailey snapped out.

"Every day," was West's terse answer.

"Could there be anything of a poisonous nature in the mask itself?"
Bailey went on.

"No, sir," West replied.

"How do you know?"

"From observation."

"What do you mean? Be more explicit."

"I have Seen Mr. Clearman wear nearly all of these masks, and no harm
has ever come to him from them."

"But not all?"

"Perhaps not all."

"Have you ever known him to wear this particular one before?" and
Bailey pointed to the mask which had been found on Clearman's face.

"No, sir."

"Then may it not be, that there is some poison in the lining of the
mask which killed its wearer?"

"That is for you to say, sir."

"That's a new idea," said Raynor, meditatively. "I hadn't thought of
that. But it is a matter that can be easily tested, can't it?"

"Surely," Bailey returned, looking sharply at Jack. "You saw the--the
remains, with this mask on?"

"Yes, he wore it when he died----"

"You don't know that! You only know it was on his face when his dead
body was discovered. How do you know it was on him when he died?"

Raynor stared at the Coroner.

"What do you mean?" he said, slowly, "are you implying----"

"I'm implying nothing. I'm asking you a simple question. Good God,
man, this case is baffling enough as it is. Don't put any obstacles
in my way, when I'm trying to get a line on it. Don't you see, that
if Clearman was killed, the murderer might have put the mask on him
afterward in order to fog up the thing! And it is,--it's got to
be,--either suicide or murder. I can't see the way clear to deduce
suicide----"

"You ignore the supernatural angle, then?"

"Entirely and absolutely. There never was anybody killed in this world
by supernatural means and there never will be! Get that out of your
head at once."

"That's your opinion, I am sure,--but others may disagree with you."

"But the others are not the Coroner in this instance, and I am. I
daren't make a positive statement so soon, but I am most certainly
convinced that Stephen Clearman was killed by a human intent, and that
the supernatural effect was used to screen the murderer."

Jack Raynor dropped into a chair.

"You may be right," he said, "but that opens up a vista of much
unpleasantness in the immediate future."

"It does," Bailey returned, grimly. "Murder is not a pleasant thing at
best--if it has a best,--and at its worst, and this is the worst case
I ever saw, it opens up vistas for which unpleasantness is too mild a
term."

"What are you going to do?" Raynor asked, but his tone was
lifeless,--hopeless and despairing.

"Do?" and Bailey's eyes seemed to bore into him with their determined
gaze, "do? I'm going to prove it a murder and find the murderer!"

"Whether he exists or not?"

"He exists all right," Bailey declared.




CHAPTER VII

SCOTT'S QUESTIONS


"Isn't this the man they called the King of Clubs?" Bailey asked,
suddenly.

"Yes," said Goring, who had come to the study to relieve Raynor, and
had sent the latter down to his luncheon.

"And they call his wife the Queen of Diamonds?"

"Yes."

"Why? Are they so fond of cards?"

"Oh, no, it isn't that at all. It's because Clearman was so much of a
clubman and because Mrs. Clearman is so fond of diamonds."

"Fond of diamonds, eh?" and Bailey pricked up his mental ears. "Did the
deceased leave a will?"

"I don't know, but don't get any bee in your bonnet about Mrs.
Clearman. She and her husband were about the most devoted couple I ever
saw, and he gave her all the diamonds a woman could wish for and then
some! As to the Face Card business, they also call Mr. Raynor the Jack
of Hearts----"

"And what do they call you?" Bailey smiled at Nicky, as nearly
everybody did.

"Oh, nothing much. I have been called the Joker, because of my natural
wit; but oftener, I play the deuce."

Bailey's smile was perfunctory now, he had no time for foolery.

"Here's Scott," he said, curtly, as a man appeared at the door of the
study, apparently having found the way upstairs by himself. "He is the
police detective and now the investigation can proceed in his presence."

Marvin Scott went rather quickly round the room. He seemed to absorb
information about the case without asking many questions. He put some
inquiries regarding the masks and curious weapons, but oftener than not
cut short the answers.

He examined Stephen Clearman's body with a few rapid, deft touches and
some long looks.

"Poisoned? Prussic Acid?" he said, after an inquisitive sniff at the
dead man's lips.

"No," returned Bailey, shaking his head. "It seems he was fond of
Bitter Almond flavoring and used it continually in his food. Anyway,
there's not a chance of poisoning, for there's no container about. You
see, it's a most mysterious affair."

"Yes," and Scott sat down near the Coroner. "It's one of those cases
you read about, where a man is found dead in a room impossible of
access and yet it isn't a suicide."

"That's just it!" and Nicky looked at the detective curiously. "How
clearly you put it. For there was no means of entrance,----"

"Yet somebody got in," interrupted Scott. "Oh, yes, he did, for that
man never killed himself,--never, in the world!"

"Accident?" Bailey offered.

"Can't see it," Scott returned. "It might be the mask was--is a
poisoned affair. It must be tested, but I've not enough knowledge of
those strange Oriental poisons to want to meddle with it myself. I'll
take it to a laboratory and find out."

"Could he have died of fright?" asked Nicky, who feared and dreaded a
decision of murder.

"Not likely. What would frighten him? He was in his element among these
heathenish surroundings, I take it. Now, never mind the locked room.
Just for a moment, consider a murderer. Who would it be, Mr. Goring?"

Nicky wasn't often floored but this sudden question was a bit of a
facer.

"My lord!" he exclaimed, "I don't know! Why the devil do you ask me
such a thing as that? There isn't a person on this green earth, that
I know of, who would want to kill Stephen Clearman, and if there had
been he couldn't have done it! The man was locked in the room----"

"Once for all, get this straight," said Scott, testily. "We know he
was locked in this room. We know he died here. Now, either he killed
himself or somebody or something killed him. These are the things
we have to find out. But if he was murdered, the murderer did get
in and out, whether the door was locked or not. How about a secret
passage,--just what such a man would have, eh?"

"I doubt it," Nicky said, slowly, for this idea had not before occurred
to him, "but, I say, you can find out from Mr. Raynor! He's the
architect who designed and superintended the construction of this new
wing. He'll know."

"Oh, a new wing, is it?" and Scott seemed disappointed. He had hoped
for an old building, with secret panels and concealed staircases.

"Yes, and Mr. Clearman wasn't that sort of man at all. He studied old
magic stuff, but he, himself, was as practical and as honest as the day
is long. No underhanded or mysterious doings about Stephen Clearman.
Anybody who ever knew him will tell you that!"

"All right, all right," said Scott, with some impatience. "That was
only a suggestion. There are lots of other explanations as to the
murderer's entrance and exit. But unless it was a stroke, and the
doctor says it was not, the man was surely murdered. I've scrutinized
his desk, and there is no implement, no poison which he could have
used, that would not leave some trace,--some container or clue to its
nature. However, a post mortem will show up the truth if it was a
poison that did for him. I'm only here now to get the stories of the
people who were in the house at the time."

"Must you bother them?" asked Nicky, anxiously.

"Every last one of them," declared Scott. "And mind this, I am the sort
of detective who suspects everybody. Experience has taught me it is the
best way to get at the roots of the matter. Also, I want them one by
one, and each one alone. That, too, I have proved to be a good plan.
So, since you are here on the spot, Mr. Goring, I'll start in with
you. Please tell me, as briefly as you can, all you know about Stephen
Clearman and his actions today."

"I don't know so very much," Nicky said with a grim expression, "but it
may be I know more than most of the others, because, I was doubtless
the last, with the exception of your hypothetical murderer, to see Mr.
Clearman alive."

"Yes?" said Scott, but he kept his gaze sharply on Nicky's face.

"After breakfast, Mr. Clearman came directly to this room. As I was
interested in his antiquarian work, I asked if I might come, too. He
permitted me to do so, but after a very short time, I saw that he was
not in the mood to talk with me and I concluded to go away."

"What did he say to give you that impression?"

"It wasn't so much what he said, as his manner. He seemed preoccupied,
turned his attention to me with an effort when I asked him a question,
and I just sensed that he would rather be alone.

"I suggested that we postpone our chat about the masks until tomorrow,
and he agreed at once. He also told me as I left the room, to tell Mr.
Raynor that he wished to postpone the discussion of some business with
him until afternoon."

"Then you left him?"

"Then I left him. He was near the door as I went out, and before I had
gone three steps along the hall, I heard him turn the key in the lock."

"You mean you heard the key turned in the lock."

"Yes. Are you implying there was someone hidden in this room--while I
was in here?" Nicky looked blank with amazement.

"I'm implying that there might have been. When you have been up against
as many problems of a locked room as I have, you'll know that no
possibility must be overlooked. Go on; then you went, where?"

"On through the halls, downstairs and out to the gardens where I
joined Mr. Raynor and Miss Loftis, two of my fellow guests."

"And Mr. Clearman was alive when you left him?"

"Very much so. As I said, he seemed a little preoccupied and
thoughtful, but that was far from being an unusual thing with him. I
understand he was almost always like that when up in this room, engaged
in his studies. Never so, when he was at leisure or with his family."

"I see. Thank you. Now only one more thing. What did Mr. Clearman talk
to you about while you were here for that short time? Did he talk at
all?"

Nicky thought for a moment.

"I will tell you," he said, "for I'm sure it will preclude all idea of
suicide. Then, as I feel sure a murder is an impossibility, you'll be
forced to a decision of natural death, or--or supernatural."

Scott stared at him, but said only, "Go on."

"He didn't talk much, but what he said was all on the subject of his
possible death by reason of the old curse. You know about that?"

Scott nodded, and Nicky went on.

"He said he knew how to circumvent that curse, and that he had used and
was still using every precaution----"

"What sort of precautions?"

"I don't know definitely, but I know he meant the wearing of certain
masks at certain times, and the performing of certain heathen or magic
rites----"

"Don't you know what these rites were?"

"No, I've not the least idea. He always did all these things behind
locked doors. He was a little unbalanced, I think, on these subjects,
but sound as a dollar every other way. However, he was so intent on
using every possible precaution against death, he so dreaded and feared
that he might die, that it is absurd to think for a moment he would
himself cut short his life. Moreover, he was full of a great scheme
that was to improve the morals of these heathen people. He proposed to
start stations at certain points, where they could be taught modern and
civilized notions of political economy and general efficiency."

"He had started any of these?"

"No, he was just about to do so. He was considering asking Mr. Raynor
to help him plan these stations, and he was eager and impatient to get
his missions started."

"He called them Missions?"

"Yes, Mission Stations. But he didn't like to have them confounded with
religious mission work. He was trying to think up a really expressive
name for them."

"You have made a strong point, Mr. Goring. A man with those plans and
also with those fears, is not going to kill himself. Now, at what time
did you go from the room, leaving Mr. Clearman here behind you?"

Scott watched him closely, for it was one of the detective's pet tricks
to gather from the way a witness answered a question as to time,
whether he was strictly honest or not.

But Nicky gave him no cause for suspicion.

"I can't say exactly," he returned. "As a matter of fact, I seldom do
know the time. But I remember that as we rose from the breakfast table
Mrs. Clearman made the remark that it was already ten o'clock. Then we
came right up here, and I was here, I should think, about a quarter of
an hour. That's the best I can say."

"All right, say you left here about ten-fifteen. Thank you, Mr. Goring,
that will be all. Now, it is my habit when a man dies, to question his
wife first. Will you ask Mrs. Clearman to come here?"

"Yes," said Nicky, because there seemed to be nothing else to say. He
was sorry for Carlotta, sorry that she had to go alone, but it must be
done.

He passed Violet in the hall, asked her to send her mistress at once to
the study and went on downstairs to talk to the others.

Carlotta Clearman was self-possessed and dignified when she approached
the door of the study, but as she entered, her calm gave way. The
sight of that still figure in the chair at the desk overcame her
self-control, and she turned to run away.

"Come in, Mrs. Clearman," said Scott's peremptory voice and calling all
her courage to her aid, she entered and faced the detective.

"Don't be afraid," he said kindly.

"I am not afraid," Carlotta's voice quivered, "but the sight of--my
husband unnerves me. Can you not talk to me elsewhere?"

"No, if you please, it must be here. But I shall not detain you long."

Carlotta sat down in a chair which faced the door, and so brought her
back toward the desk. For a moment she buried her face in her hands,
and then, as suddenly, she raised it, and said, in a steady voice, "I
am ready. What can I tell you?"

"Only what were the circumstances in which you last saw Mr. Clearman?"

"I was with him at breakfast," Carlotta said, reminiscently, "then he
came up here to his study, and I came with him. I came into the room
for a moment, as he was telling me something,----"

"What was he telling you?"

"That he was going to begin on the plans for his new building today,
and he wanted me to be present, as he liked to have my advice and
opinions."

"Meaning the buildings for his foreign Mission Stations?"

"Yes, do you know about them?" Carlotta looked up brightly. "He was so
interested," the tears came again, "and now----"

"What now? About the stations, I mean?"

"After a time, I shall take up the work and try to have it carried out
as he planned. I know a great deal about it, and I am sure I can do it."

"You were interested in the work?"

"Oh, deeply. I have been there, you see, and I know the need for such
help."

"Yes, of course. Then you came into this room----"

"Yes, but I stayed only a moment, for I was about to attend to some
housekeeping matters, and too, Mr. Goring followed us, and I knew he
was anxious to talk to Mr. Clearman. So I went off to my own affairs,
and I--never saw my husband alive again."

Carlotta was calmer now, she had forced herself to remember that though
she might give way to emotion when alone, or with loving friends, she
must preserve her dignity before this official,--this officer of the
law.

"You know all about these strange masks, I believe?"

"I can't say I know all about them," she returned, with the shadow of
a smile. "That would mean a lifetime of study. But I know much that
my husband taught me, and much that I learned while in the Eastern
countries."

"And the mask he wore when he was--was found dead,--what did that mask
mean?"

"What did it mean?"

"Yes, what mask was it? What does it signify?"

"Oh, yes. We don't usually word it just that way. But that is what
is known as a war mask. It is worn in battle by some of the heathen
people."

"And why did your husband wear it?"

"It is a little difficult to explain to one not entirely conversant
with the subject. But Mr. Clearman's family is under a curse,--ah, I
see you know about that--"

"Only in a general way. And I never supposed it was taken seriously by
him."

"Well, it was and it wasn't. Anyway, if there was anything in it, my
husband was under the ban, for he had done what the curse forbade. And
so, he was wearing the war mask, I feel very sure, with the intention
of warring against the inimical spirits that would wreak the curse on
him."

"But they did?"

"Yes, Mr. Scott, they did. You may do all the detective work you
like, you may find clues and get evidence and hear witnesses, but you
can never arrive at any true conclusion as to the death of Stephen
Clearman, but that he died as a direct result of defying the curse of
his fathers and disobeying their command. He was not the first of his
family to do so, he may not be the last. But there are the facts. Make
the most of them."

Carlotta had a faraway look, a sort of mystic gaze that went far toward
affecting Scott's common sense and making him wonder if there could be
something in this trumpery, after all.

He pulled himself together, collected his wits and with a smile, said:
"You mustn't ask a hard-headed detective to believe in that sort of
thing, Mrs. Clearman. I can see how you have been influenced by your
husband's beliefs, but as for me and my work, we have to cut out the
supernatural. Now for another matter. Why were you so anxious to get
back that letter you posted this morning?"

She gave a start of surprise, but the astute eyes watching her saw that
it was merely a passing surprise at his knowledge of the incident and
not a cause for anxiety.

"Oh, that," and Carlotta smiled; "it was only that I forgot to date the
thing, and as it was a regret for a bridge party, I thought it ought to
be dated."

"Don't you know it is against the law to tamper with a mailbox?"

She laughed lightly. "Nonsense! It might be if I were doing anything
really wrong. But to pull back my poor little letter and write a date
on it,--I doubt if the law would deal very harshly with that."

Carlotta's was a wilful nature, chiding always roused her resentment,
and invariably made her saucy.

"Have you the letter?"

"No, the silly postman put it in his pocket. But it doesn't matter, I
can write another note to my friend. The only thing that matters is my
poor hand."

She held up the injured member, which was swathed in bandages, covered
by a dainty lace-frilled handkerchief.

"I am sorry," said Scott, with cold politeness, "I trust it will soon
be well."

Carlotta pouted a trifle,--she was not accustomed to having men seem
uninterested.

"You are the second wife of Stephen Clearman?"

"Yes," said Carlotta, remembering her resolve to be dignified.

"How long have you been married?"

"Two years."

"You spent all that time traveling in the Far East?"

"We were gone about eighteen months. Before that we were here at home."

"How long had his first wife been dead when you were married?"

"I think, about sixteen years, or maybe seventeen."

"He has a daughter."

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"I am not sure. She is not in the house, she went away this morning. It
is most likely she went to New York for a day's shopping, but she did
not tell me of her plans."

"You and she are good friends?"

"Oh, yes, we are fond of each other,--far more so than the average
step-relations are apt to be."

"I see. Does she often go away without announcing her intentions?"

"Very seldom. I don't quite understand it. Unless she made up her mind
suddenly to go, and had to hurry to catch a train."

"Who took her to the station?"

"I don't know. It never occurred to me to ask. The chauffeur, I
suppose."

"You think she will soon return?"

"Of course she'll be home by five or six o'clock. I wish to goodness
she would come."

"Now, Mrs. Clearman, tell me of these apparitions or whatever you may
choose to call them, that have been seen in this house lately."

"I don't mind the term apparitions. My husband objected to it because
he held they were not apparitions but appearances of real demons."

"Demons?"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean devils. It is merely the term used by the
people who believe in these strange religions, for their gods."

"Oh."

"Yes. You see, it is very hard to make things clear to those who are
not familiar with the lore of magic."

"To me it is sheer nonsense,----"

"All knowledge is nonsense to those who don't know it."

Scott reddened a little. He wished to hold up to scorn this magic
business and suddenly found himself scorned instead.

"Please keep to the subject in hand," he said, a little unjustly. "Tell
me of the spectres."

And Carlotta told him of the first one, which Miss Phoebe saw, floating
through the hall, and which Lulie saw also.

Then she related how, on the following night, her husband had awakened
her and led her to the hall where together they had seen the same
sight, a mask floating unsupported, high in the air.

Scott listened intently.

"What was it like?" he queried.

"It was the skull mask," she returned, in a low voice. "Shall I show it
to you?"

"If you please."

She rose, and selecting a dreadful looking one from the collection
brought it to him, saying, "This is the one."

It was a skull, not apparently of bone, but showing mosaic work of
blue, glistening squares.

"This is a real skull," she explained, "overlaid with turquoise plates
and lignite. The eyes are pyrites."

"Interesting, but--" he waved the thing away, "what I want to know is
this. Was it this very skull you saw, you and your husband,--or was it
another----"

Carlotta pondered. "Why, I don't know," she said. "I never thought of
that. I suppose it was a vision, a showing, you know, of this god----"

"Is this a god?"

"Oh, my Heavens! I don't know these things! All I know is the names of
the masks, and what they signify, and where they came from and such
things as that. I never saw any supernatural manifestations except that
one time, and I can't tell you if it was this identical mask or the
spirit of the man who once wore this skull for a head!"

She was a little hysterical now, and Scott felt sorry for her. Clearly
she knew less of the lore of these strange things than she had
pretended to, but as he knew, women often did that.

"You may go, Mrs. Clearman," he said, more kindly than he had before
spoken. "I think your knowledge is limited, but I may want to ask
you some more about the masks at another time. Had your husband any
enemies, that you know of?"

"None. I know they say every worthwhile man has some enemies, but my
husband had none, unless you count some of these savage people from
whom he contrived to get some of these masks. They were not always
pleased with his methods."

"Would they come over here and kill him because of their anger?"

"They would have no way of getting here. But they could send their
magic----"

"They didn't, though. Whatever happened to cause Mr. Clearman's death,
it was not a matter of magic nor was it in any way or to the slightest
degree supernatural."

As the door opened to let Carlotta go away, Scott caught sight of
Violet hovering near, and called her in.

Carlotta came back with her, and the detective made no objection.

"You were with Mrs. Clearman the night she saw the strange spirit?" he
asked.

The colored woman looked at him so directly that he felt a bit
uncomfortable.

"No suh," she said, in a very low voice. "But I was with her d'reckly
afterward."

"Did you see it?"

"Laws, no, suh! I'd let out a screech to raise de dead, ef I had!"

"How did you happen to be about?"

"Aft'wards? Oh, Mr. Clearman, or else Miss Ca'lotta, one of 'em, rang
de bell, and o' couhse I come a runnin'."

"And you found your mistress hysterical?"

"No, suh, not to say 'sterical. But bothered, yes, jest bothered. Who
wouldn't be? Seein' things, like that!"

"Surely. It was a trying experience. Did Mrs. Clearman go to sleep at
once?"

Violet thought. "Sho'tly," she said. "Quite sho'tly. She's a good
sleeper,--the lamb!"

"And her husband's idol?"

"You said it, suh! Mr. Clearman, he jest iderlized his wife, and her,
him. That they did, oh lawsy, how can that lamb live, 'thouten o' him?"

"You may go," Scott said, a little tired of emotional expressions. "And
wait, you,--er,--Violet, send Miss Phoebe Clearman in here, will you?"

"Yes suh. What shall I tell her, suh?"

"Tell her Mr. Scott wants to see her in the study, at once. Ask her to
come without delay."

"I say," Bailey whispered as the colored woman disappeared, "I'm
beginning to lean toward the spooks, myself."

"I'm not," said Scott.




CHAPTER VIII

WHERE IS LULIE?


Phoebe Clearman presented herself.

As the delicate little figure appeared in the doorway, both Bailey and
Scott instinctively rose to their feet.

For the elderly spinster had a dainty, old-time grace of manner, that
seemed to call forth what latent chivalry might be in the natures of
these careless mannered, indifferent men.

Scott placed a chair for her, with all the courtesy at his command, and
Bailey assumed a more respectful and deferential attitude than he had
been showing.

Miss Phoebe had a small, thin face and a fragile, slender body. She
wore a black gown of lusterless silk, plainly made and with a touch
of white net frilling at throat and wrists. Her hair was gray and
of silvery sheen, and hung over her ears in little bobbing curls.
Both Carlotta and Lulie condemned these curls as old-fashioned, but
Phoebe Clearman had a strong though unobtrusive will of her own, and
invariably followed it.

Her eyes were blue, and of that penetrating gaze which is so terribly
disconcerting when meant to be.

She sat down carefully, as if afraid she might break herself, and this
very air of hers seemed to imbue her audience with an added respect and
sense of honor due.

Scott was a little at a loss as to how to begin.

"Miss Clearman," he said, "first of all do you attribute the death of
your brother to supernatural causes?"

"Most emphatically, yes," she replied, in a low, even voice. "How can
I, or anyone, think otherwise? The curse is on the house, it claimed
two victims years ago. My brother dared it, and he has suffered the
consequences."

She held a tiny, lace-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, and then
rolled the blue orbs at Scott with such a glance of woe, that he was
more than ever reminded of the ladies in _Cranford_ or the pictures in
an old _Godey's Lady's Book_, which he had seen.

He tried to shake off his hesitancy to question her, for he knew it
must be done.

"But, Miss Clearman, in this day and generation, one can't believe in
the powers of spirits or demons----"

"Not spirits, those are the souls of departed human beings. Demons are
powers of evil, and who shall say that they cannot kill?"

"I say so," Bailey broke in. He was less susceptible than Scott, and
began to think the old lady had more knowledge of the whole matter than
she admitted. "You can't believe, Miss Clearman, that your brother was
killed without human means or intent."

"I do believe just that, Mr. Bailey; and otherwise,--will you tell me
how a human agency could have killed him, when he was alone in a locked
room?"

"Never mind that part for the moment. Suppose you tell us what you
know, not what you surmise or imagine. When did you last see Mr.
Clearman alive?"

"At the breakfast table. He told of having seen the Skull mask the
night before. I had seen it myself the night previous to that, and I
knew then it was a warning. I knew that my brother was doomed, and that
no power on earth could save him."

"You took it philosophically," commented Scott, beginning to recover
his equanimity.

"Such is my nature," and Phoebe gave him a cool glance. "And yet, when
he began to tell at the breakfast table, of having seen it himself, and
his wife, too, I was so overcome I couldn't listen to it, and I left
the table and went to my room. I remained there until West came to me
and said he couldn't get into my brother's study."

"Why did he go to tell you, instead of telling Mrs. Clearman?"

"I suppose he felt that I could better bear the shock than she could. I
am, of course, a most devoted sister, but West probably thought I would
not feel such deep grief as a wife must. I know of no other reason for
his telling me first. And, too, I am of a quiet, practical nature,
while Mrs. Clearman is excitable and emotional."

"Reasonable enough, surely," and Scott nodded his comprehension. "Now
as to these 'Stations,' that Mr. Clearman planned to construct. You
approved of them?"

"No, I did not. An utterly absurd project! Only one remove from the
religious missionary stations, after all. It is too ridiculous to
think one man could make any impression on tribes that have lived for
centuries hidebound in their own manners and customs. A great syndicate
or nation-wide attempt might produce results, but my brother's plan
would have amounted to nothing."

"Your brother left a will?" Bailey asked, suddenly.

"I suppose so," she returned, indifferently. "It is doubtless in his
lawyer's keeping."

"Do you know its terms?"

"Not entirely. It divides his estate pretty much among his wife, his
daughter and myself. I do not know the proportions."

"You do not know where Miss Lulie Clearman is?"

"No. But it is pretty certain she went to the city. She will surely be
home soon."

"Then, you can tell us nothing that might lead to the discovery of a
possible murderer of your brother?" Scott watched her closely.

"No, for he was not murdered,--as you mean it. He was put to death by
evil spirits,--if otherwise, must there not have been some trace, some
clue or evidence of some sort as to the means employed?"

"That is the great mystery. But before this, murders have been
committed in a room apparently impossible of access. Miss Clearman, as
you say yourself, you are practical minded, suppose for a moment you
ignore the magic side of it. Can you think of anyone who would wish to
bring about Mr. Clearman's death, or any possible way in which it could
have been accomplished?"

The blue eyes looked at him, thoughtfully.

"No," she said, "I can't. The servants are all trustworthy, and I can't
see how any intruder from outside could have effected an entrance. As
you must admit, there is no theory to fit the case."

"How about the man, West?"

"West? Why, he couldn't have done it! He found him----"

"Yes, I know, but that's no argument."

"How could he have killed him?" the blue eyes were wonderingly fixed on
the questioner.

"Well, _I_ think Mr. Clearman was poisoned by Prussic acid. Yes, I
know about his custards with the bitter almond flavoring. Now suppose
somebody put in too much of that flavoring?"

Miss Clearman smiled.

"My good man," she said, in such a patronizing tone that Scott felt
a mad desire to denounce her, "a barrel of that flavoring extract
wouldn't kill a man! It's the same odor and, I suppose the same
ingredient as Prussic acid, but the extract used in the kitchen is
harmless, of course. And, too, he ate his custards at the breakfast
table----"

"West might have brought him another in this room,--one with poison in
it----"

"And then, West went off, and Stephen locked the door after him, and
then sat down at his desk, and ate the custard, saucer, spoon and all?"

The sarcastic little face showed the contempt she felt for the
suggestion.

Scott was chagrined and distinctly annoyed. But of one thing he was
certain--that Phoebe Clearman would be of no help to him. If she knew
anything at all about the matter, and he still thought she did, she
didn't propose to tell it, and he realized that she was the sort of
person who could not be coerced or threatened.

"It is easy enough to jeer at a theory, Miss Clearman, it is not
easy to get at the truth. And once for all, I reject any idea of
supernatural forces, and I propose to discover and expose the human
force that is responsible."

Scott was goaded at last to direct speech, and he watched its effect.

But Phoebe Clearman shrugged her aristocratic old shoulders.

"Very well," she said. "But have a care that you do not accuse an
innocent person. And remember, too, that a mask is not a god or a
demon. But the donning of a mask makes a god or a demon of the wearer."

"Stuff and twaddle!" Bailey broke in, he was really vexed now
at the insistence on the mask business. "Miss Clearman, you saw
a--er--manifestation yourself, night before last, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Aren't there supposed to be three by way of warning?"

"Yes," and she spoke eagerly now. "I saw the first one, Mr. Clearman
and his wife saw the second, and there is no doubt in my mind that the
third and last appeared to Mr. Clearman this morning and the fatality
occurred then."

"Oh, I see. Now, as to this appearance you saw, will you describe it,
briefly?"

"It was merely a mask, the Skull mask, floating along, high in the air."

"It was luminous, I am told."

"Yes, faintly so."

"Did it float along evenly, or, rather, by jerks?"

"Why--I don't know. Evenly, I should say, yet, it may have paused and
then proceeded, I didn't notice that."

"No matter. Are you on good terms with all the family----"

"Certainly. I'd scorn any other attitude."

"Yet you do not love your brother's second wife."

"That is only a natural resentment in having his first wife, who was
my darling, supplanted. But the present Mrs. Clearman is a fine woman,
and she and I are most certainly friendly. As you may imagine it was a
little hard for me to hand over the reins of government after keeping
house for my brother many years. But all this is a personal and family
matter and entirely outside your jurisdiction."

The pale face now showed indignation and the blue eyes shone with
resentment, but Phoebe's voice was still low and even.

Scott, however, had ceased to notice her mental attitudes, and stuck
strictly to his inquiries.

"What is this diary that has been found----"

"That is a diary of a Clearman ancestor, the one who laid the original
curse on the family. It is in tatters,--and occasionally a stray leaf
is found in some old book or chest. Mrs. Clearman has it, I think, in
her possession, or it may be in my brother's desk. Read it, Mr. Scott,
it will show you why the Clearmans have reason to believe in such
matters."

"Thank you, I shall most certainly read it. You may go, Miss Clearman,
and please ask Miss Loftis to come to me next."

Phoebe departed and Nan came.

The girl was scared and ill at ease, and seeing this, Scott tried to be
casual in his manner.

"Not much from you, Miss Loftis," he said, easily. "Just a few
questions in a general way. First, where do you think Miss Clearman
is,--or do you know?"

"No, I don't know, and I think it's exceedingly queer. I can't imagine
Lulie going off to New York for the day, without telling me she was
going. It would have been different if I hadn't been staying here, but
why should she run off for a whole day when we had planned lots of
things to do----"

"What sort of things?"

"A golf game for this morning, and we were to go to a garden party this
afternoon. Of course, we couldn't have gone as things are,--but Lulie
didn't know that."

"You don't think her unexplained absence has anything to do with her
father's death?"

Nan stared. "What do you mean? How could it have?"

"I don't know. That's just it. Miss Loftis, I don't know anything. How
can I when there's no evidence of importance from anybody? Do you think
Mr. Clearman died from supernatural influences?"

Nan gazed at him. "I don't know," she said, "do you?"

"No, I don't. But I can't find any other way to look."

"It's too ridiculous to think he was done to death by a magic thing!"
she exclaimed. "And yet, what else is there to think? Nobody could get
in this room, you know."

"Couldn't West?"

"Not unless Mr. Clearman let him in. And if he killed his master, and
he certainly looks as if he could have done so, how did he get out and
lock the door after himself?"

"Could the mask be poisoned inside?"

"Of course it _could_ be! But surely you can find out such a thing as
that! Haven't you made tests?"

"Not yet. I want to get the reaction from the various members of the
household first."

"Oh, I see. Well, if the mask is poisonous inside, that explains the
whole mystery, doesn't it? And if it isn't,--I suppose you're as much
at sea as ever."

"Were Miss Clearman and her father on good terms?"

"Always scrapping,--sometimes had real rows,--but at heart devoted to
one another. Don't go off on a notion that Lulie Clearman killed her
Dad and then ran away,--'cause she never did that--never!"

"How do you know?"

"Oh, so that is your theory, is it?" Nan grew very serious. "Well, Mr.
Scott, you couldn't trump up anything more asinine, more utterly and
absurdly nonsensical than such a thought as that!"

"Did Miss Lulie favor the idea of the foreign Stations her father was
planning?"

"No, she hated it--" and suddenly Nan realized the trend of the
question. "That is," she amended, "she thought the plan a good one but
not very feasible."

But she did not fool the astute Scott. He saw at once that she had
tried to obliterate the effect of her first statement by the second.

"In fact, Miss Loftis, the erection and outfitting of those stations
would have used up a very large portion of Stephen Clearman's
fortune, and his heirs would therefore receive at his death, far less
inheritance than if the Stations were not built."

Nan was horrified. "Do you mean," she stormed at him, "that because of
a fear of losing money, some one of his heirs, some one of his family,
murdered him to prevent it?"

"It might be so," Scott said, with apparent nonchalance, but watching
closely her play of expression.

"It couldn't be so! Perhaps one of the servants--but no, they are all
faithful, and, too, how could anybody have got in?"

"How, indeed?" repeated Scott, urbanely. "You say the servants are all
above suspicion?"

"Why, yes, I say that, from my knowledge of them. But of course, I am
only a guest. The chauffeur is a strange sort of person--so is the man
they call Galley West--" She broke off, realizing that she was thinking
aloud.

"You don't really know anything against either of those men?"

"No, of course not. Now, look here, Mr. Scott, I wish you'd turn part
of your attention, at least, to finding Miss Clearman. Lulie, I mean.
Where do you think she could be, if not on a simple shopping tour in
the city. And _I_ don't think that's where she is at all."

"I don't, either," said Nicky Goring, who was in and out of the room,
and had been in during all of Nan's conversation. "That girl was too
full of plans for today, to run off for the whole day, without a word.
Something has happened to her."

"She may have run down to New York on a sudden small errand," said Nan,
"and met with some accident, been run over or something, and she may be
badly hurt. I say, let's call up the hospitals."

"Wait a little longer," Nicky advised. "Carlotta is sure she'll come
on the five o'clock train. She seems curious about her absence but not
alarmed."

"Well, I am alarmed," Nan declared. "You know, Nicky, how keen she was
about the garden party this afternoon----"

"Maybe she went to get a new hat or something, to wear to that," Goring
suggested.

"It's barely possible," Nan agreed thoughtfully, "but that wouldn't
take her all day! I'm awfully afraid there's been an accident."

"Can't you find out if she went to the train, and who drove her down to
the station?"

"Of course. Just ask the chauffeur----"

"I tried to, but he was off somewhere. I'll tackle him again." And
Goring went off to find the man.

Then Scott called the various servants, and put them all through a
catechism, one by one.

The results were slight. He learned no new facts from most of them,
but found out that they had nearly all of them been in service a long
time, and were nearly all aware that Mr. Clearman had remembered them
generously in his will.

"But I can't see any one of them coming up here and killing the master
in order to get a legacy, however generous," Scott said, gloomily.

"It's easier to see than to see a member of the family doing it for the
same mercenary reason," Bailey observed.

"Yes, I suppose so, and then, there's always the outside intruder to
fall back on. Some secret enemy or some disgruntled acquaintance----"

"Don't speculate, get on with the inquiries, it's after four o'clock,
now."

Toward the last, the cook came.

"Your name?" asked Scott, wearily.

"Jinny Stagg."

"Related to the butler, Stagg?"

"His wife, sir."

"I see. Well, Jinny, do you know anything about this sad affair?"

"That I don't," her eyes turned toward Clearman's body and quickly away
again. "Nothing at all, sir, exceptin' what West told us all."

"Well, I don't suppose you do. Now do you know anything about Miss
Lulie Clearman?"

Jinny moved uneasily. "Anythin' about her, sir?"

"Yes, anything about her. About where she is,--where she went today. I
see you do know something, so out with it."

"She--she told me not to tell, sir----"

"That's all right in ordinary circumstances. Always obey orders. But
when the law steps in, other orders are cancelled. So tell it out, Mrs.
Stagg. Where is she?"

Jinny sighed. She adored Miss Lulie, but clearly the law's requirements
must be met.

"I don't know, sir, but this I do know. She came down to the kitchen
this morning, by the servants' stairway, secret-like, you know, and
asked me for a cup of coffee and a bit of toast. She eat 'em, right
there in my kitchen, and she told me to get Leonard, the chauffeur, to
take her to the station in the little car. And he did, and that's all I
know about it. She said to tell nobody at all."

"Did she say why you were to tell nobody?"

"She said she was on a secret errand and I must say I hadn't seen her
at all."

"Did she tell Leonard the same?"

"She did, sir. Leonard took her to the train, and was back before
anyone missed him. All day, sir, Leonard and me, we've been uncertain
what to do, but we decided to wait till the five o'clock train came in
anyway."

"Did she tell Leonard to meet the five o'clock train?"

"No sir. And I think she expected to come home sooner than that. But
she said she'd come up in a hired car from the station."

"Did she seem gay and merry, as if her errand to New York was to be a
happy surprise for somebody?"

"That she didn't, sir. She was queer-like. Thinkin' all the time, and
sort of hesitatin' about goin'. I never knew Miss Lulie to act like she
did this mornin', sir."

"Peculiar. And you know no more about it all?"

"No, sir."

"How was she dressed?"

"In a dark blue silk frock, with a sports coat. And a little hat with a
small feathery thing at the side. Just as she'd be always dressed to go
in the train."

"And she seemed worried?"

"Nervous, more. Jerky, like, she was. Once she laid down her piece
of toast, and said, sudden, 'I won't go!' and then in a minute, she
said, 'Yes, I will!' and just then the car came--to the kitchen door,
sir,--and Miss Lulie jumps in, and that's the last I see of her."

Jinny was of a quiet, respectful demeanor, and folded her hands on her
large white apron as she awaited further questions.

But Scott only dismissed her and told her to send Leonard to him.

But just then, Nicky Goring came, bringing Leonard.

The man, as Nan Loftis had said, was a strange looking person, but
Scott had long since learned not to judge by looks.

He allowed Leonard to sit down, and though Goring, Raynor and Nan were
all in the room, he didn't ask them to leave.

Leonard was ill at ease, his long, light brown eyes rolled about, ever
and again turning toward Clearman, still in the desk chair, and then
away again.

"You know anything about the murder?" asked Scott with a suddenness
intended to startle.

It did, and Leonard jumped as he replied, "N--no, sir."

"Aren't you the one who helped break in the door?"

"No, sir, that was Rogers, sir; he's a mechanician and handy man for
the house. I'm only a chauffeur."

"I see. And you drove Miss Clearman to the station this morning?"

"Yes, sir,--but she said----"

"I know, she told you not to tell. But now things are different, you
see."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me anything you can about her. Did she speak to you?"

"No, sir,--except when we were about half way, she told me to turn
back, she'd changed her mind about going. Then, I had no more'n turned
around, when she changed her mind again, and told me to turn and hurry
to the train. I did, and she was just in time to catch it."

"Did she seem worried--or bothered?"

"She did, sir. She was all on edge. I could see, though she said
nothing to me only what I've told you. But at the very last minute, as
she was about to step on the car steps, she half turned back. Then the
conductor kinda gave her a boost, him not thinkin' she meant to turn
back, and in a minute the train pulled out."

"She didn't tell you to come to meet her on her return?"

"No, sir, said she'd come up in Briggs's car. He runs a hack car."

"I see. That will be all, Leonard."




CHAPTER IX

THE ACCUSATION


On Friday evening the members of the household sat grouped on the
terrace.

The funeral of Stephen Clearman had taken place the day before, and now
the King of Clubs was merely a memory, a name.

The Inquest, too, was over, finished that very afternoon, with the
obvious verdict of "Death resulting from mysterious and unknown causes."

For an autopsy had brought forth no knowledge of what had caused the
strange death of Stephen Clearman.

The doctors admitted themselves baffled. For a man with a sound heart,
no organic affection of any sort, and no sign of a wound, to die
apparently suddenly was inexplicable and they could not explain it.

Had he been poisoned by Prussic acid, or any other volatile toxine,
the symptoms would have been much as they were, which, however, meant
practically no symptoms at all.

In vain they looked for a tiny inconspicuous wound, even that of a
hypodermic needle, but found none. Found nothing,--nothing whatever to
indicate the means that had brought death to the King of Clubs.

Some of the doctors insisted on the poison theory, because of the odor
that had clung to the dead man's lips. They held that the flavoring
extract was not strong enough to remain perceptible so long.

But the absence of any container, the circumstance of the locked room
and the quiet, peaceful attitude and appearance of the dead man seemed
to preclude any theory of administration of poison by another as well
as the taking of it with suicidal intent.

The Coroner had questioned the family, guests and servants at the
inquest, but nothing had been learned other than what he had discovered
in his first inquiry.

Yet there was unrest in the air. Grave suspicions were felt by people
who could suggest no way in which murder might have been done, yet who
were unwilling to consider any supernatural influence.

For of course, that side of it had been stressed. The strange masks had
been shown and the curse exploited, but, though some nodded wisely, and
were sure it was demoniacal work, the majority scoffed at such notions.

The mask Clearman had worn when his body was found was subjected to all
known tests for poison, but showed no proof of it. Except that there
was a mere trace of that same bitter odor about the mouth of the mask.

This the conservatives claimed might have been transmitted from the
man's lips which retained the odor from his custard food.

Others flouted the idea of a simple flavoring extract having such
strength and persistence and many people in Valley Falls began to eat
similar custards until the village grocer was forced to renew his stock
of flavoring essences.

The will had been read, and proved to be about what had been expected.

Clearman had left a large bequest to his sister, smaller ones to
various relatives and to his servants, and the rest of his estate was
to be divided between his wife and his daughter, Lulie.

The whole residuary fortune was left to Carlotta, with the direction
that she should give Lulie such amounts and at such times as she deemed
wise, until the girl should marry, upon which occasion she was to
receive a full half of his residuary estate.

He left the matter thus, it was explained in the document, because he
considered his daughter too young to have charge of a fortune, and he
had implicit confidence in his wife's judgment and wisdom.

Yet the mild surprise at this arrangement and the greater mystery of
Clearman's death were, for the moment, overshadowed by the wonder as to
the whereabouts of Lulie Clearman.

Not a word had been heard from the girl or of her, since Leonard, the
chauffeur, saw her get on the train to New York.

Had she ever reached New York? Had she left the train _en route_? Had
she met with some accident? Or run away voluntarily? Or been kidnapped
and held for ransom?

Though no communications had been received from the hypothetical
kidnapper, many felt this was the explanation of Lulie's absence.

The group on the terrace were discussing it.

"It seems to me I shall go mad," Carlotta said, "if we don't hear from
that child soon! I am now her legal guardian as well as her nearest and
dearest friend. I must find her! Jack, do suggest something!"

"I wish I could," Raynor said, hopelessly. The Jack of Hearts had
entirely lost his gay, debonair poise. He looked worn and harassed, and
had a nervous, distracted manner that depressed them all.

"You can't feel any worse about it than I do, Carlotta," he went on.
"But I shall begin a search in earnest now. I've been hampered by the
inquest and other matters, but now I shall turn my whole attention to
the matter of finding that girl, dead or alive!"

"Oh, don't put it like that!" and Carlotta began to cry.

"No, don't Jack," Nan said, soothing Carlotta. "We must think Lulie
alive, at least, or we'll all go crazy."

"Lulie's alive, all right," Phoebe Clearman said, nodding her silvery
curls; "she is held prisoner by some villains who are waiting for the
right time before making their demands. I know, because the cards told
me."

They were all aware of Miss Phoebe's penchant for fortune telling by
cards, and made no comment, though her words bore no weight with any of
them.

"I wonder if anyone ever was in such trouble as I am," said Carlotta,
sorrowfully. She did not speak complainingly or as if bidding for
sympathy, but more as if thinking aloud.

"My husband mysteriously dead, and my daughter mysteriously missing. I
call her my daughter for she was his child and she loved him deeply,
even though they did quarrel now and then."

"Let's do a little detective work on our own," suggested Nicky. "Every
one try to think of anything Lulie said, during the last day or two she
was here, that might give a hint, however vague, as to where she was
going that morning."

"She said nothing to me," Nan declared, promptly, that could possibly
hint at her going away. "We had planned for the whole day Monday, and
whatever made her go off like that, was some unexpected, some sudden
call of real importance."

"How could Lulie get a call like that?" Carlotta asked. "I know the
child so well. Her life was an open book. Never has she gone to New
York without telling me she was going. Never anywhere, without our
knowing all about it. Lulie is not of a sly or secretive nature, she's
as open as the day, and as honest. I have never known her to practise
the slightest deception. She has gone to places some times that her
father and I didn't want her to go. But it was always openly, and in
defiance of our wishes."

"What sort of places?" asked Nicky.

"To parties at the homes of people we didn't care for, or for motor
trips with a crowd we thought a little too rapid. I'm not telling
tales, but I'm saying how frank and outspoken Lulie always is. And
that's why it's so queer she should go off to New York without a word."

"Not only without a word to us," Phoebe said, "but she told cook and
Leonard not to tell that she had gone. That's what I can't understand."

"Nor I," said Jack. "I've tried to construct a theory, but I can only
get as far as that she was planning some sort of surprise for us,
something that necessitated a sudden, flying trip to town."

"And that she met with some accident?" murmured Nan.

"Yes, I think that. I don't believe in the kidnapping theory."

"But we've inquired at all the hospitals, and all that," Phoebe said,
wiping the tears from her blue eyes. "And we have the police searching.
You know, a well dressed young lady like Lulie, can't be injured or
killed without its being known. She always carried address cards in her
purse, didn't she, Carlotta?"

"Yes, always. Stephen made it a point that we both should do so. He
said it was a most necessary precaution."

"And that's all the good it did," Nicky exclaimed, bitterly. "Now, look
here; I say, let's get a detective, a real detective, a private one,
you know----"

"What could he do more than Mr. Scott is doing?" Raynor demanded. "It's
all above and beyond detective work. The mystery of Mr. Clearman's
death is strange enough, but that is not a living tragedy, like Lulie's
disappearance."

"Certainly Scott can solve neither of them," Nicky went on. "Now, a big
detective might be, probably would be, very expensive, so I've no right
even to suggest it. But if I had the money to pay him, I'd engage him
pretty quick!"

"Who?" said Raynor, "have you anybody in mind?"

"Yes. There's a man I know----"

"I agree with Nicky," Carlotta said, in her decided way. "But I think
we ought to give Mr. Scott his chance first. He is working hard and
faithfully. And he ought at least to be consulted, before we put some
one in his place. Of course, if he approves the plan, it would be all
right. And as to the expense, don't think about that. I would put all
Mr. Clearman's fortune into it if it could bring back Lulie, and solve
the problem of his death."

"Good for you, Carlotta!" Nicky cried. "And you're right about Scott,
he deserves consideration, and after his next report, we can better
judge what we ought to do. Another thing, Carly, do you want us all to
stay on? I've stood by this week, because I thought I might be of help,
but now, there's nothing I can do----"

"Oh, stay for a while, anyway," Carlotta said, quickly. "All of you.
I dread to think of Phoebe and myself here alone, without any man in
the house. And you, Nan, and Mr. Raynor,--of course, I want you to
stay--for the present. I haven't been able to think things out yet,
but--of course we must find Lulie. Of course we _will_ find her,--but,
if we shouldn't--all possibilities must be faced, you know, if we
shouldn't, I want to go away from here. I can't stand it! It's terribly
on my nerves already."

"Small wonder, considering what you've been through, what you're going
through," said Nicky, his voice full of commiseration.

"Well," said Phoebe, "nobody could love a brother more than I loved
Stephen. Or a niece more than I loved Lulie. But I'm practical, as you
all know. Stephen is gone beyond recall. To me, it doesn't matter a
snipjack what killed him. Why should it? No amount of knowledge can
restore him to us. As to Lulie, we must use every effort to find her.
But nothing can be gained by hysterics or by brooding over our grief."

"You cold-blooded creature! What are you getting at?" Carlotta's eyes
blazed with indignation. "I may be hysterical, but I do my best to
control that. But as to brooding over my grief,--who wouldn't? Can one
lose a husband and his daughter at one blow, and not brood over it?"

"No; now, Carly, don't take it like that!" Miss Phoebe was deeply
grieved. "I only meant it would be better for you----"

"I know, Phoebe,--I know, dear,--you meant it all right. Forgive me,"
and with a kiss the sisters-in-law restored their peace.

"Here comes Scott," Nicky announced, hearing a voice inside the house.
"Do you want to see him, Carly?"

"Yes, indeed. I want to know if he has discovered anything."

"I don't want to see him," Phoebe declared. "I'll go to my room."

She passed Scott with a slight nod and went upstairs.

The detective came out to the terrace and joined the group there.

"Any news?" asked Raynor, in a hopeless tone.

"News, but no good news," Scott returned, dropping into a chair, and
accepting a cigarette Nicky offered.

"You see," he went on, slowly, "the police are very busy. They're
investigating and poking and snooping around----"

"You're the police, aren't you?" Carlotta asked.

"Yes, but I mean the other fellows. I'm doing my best to solve the
mystery, but they're going about it from a different angle. They're
trying to find a criminal----"

"A criminal!" repeated Jack.

"Yes, they hold that Mr. Clearman was murdered, and that somebody close
to him was the murderer."

"Meaning anybody in particular?" Raynor asked, but his hand shook as he
struck a match.

"Yes," and Scott's voice was grave, "yes. Meaning Miss Clearman."

"Phoebe?" cried Carlotta, aghast.

"No; Miss Lulie Clearman."

He waited for a storm of protest, but the shock felt was too deep for
words and no one spoke.

"Yes, they've got hold of a report that she and her father quarrelled
continually, that he wouldn't let her do as she wanted to, and that,
in order to get her freedom and possession of a fortune, she cleverly
arranged some secret way of poisoning him, and then, perhaps too
frightened to stay here, she went away."

Carlotta was the first to break the heavy silence that followed.

"I never heard of anything so utterly ridiculous," she declared.

"Nor I," cried Nan, her tongue loosed at last. "Why, Lulie and her
father were devoted pals! Those little tiffs didn't amount to anything!
And, too, how could she poison him, when she had gone to New York?"

"That's just it," Scott went on. "They've checked up the time, and it
seems Miss Clearman must have left her room and gone down the servants'
stairway to the kitchen at about quarter to eleven. For she had some
coffee and toast there, and then Leonard drove her to the eleven-thirty
train. Well, anyway, they've doped it out that from ten-fifteen, when
Mr. Goring left Mr. Clearman's study, until ten-forty-five, there was
no one about that part of the house and that Miss Clearman had ample
time to go into the study, poison her father in some mysterious way,
and get away, unseen, and downstairs and off to New York. Don't ask me
how she did it, or how she locked the door behind her--I don't know.
I'm only telling you the police theory, and they're moving heaven and
earth to get the facts to fit it."

Jack Raynor said, slowly: "It's fiendish, diabolical,--but it has
just enough semblance of possibility to make a lot of trouble for all
concerned."

"Yes," Scott continued, "the story Leonard told bears the ring of
truth. Then, since Miss Clearman was so undecided about going away, so
nervous and worried in her manner, and so secret as to her departure,
it gives a ground for their suspicions."

"An utterly untenable ground!" Raynor said, angrily. "But there's one
good thing about it! Is there a warrant out for her arrest?"

"Yes."

"Then it may be the means of finding her! She no more killed her father
than I did, but if she can be found, she can refute these rotten
charges, and tell why she did go to New York."

"Of course," Nan chimed in. "Lulie guilty? Never in this world! But can
they find her?"

"I don't know."

"Anyway, it's certain to make them use every effort to do so," Carlotta
said, "and that, as Mr. Raynor says, is the best thing that could
happen."

"I'm glad you take it like this," Scott said, much relieved. "I feared
you'd resent it----"

"We do resent it," Raynor interrupted, "don't make any mistake about
that! But we see ahead, and see that it may be all a help to finding
Miss Clearman, and we have no fear that when she is found she can't
prove her complete innocence."

"But I'm not at all sure they'll find her," Scott demurred. "How can
they? What can they do more than they've already done? And every day
that passes after a strange disappearance, makes it more and more
difficult to find the missing person."

"Why?" demanded Nan.

"Oh, because each day makes the case less and less in the eyes of the
public. You know how quickly a great story fades. And it is the public
who must find her. Take the possibilities. If she met with a serious
accident, say she even suffered amnesia, as she is not in any hospital
she must be in the home of some kind-hearted citizen, who either cannot
or will not reveal it."

"Wait a minute," Goring said, "why 'will not'?"

Scott looked at him frankly.

"Suppose," he said, "just for a moment, suppose, Miss Clearman did kill
her father. Suppose an accident or other reason has caused her to seek
refuge in the house of some friend--or some stranger. If she does not
reveal her identity, he cannot tell of her presence there. But if she
asks him not to, and he agrees, he will not. Am I clear?"

"Too damned clear!" Raynor said, "and for another such speech I'd knock
you down----"

"Now, Jack," Carlotta said, a little sternly, "that sort of talk is
unworthy of you, and it can do no possible good. Let me get this
straight. Mr. Scott, are you suggesting that Miss Clearman is guilty
of crime, and that she is or may be hiding in the home of somebody,
whether stranger or friend?"

"I am trying to convey, Mrs. Clearman, that that is the present theory
of the police. They hold that by the process of elimination, that is
the only theory to work upon."

"And as to manner or method----"

"That is still pretty much a mystery, but they claim that murders have
been accomplished in locked rooms before this. They hold that there may
be a secret passage----"

"There isn't!" Raynor growled. "I planned the new wing myself. I know
every inch of the building, I can swear there is nothing like a secret
passage, nor any possible means of entrance or exit from Stephen
Clearman's study except by that one hall door. The window was purposely
arranged so that no intruder could get in. Whatever they say or don't
say, quash at once all thought, hint or suggestion of a secret
passage."

"They say that Mr. Clearman might have had one built in, even without
the knowledge of the architect," Scott said.

"He didn't! He couldn't!" Raynor was thoroughly angry. "Send the silly
things up here, and I'll prove to them that there can't possibly be
anything of the sort! There isn't one cubic foot of space unaccounted
for. The plans are simple in the extreme. There is no room or place for
anything of the sort."

"Well, I'm only telling you what they think," Scott said, mildly, but
with a wary eye on Raynor's face.

Yet nobody could doubt the truth and sincerity of Jack's statements. It
rang in every word, in every sentence. As he said, whatever else might
be trumped up, the secret passage idea was not the right one.

"Go on," Carlotta said, as there was a pause. "These clever police--how
do they assume the poisoning was accomplished?"

"They hold that in some way it was given to him directly, and in his
mouth. They claim that whoever did it, took away the container, and
left by a secret way, or, failing that, contrived in some way to lock
the door from the hall side."

"Leaving the key on the inside!" exclaimed Carlotta, sarcastically.
"That would be a more wonderful feat than the demons could accomplish!"

"I say, Scott," Nicky said, "you seem to be on our side,--by which I
mean you seem fair-minded, and not too ready to suspect an innocent
girl who isn't here to defend herself. Do you think you can find out
the truth, after all?"

Scott drew a long breath.

"I'm hampered by my superiors," he said, after a moment. "I don't want
you to repeat this, but I'm not allowed full swing----"

"What would you swing to, if you were?" Nan asked.

"I'm not sure, but I'd pursue different methods,--begin from a
different starting point."

"As how?" asked Nicky.

"Well, I'd do more searching. Do you realize we haven't a single
clue--not what can rightly be called a clue?"

"How about the curse, and the previous two deaths in the family?"
Carlotta said, determined to get his views on this subject.

"That's just it. I'd like to know more about those two deaths. Were
they really supernatural?"

"I don't know," she returned, wearily. "We have the old diary of a
long-ago Clearman, and he says they were. If my husband died because
of having broken the law of his family, and invoking their curse, I
should hate to have his daughter suspected of crime."

"I should say so!" declared Scott, with emphasis. "But there we are,
round the circle again. Either it was a death from human malice or from
demoniacal power. The former seems impossible, if there is no secret
way in or out of the room. The latter is--impossible, anyway."

"Ah, Mr. Scott," Carlotta said, "you are not willing to consider the
magic side of it, then?"

"To consider it, yes. To admit its possibility, no."

"Well, I believe it," said Carlotta, slowly. "I felt uncertain,
myself, at first, but since your investigation can point to no other
way,--except Lulie Clearman, and that way I refuse to think of for a
minute,--then, I say, I believe it was the curse that overtook him,
and the reason therefor, was his disobeying the edict of old Dathan
Clearman."

Carlotta looked very serious, and very beautiful as she spoke. Her
attitude might have been that of the Goddess of Justice and if she had
held a pair of scales she could have posed as a model for her.

Her voice was low and yet strong. It was as if she had set herself to
work to prove Lulie's innocence and was beginning by trying to turn the
trend of suspicion into the channels of supernaturalism.

"You do not know," she went on, "how definite are the accounts of the
curse as it descended on the other two Clearmans who had broken the
law of the house. My husband claimed he had the knowledge and power to
circumvent the curse, to balk the power of the demons,--but, it would
seem he had not. If you will read that old diary, Mr. Scott, I am sure
you would be influenced by what it says. Anyway, it is only just and
right that you should read it, to get a clear understanding of the
case."

"I shall be glad to read it, Mrs. Clearman. If you will give it to me,
I will take it home and read it tonight."

"I will gladly do so, but you must read it thoughtfully and with an
unprejudiced mind."

"And another thing, Scott," Nicky said, obeying a sudden impulse, "if
you don't get any forrader soon, you'll have to agree to let us get
another detective to work with you or instead of you."

"You may," said Scott, humbly. "I think I'll have to admit that this
case is too big a one for me. Get anyone you choose."

And with the old diary under his arm, he went away.




CHAPTER X

PAINTING STONES


"We're up against it," Raynor said, gloomily. "Those police, when they
get a notion in their pig-headed brains, stick right to it. They heard
somehow that Lulie and her father had tiffs now and then and they
jumped to the conclusion that they were mortal combats."

"Well," rejoined Goring, "they think she's in hiding and they're going
to smoke her out--is that what you gathered?"

"Of course that's what I gathered,--that's what Scott said."

"Then it will be a race," declared Raynor. "For I'm going to hunt her
myself and I'll bet I'll find her first."

"Oh, do, Jack," said Carlotta, earnestly. "You'll be a lot more clever
about it than the police, and you'll find her----"

"You'll never find her," Phoebe said, oracularly. "The same powers
that killed the father also took away the daughter."

"Then I'll find those powers! I'll move Heaven and earth and the
Infernal regions if it's necessary, but I'll get Lulie back."

"I don't think we've half looked," put in Nan.

"You don't understand, Nan," Goring said. "We agreed, you know, to keep
it out of the papers, and we did. Public report has it that she is
away on a short motor trip but can't be reached by messages. Now, they
won't swallow that much longer,--wouldn't have as long as this, except
for the nine days' wonder of Mr. Clearman's death. Now that the police
are on her trail as a possible suspect, we can't avoid publicity. We
needn't advertize for her,--the papers will be full enough of her
mysterious disappearance. We can't send a detective, there are enough
of them now. It seems to me there's almost nothing we can do----"

"Well, we can write or telephone to more of her friends----"

"What's the use? Now, see here," Nicky spoke plainly, "Lulie is away
by her own volition or that of another. We know she went away of her
own will. She's been gone four full days. At this minute, she's either
staying away because she wishes to, or because she can't help it. Now,
how many reasons can you think of that would keep her away because she
wants to stay away?"

"None," said Nan promptly.

"Well, wait," Carlotta demurred. "You know how wilful Lulie is, and she
might have had a serious quarrel with her father, and gone off in deep
rage, determined to give him a scare."

"But of course, when she read of his death in the papers, she'd come
right home," Raynor objected.

"No, it might be,--I'm only surmising, of course, just thinking
aloud,--but it might be that she went up to the Formans' camp in the
Adirondacks or some such place, where they don't get the papers."

"Really?" cried Nan. "Don't they have them at all?"

"They don't. They like to get away from all civilization,--back to
nature, and all that."

"Have they a telephone?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Gosh, what a way to live!" Nicky exploded.

"They love it. I'll write them at once, but it will take a letter a
long time to get there. Guides take it out to the woods, or something
like that."

"It's a crime to get beyond reach of communication!" Goring stormed on.
"But I haven't much hope she's there. That whole theory would be all
right if she hadn't had us people here. She just simply couldn't go
off and leave Nan without a word, even if she could leave us chaps."

"I know it," Carlotta nodded her head, "but we're trying to think of
some reason that could keep her away willingly."

"I say there isn't any," declared Nan. "Listen to reason. For Lulie to
go off and leave her home and her guests, willingly, would argue she
is having a good time. Now, where can she be having a good time,--of
course I mean a gay time, socially? It's too absurd!"

"Yes, that's absurd, Nan," Goring agreed. "If she's keeping away on
purpose, it's because she's spunky at her father----"

"Don't say that before the police!" and Raynor's eyes blazed. "Now, I
don't think she's staying away willingly at all. I think either she's
hurt and unconscious in some hospital, or perhaps somebody's home, or
else she is held as a prisoner----"

"But if she is ill anywhere, they would let us know. Lulie always
carried her address with her----"

"That's just it. Kidnapped, is my theory. You know they do kidnap rich
men's daughters. And, then, when Mr. Clearman died so strangely, the
kidnappers' plans were all upset, and they're playing a waiting game."

"That's the most reasonable yet," Goring murmured, but Carlotta cried,
"Not reasonable at all. Lulie is particularly well able to take care
of herself. I think she went off in a huff, and as she went, she got
madder and madder until she just thought she'd run up to the Formans'
for a day or two. Maybe she thought she'd send for you young people to
come up there and join her. Lulie's forever going on unexpected visits."

"Without invitation?" asked Nan.

"Oh, she has standing invitations at dozens of places. I feel sure she
is at one of them, planning to have you go there, too."

"But they're not all beyond the reach of the daily papers."

"It doesn't matter what you think," Phoebe Clearman said, in her solemn
way, "Lulie is not with friends. She was lured away in some manner by
the black magic that killed her father."

"Supernatural!" cried Nan.

"Black magic, whether supernatural or through human agencies. The
masks and gods of evil have powers we cannot fathom, ways we cannot
understand. Perhaps through human intervention, perhaps not; but by,
through and because of the Clearman curse, our Lulie has been taken
away."

"But she didn't do any wrong!" Raynor exclaimed in astonishment. "Why
wreak evil on her?"

"It is the Clearman curse," Miss Phoebe said, and her eyes peered at
the rest, in an uncanny fashion, while her gray curls shook at either
side.

Cartotta looked at her like one under a spell.

"Will it take me too, Phoebe? I asked Stephen once, and he said--he
said, he hoped so!"

"No, you're not a Clearman. You're in no danger. I may come under the
curse, I don't know. We Clearmans have murder in our hearts sometimes."

Suddenly, with a terrible shock, there returned to Jack Raynor's
memory, the night he had walked in the garden with Lulie, and had told
her she had something of the Lucrezia Borgia type in her makeup! He
had referred to Messalina; and she had quickly responded with Jael and
Herodias! How came those names so glibly to her tongue? Bah! What was
he thinking of?

With unlistening ears he sat through the rest of the conversation and
was greatly relieved when the dismal evening was over.

All night he was wakeful and restless. He could not sleep, and several
times he opened his door softly and looked down the hall, in a vague
wonder if he should see any uncanny sight.

But the halls and corridors were black, or shadowy where a small night
light might be seen.

He sat at an opened window for a few moments. He was about to light
a cigarette, when his attention was caught by a slow moving, slender
figure.

He looked more intently and decided it was Carlotta, in a black robe
and a black scarf over her head.

He watched her idly, assuming that she too was unable to sleep, and
sought solace in a walk in the garden.

There was dim moonlight, though not enough for Raynor to see clearly
the actions of the woman in the garden. But he saw her kneel on the
ground.

She seemed to be beside a fairly large stone or rock, and it almost
seemed to him she prayed to it, and then he smiled at his foolish
fancies.

She produced a small object and then another. Then she began to make
what were to him meaningless motions, and he watched, breathlessly.
Had she lost her mind? For she was painting! Yes, that's what she was
doing,--painting the stone! There was no chance for mistake now.

Well, if one is sleepless, one often tries some light or foolish task
to while away the hours, but painting in the garden at two o'clock in
the morning!

Apparently finishing her task, Carlotta rose and with a long look at
her handiwork, walked slowly back to the house.

"I'll be damned!" Jack said, with deep earnestness, "if that isn't the
queerest yet! She seems so quiet and self-possessed about it, just as
if it were the regulation thing to do."

And then his thoughts flew to Lulie,--to Lulie, who, the police said,
was a murderer. To Lulie, to whom he had said, "You have a trace of
the killer in you. Why had he said that? Why? Why? Why? And why had he
quoted, 'We are all capable of crime, even the best of us'?"

Well, Lulie Clearman was no criminal--yet how did he know this? He knew
next to nothing of the girl, and what he knew of her family and family
connections, gave him cause to think almost anything.

For surely, Stephen Clearman, with his masks and his magic, and the old
ancestors, with their curses and mysterious deaths, were anything but a
law-abiding, peace-loving crowd!

And yet, Lulie Clearman was his life's love. His one chosen woman.
And he believed in her innocence and purity. He believed,--he _knew_,
whatever the reason of her absence from home, it was nothing that would
reflect wrong or shame on her.

Yet, he had himself implied she could kill--could murder! Why had he
said that?

Who or what had killed Clearman, anyway?

And then, he made up his mind. Let who would seek the solution of the
mystery of that strange death, he would devote his time to the greater
mystery of Lulie's disappearance. His time. His life, if necessary. He
would never rest until he had found her wherever she might be and why.

He wouldn't plan his actions now,--he was feeling sleepy at last,--but
tomorrow morning he would begin in earnest, and he would find that girl.

It was not long after breakfast when Scott appeared, with the old diary
carefully wrapped in paper.

"Let's go out on the terrace," said Carlotta as she greeted him, "it's
pleasant out there. Anyone come who likes. If you're tired and sick of
hearing about masks and magic, don't come."

But there must have been a fascination for them in the subject, for
they all went.

Phoebe, with a grim look on her soft little face; Nan, in quiet
despair; Goring, eager to learn all he could of these weird subjects;
and Raynor, feeling that he might as well listen in, for there might be
something of value to be learned.

"I don't want to say, Mrs. Clearman," Scott began, a little excitedly,
"that I have been converted to heathen religions, or anything like
that. But I do say, that I understand how, after a deep study of these
things, some could be deeply influenced by them."

"Yes, indeed," it was Phoebe who spoke, "but you'll never go very
deeply into them. It takes a life of leisure, a love of close
application and--perhaps most of all,--an inherited tendency to
believe and to fear these dark sayings. You read Dathan Clearman's
diary?"

"And the others?" put in Carlotta, who didn't like to be set aside.

"Yes, I think it was the others that impressed me most."

"But it is Dathan's that explains the whole story of the Curse."

"Yes, of course. Now, have you read these, yourself, Mrs. Clearman?"

"I? Oh, Lord, no! Why, I wouldn't bother reading those old papers,
yellowed with age and dropping to bits. No, they don't interest me."

"Have you read them Miss Clearman?"

"No, Mr. Scott. But I am interested, and would love to read them only
my eyesight won't permit it."

"They are difficult to read,----"

"I'd like to read them," Goring interrupted. "Mr. Clearman said I
might. I'm keen on all this whole business. Perhaps you'll let me look
'em over?"

He turned to Carlotta, who nodded assent, and the detective went on.

"I sat up nearly all night with them, they are so hard to decipher.
And I didn't read all. You see, Dathan's is by far the longest, and
except for the part about the Curse, the least interesting. Two later
Clearmans are more to the point, so far as we are concerned. Well, this
Dathan lived and traveled 'long about 1750. You all know the main lines
of his story. He came home from a long trip in foreign lands, and found
his son had built additions to the house."

"What was the great harm in that?" Nan asked, curiously.

"I reckon it was only that Dathan was a bossy sort, and as he had
forbidden any additions, he just ran amuck--lost his temper. Anyway, he
cursed his son, disowned him and sent him away."

"Dear Miss Phoebe, did you have such a terrible man as that for a
progenitor?" and Nan smiled at the pale little face.

"I s'pose I did,--but I think I must have favored his wife."

"Then, you know," Scott went on, "he put up that fierce old fright on
the hall mantelpiece, or wherever it is, and that was to maintain and
carry out the curse, if called on."

"I've heard all this, I think I'll be excused for a while," Raynor said.

"Just wait a minute," Scott advised him. "I'm going to lay aside
Dathan's records for the present, and ask your attention to some other
papers that Mr. Clearman had, done up in the same packet. Here is a
diary of Adam Clearman more'n a half century later'n that first one. He
seems to be a nephew or grandnephew of old Dathan, and he inherited the
property. There's only a few pages of this one but it goes on to say
that Adam is going to brave the curse and build some additions to the
house. Says he isn't afraid of the old mask or of the curse. Well, he
built 'em, and there's a lot missing after that. But some odd leaves,
in the same handwriting, gave away the fact that he's pretty well
frightened, and,--the writing breaks off suddenly, and in another hand
is written:

"'Adam Clearman died while writing the above. Mysteriously stricken by
the curse of the house.'"

His hearers sat spellbound.

"I didn't know about that one," said Carlotta, and Phoebe promptly
added, "Neither did I."

"Do you suppose our Mr. Clearman knew?" Nicky said, in a low voice.

"And that ain't all," Scott proceeded. "Listen to this. It's a sort of
a diary of a still later Clearman,--Frederick, this one is. See, the
leaves are ragged, they're so old.

"Well, he declares he's going to build a bay window, 'cause his wife
wants it, and they're neither of them a mite afraid. He seems a
bumptious sort, but he tries to smooth out matters by saying that if
nothing happens to him, the family can feel the curse is removed, and
that the old terror is exorcised.

"But,--and this is the fearful thing,--he adds, if he should die by
unnatural means, then the curse remains and is even accentuated by his
anger and wrath, and moreover, he says that if the house law is ever
broken by a Clearman whose name is Stephen, then the curse shall be
doubled,--because Stephen was the name of Dathan's son, who made all
the trouble in the first place, and he warned anyone who bore a son of
the house of Clearman not to give the infant the name of Stephen."

Carlotta dropped her face in her hands and her slender shoulders shook
with sobs.

Phoebe sat bolt upright, looking as if she were trying hard to
understand and take in this story she had just heard. The others showed
interest and amazement, but said no word until Scott himself broke the
silence.

"Now, as I say, I can't admit these old writings have made me believe
in anything supernatural, 'cause I don't. But I do say, that if
there was anything at all in the idea of that curse being doubled,
some people might say it explained the strange disappearance of Miss
Clearman."

"Meaning that Lulie's dead?" Nan cried out, hysterically.

"Not necessarily that----"

"No, Nan," Phoebe interrupted, "but taken from us by the power of that
old curse, acting through the Black Magic of the heathen gods."

"Or heathen men," Carlotta said, sadly. "Phoebe, could Stephen have
made any enemies in those terrible places? Not the time I went with
him, but on some of his earlier trips?"

"No human powers were at work that night here, Carlotta. What happened
was foreshadowed by the Skull mask, and carried out by evil powers."

"You hadn't heard of these last bits, Mrs. Clearman?" Scott asked.

"No. I've only glimpsed the bit of Dathan's diary about the curse. It
may be Mr. Clearman hadn't read them himself. I found a few leaves
a day or two before he died. I don't know that these were the ones,
but perhaps they were and perhaps he hadn't begun on them. His eyes
were not any too strong, and he had abused them, working over his old
letters and documents."

"Well, there it is. I came to show it to you before I let the
Headquarters people see it. But mind you they won't pay a bit of
attention to it. If Stephen Clearman rose from the dead and told them
the Duk-Duk came and killed him, they wouldn't believe it."

"What is their opinion?"

Scott hesitated. Then having no choice, he said, "I think you know,
ma'am,--it is their opinion that somebody murdered Mr. Clearman by
giving him Prussic acid, on purpose. They say those custards wouldn't
kill him. And--only because of his daughter's peculiar absence just
now, do they look in that direction."

"And as to getting in and out of the study?" Carlotta said, suddenly.

"Well, you see, ma'am, there's ways. S'pose the young lady had a
duplicate key----"

"But the regular door key," Raynor said, "was on the inside of the
door."

"Well, s'pose she had one of those little steel instruments that turn a
key from the other side----"

"I thought of those instruments," Goring said, "but one wouldn't work
on that study door. There doesn't enough of the key stick through to
catch hold of."

Scott shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, those are their opinions."

Jack Raynor rose and went down the terrace steps to the garden. He
wanted to be by himself to think over these queer things.

Could that double curse story mean anything--anything at all? Why,
under the Heavens, would any Clearman mother name her baby Stephen,
then?

And could the double curse have included Lulie in its fell swoop?

Oh, it was all too ridiculous, too absurd! He must get away, where he
could think clearly, and keep his brain from getting addled. Moreover,
he was going to hunt Lulie. That was positive, and he decided to start
that very afternoon. He must go, or go crazy.

He turned his steps toward the house, and by chance looked toward the
part of the garden where he saw Carlotta the night before.

Idly, he turned his footsteps that way, and examined the place where
she had stood. He saw the stone, about as big as a large watermelon,
and stooping, he saw the marks of fresh paint on it,--red paint.

He marvelled, and concluded that it was a house of lunatics in which he
was visiting.

Acting on an impulse that he couldn't have explained, he stooped and
daubed off some of the paint on his handkerchief.

Then he went into the house.

Carlotta was in her room, Scott was down in the servants' quarters,
doing some detective work, and Nan and Goring sat listlessly in a swing
hammock.

"I'm going away," Raynor said. "I'm going to hunt Lulie."

They stared, and he proceeded, "Yes, I know you may say it's a wild
goose chase, and a hunt for a needle in a haystack, and all that. But
I'm going."

"Yes, do," Nan said, tears in her eyes. "If anybody can find her, you
can. Did you ever hear anything like that stuff in the old diaries?"

"That doesn't bother me," Jack said, slowly, "at least, I don't think
it does."

"That's what we were just saying," Nicky said. "We don't think it
bothers us,--but, you can't help thinking about it."

"But why would any woman in the Clearman family name her son
Stephen,--after that double curse?"

"Oh, we've puzzled that out," Nan cried. "You see, it probably wasn't
known outside the family of the man who doubled up the curse, and maybe
no one in his household knew it but himself. Then, naturally the old
diary got lost and the matter never was spoken of, so the mother of our
Mr. Clearman didn't know anything about it."

"And Carlotta found the diary?"

"It may have been among those bundles of old papers she found, and
maybe not. She doesn't know herself."

"Where did she find the old papers?"

"In some old chests and secretaries in the attic and towers. Every once
in a while Mr. Clearman would beg her to ransack and find him some
more. Then he'd go at them, and a bundle would last him a long time.
He couldn't go himself for it made his back ache to stoop over the
chests."

"Nan, tell me anything you can think of,--_anything_ that might shed
the least light or give me the least hint of where Lulie can be."

"I don't know one single thing, Jack, I only wish I did."

"Nor I," said Goring, "but here's something that may cheer your heart
a little. I had a few words with Leonard, the man who took her to the
train, and he said she murmured, 'I wonder what Jack will say,'--just
sort of thought it out loud, you know."

"Glad you told me, old chap. It helps a little--I say, do you believe
Carlotta will mind my going?"

"Goodness, no," Nan said, "but here she comes, ask her?"

Carlotta neared them, her dull black gown quite as becoming as the
lustrous robes she used to wear. Naturally, she wore no diamonds, and
that made it almost seem that the Diamond Queen was gone along with the
others.

"I'm going this afternoon to hunt for Lulie," he said simply.

"You blessed boy!" Carlotta cried, "how good of you! Where are you
going?"

"I don't know. New York first, of course, Carly. Do you know the
least mite of anything that might give me a steer? Can't you think of
anything Lulie said or did that might be a hint?"

"No--though of course she talked now and then of things she meant to
buy----"

"What? Hats? Gowns?"

"No, I can't think of a thing but a diamond wrist watch. She said she
wanted a nicer one than she has."

"It isn't much to go on--but I'll try the jewelry shops."




CHAPTER XI

GALLEY WEST


Scott came over Sunday morning. He looked both weary and perplexed.

"You people have got me guessing," he said, slowly, as he drew a hand
across his troubled brow. "I was awake all night, most, mulling over
those old papers I read, about the curse and all that."

"Then you begin to think there's something in it," Phoebe commented,
with the air of an expert talking to a novice.

"Think? I don't know what to think. But I'm not allowed to think of
magic and such things as a factor in this case. They've sent young
Tyndall, a wide-awake chap, to track down Miss Clearman----"

"How can he? What do you mean?" Carlotta asked.

"Why, he picks up the trail at the last place she was seen,--the
railroad station, you know, and he goes along to New York, asking
everybody who may have seen her--and all that. What he does depends on
how much brains he's got, and how much ingenuity."

"He won't find her," said Miss Phoebe, with her curls nodding.

"You're strong for the curse, then?" and Scott looked at her curiously.

"Of course I am. My family has lived in the shadow of that curse
for many long years. From this window you can see the tower, one of
the very things that brought the curse to us. From that time, every
Clearman has feared it, and some have felt it. Stephen is gone, Lulie
is gone, I am the last of the Clearman family. When I go, they will
call it a mysterious death. Mysterious, ha!" Her laugh was cackling,
almost uncanny. Carlotta rose and left the room, but Nan and Goring
lingered, fascinated by the strange old lady.

She looked like a sibyl now, and her eyes glinted and her gray ringlets
shook as she went on.

"You have all seen it. You have all known of Stephen's death, of
Lulie's disappearance. To doubt the malignity back of those tragedies
is to doubt your own senses. Carlotta need not run away,--she need not
fear it, only a Clearman born comes under the ban! I await my time."

Her manner changed. She became quiet, and folding her hands in her lap,
she sat, like some pale martyr awaiting her doom.

"Well, well, this won't do for me," Scott said a little gruffly. "I was
sent here to overhaul that West. What about him, anyway? I mean, are
you keeping him on?"

"Only for the present," Phoebe said, in her usual calm way. "Soon, I
shall dismiss him, with first class references. He will have no trouble
in getting a good position."

"Well, I don't know, ma'am. The Chief has a notion that he's the cat's
whiskers, himself. Beg pardon, ma'am, I mean, they sent me to put him
through a small course of sprouts."

When Scott became embarrassed, he fell into a slang diction, which he
had been ordered to suppress in the company of gentlefolk.

But Nicky Goring was not startled by allusions to feline
characteristics; such were in vogue at the time, and he said:

"Come on, I'll go with you. Or will you have him here?"

"No, I'll tackle him where he is. Want to come along, Miss Clearman?"

Phoebe did, and as Nan declined, the trio went in search of Galley
West. They found him in the pleasant room devoted to the servants'
use, sitting moodily idle.

His long, lack-luster eyes greeted them without interest as he rose and
stood at attention.

"Sit down, West," said Miss Phoebe kindly, as they took the chairs he
handed, "Mr. Scott wants to ask you some questions."

A wary look passed over the man's face, as he gave a nod of assent. It
was clear Galley West, his master gone, had abandoned his super-servile
attitude.

"I know all the main facts of the case," Scott began, "but I'm
interested in some sidelights on the matter. Tell me exactly when and
where you last saw Mr. Clearman."

"Alive?"

"Certainly, alive."

"At breakfast, on the Monday morning."

"Did he seem about as usual?"

"Yes."

"Appetite good?"

"Yes."

"Unusually so?"

"No."

"Well," Nicky broke in, "he ate two of those custard things----"

"Who fixed those custards, West? You or the cook?" said Scott.

"Sometimes Jinny, and sometimes myself; if she was busy I did it."

"Has he always been so fond of that flavoring?"

"Not so long, sir. A few months, maybe."

"Then you saw him leave the breakfast table and go up to his study?"

"I saw him leave the dining room, that's all I can say."

"I can tell you that," Nicky said. "He went straight to his study and I
went with him. We were there about fifteen or twenty minutes----"

"Did West come into the room?"

"I don't remember seeing him. I think not."

"Did you, West?"

"No, I never went in unless Mr. Clearman rang for me."

"Well, go on,--what did you do all the morning?"

"My usual duties. I look after Mr. Clearman's clothes, and I made some
lists of things he wanted or matters I wanted to consult him about, but
mostly I sat in the servants' room and waited. That was my duty, to be
on the jump the minute his bell rang."

"I see. And it didn't ring?"

"No, sir." West had fallen into a more respectful attitude. "So, when
it was time, I prepared the soup and crackers he always had at twelve
o'clock, and took the tray up to his room. But I couldn't get in."

"Did you call to him, West?" Miss Phoebe looked anxious.

"Yes, ma'am,--after I had rapped three times. And I then ventured to
look in at the keyhole, but I could see nothing."

"So, you got a ladder and looked in the window--" Scott drew him on.

"Yes, and I saw he was dead----"

"Wait, there you are! How did you know he was dead, so quickly?"

"He--he looked so--so stiff and quiet----"

"A man can't look stiff--and with that mask on, you couldn't see
his face. I tell you, Mr. West, you were a little too swift at that
conclusion!"

"What conclusion?"

"That the man was dead."

"But I didn't know it, I only felt that I must get in to him."

"Oh, well; I know all about the happenings right after that. Now, when
you saw him, you went and told Miss Clearman?"

"Yes."

"And did she think he was dead?"

"I--I think she did, sir."

"I can speak for myself," Phoebe said, a little sharply. "Yes, I did
think my brother was dead,--I knew he was, for I knew the curse was
working."

"Well, then, West, when Rogers came and cut the panel out of the door,
who put in a hand and turned the key?"

"I did."

"Yes, and you did it mighty quickly! Shall I tell you why? Because
you had that key in your own pocket all the time! They call it a
mystery,--that locked door. But it's no mystery to me. Mr. Goring left
that room at quarter past ten. Some time between that and twelve,
you were in there with Mr. Clearman. You killed him, with Prussic
acid,--not the flavoring extract, but the real thing. Then, you left
the room, locking the door on the outside, and putting the key in your
pocket. Then, when the time came to stage your discovery, you went
about it, carried it through, and when the door panel was cut out, you
slipped in your hand,--key and all,--and turned the key in the lock.
Who went into the room first?"

"I did," Nicky said; "what's all this mean, Scott? West guilty?"

"No, no," cried Phoebe, piteously, "no, he isn't, he can't be a
murderer! Tell them you're not, West!"

"Of c-course, I'm not--" but West looked like a cornered rabbit. His
eyes darted here and there, and he trembled all over.

"What was his motive?" asked Goring.

"His bequest, of course. In a hurry to get the thirty thousand dollars
left him in Clearman's will, and--also afraid that the new will Mr.
Clearman was planning would do him out of it."

"I didn't know there was any question of a new will."

"Yes, we got that knowledge from the lawyer. Now, come on, West, you
may as well own up. What did you do? Just feed it to him plain, or put
it in the custard? Clever idea, that! Thought the odor on his lips
would be taken for the Bitter Almond extract. But that stuff won't
kill. It takes the real Prussic acid for the deed. Then, you see, you
tied his mask on and like those chaps the poet tells of, you silently
slipped away."

Galley West stared. His queer eyes darted from one to another but came
to rest on the bewildered countenance of Miss Phoebe. It almost seemed
as if some glint of understanding passed between them.

"I didn't do that," he said, but his denial was addressed to her rather
than to the men present. "Did I?" he begged for corroboration.

"Of course not," she said, staring at him.

"Then tell us how anybody could get in and out of a locked room?" cried
Scott, triumphantly. "You can talk all the magic folderol you like, and
I'll own I was almost ready to fall for it, when I doped out the truth.
You see, this isn't the first time a murder has been done in a locked
room, and there are several ways of explanation. There's the secret
passage,--well, there's nothing of that sort in this house, not in the
new part, anyhow. Then, there's the sliding panel and concealed trap
door,--none of those things here. Then, there's the chap who bursts
open the door, jumps into the room first, and does the fatal deed right
then and there. That game wouldn't work, because West wasn't first in
the room."

"I was," said Nicky, ruefully, "but I never supposed it might make me a
suspect."

"And it hasn't. We've got our suspect and we've got our criminal. Going
to own up, West?"

"No, for I didn't do it."

"Leave the confession lay for a minute, then. When you went into the
room, after Mr. Goring, what did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all? Just twiddled your thumbs?"

"I stood about with the rest. I wanted to tidy up a bit but I thought
the Coroner wouldn't want anything touched."

"Oho, already certain the Coroner was coming! I bet nobody else in the
room was sure of that so quick!"

West paid little attention to these jeers, but said, as if thinking,
"Yes, I did do one thing; there were three letters on Mr. Clearman's
desk, and I mailed them."

"Why?"

"Only because it is second nature to me to take the letters as I leave
the room, and mail them at once."

"You're trying to distract my attention. What did you do of importance?"

"Nothing."

"Don't torture the man," Phoebe said, pleadingly. "You can't be right
in this accusation, Mr. Scott. I can't believe it."

"I'm afraid you'll have to, ma'am. I've been trying out several
theories and this is the only one that fits. I dessay you people don't
know how many possible ways I had to consider."

"I know," Nicky said, "I read detective stories, and I always like
those that present the problem of an insoluble crime in an inaccessible
room. But I don't at all like being in the midst of one."

"Yes, another fine solution," Scott warmed to his subject, "is to have
your precious murderer concealed in the room all the time, and then
when the door is broken in, he makes a getaway right through the crowd,
or just mingles with them and stays there. But I take it, Mr. Goring,
that when you went in that room no lurking villain slipped out past
you, did he?"

"No, that he didn't! I should have seen any such."

"And you, Miss Clearman, were you present?"

"Yes, I went into the room right after Mr. Goring. As soon as I saw my
brother, I knew the whole story. No amount of detective work will find
out anything more about it. The curse fell on him and he was gone."

Her face was white, and her small hands were clenched together. Her
thin old voice trembled, but she went on.

"And then, when Lulie disappeared, I knew that again the curse had
fallen, and the next time,--the next time it will fall on me."

She lifted her hands, palms upward, with a gesture, as if almost
inviting the Clearman curse.

"As I was saying," Scott proceeded, "there's more solutions to that
problem yet. There's people that say you can turn a key in a door with
a little steel contraption that works from the other side, but such a
thing wouldn't grip that study key. And then, I heard once that you
could turn a key in the other side of a lock, with a powerful magnet.
But that, I've proved myself, can't be done. Leastways, with no magnet
I've ever been able to hunt up. So, you see, the theory,--and it's no
mere theory,--the assumption, the certainty, that the deed was done
just as I've explained to you, is impossible of doubt. And no one could
have done it but West, here, for he's the man who put his hand in and
turned that key--the key just taken from his own pocket."

"I didn't do it," said Galley West, and it seemed that every time he
repeated that simple negative declaration, he used a different tone.

This time it was a little belligerent. Resentful of the accusation, and
ready to fight the man who made it.

"Then who did?" Scott flung at him. "I'm ready to hear you, West, if
you have anything to say. Who else could have done it and how?"

"He can't tell you that," flashed Phoebe, angrily. "But you shan't
accuse West. He's as innocent as I am."

"Yes, just about." And then Scott flung his bomb-shell. "Are you
entirely innocent, Miss Clearman?"

"How dare you!" cried Goring, as he sprang to Phoebe's side. "What do
you mean?"

"I am here to investigate a crime," Scott said, gravely. "I have a
right to ask what I choose. Miss Clearman, I put it to you, are you
entirely innocent of any hand in your brother's death?"

Phoebe Clearman looked at him, and tried to speak. But her vocal cords
refused to work, her facial muscles twitched, and she fell forward in a
convulsive spasm.

Goring lifted the frail little form, and carried her from the room.

"You shouldn't have done that," and West glared at the detective.

"I did it to make you talk," said Scott, calmly. "Now, will you make
your own confession, and save her more trouble?"

"I didn't do it," said West, this time speaking quietly, but
stubbornly. "Why would I do it? Mr. Clearman was a good master,--a kind
one--most of the time----"

"Not all the time?" Scott sensed further motive. "Did you quarrel? Did
he storm at you? Find fault with you?"

"Sometimes."

"Did he ballyrag his sister? Was he ever unkind to her? Look here,
West, I've got to put this thing through. You've got to tell me all you
know----"

"Mr. Scott," Goring returned to the room. "Didn't you overstep all
bounds of propriety and decorum when you spoke to Miss Clearman like
that?"

"Well, Mr. Goring, propriety and decorum don't figure very big in a
detective's work. I'm here to find out who killed Stephen Clearman.
I've proved to my own satisfaction that he _was_ killed, and I don't
want to hear any more about this mask business. We've learned there
was more of the poison found in the dead man's body than was at first
diagnosed. We know he was killed by a small but fatal dose of it, that
he did not administer to himself. We're going to find out who gave it
to him. I don't like to speak out so plain before the widow or that
visiting young lady, but the old one gets on my nerves with her magic
and her curse!"

"But you can't think for a moment that she would want her brother dead!"

"Why not? She'd have the reasons that West here would. She knew she was
in for a big slice of his property, and she knew that this notion of
his about stations or whatever they are, would cut down the inheritance
of everybody, except the wife. Now, beside that, I know how dead set
she was against those stations, and too, I think the old dame is a bit
off her nut."

"Hush, Scott! I won't listen to such talk about a fine old lady!"

"Did you see her when I was a quizzin' West?" the detective began to
get angry. "No, but I was watchin' her! All the time she was lookin'
at him queer like, and wringing her hands, for fear he'd say what he
shouldn't."

"I think you mistake her intent," Nicky said, amazed at the turn things
had taken. "She was alarmed for West's safety, and of course it made
her very nervous. Also, she thoroughly believes her brother died from
supernatural causes. She is as much in fear of the curse as he ever
was----"

"I tell you I don't want to hear any more of that curse. Lots of
families have 'em--in their mind--but when it comes to feeding a man
enough Prussic acid to kill him, then I say it's time that 'curse' was
looked into. Who did all that spooky business, paradin' the halls at
night? Who did, West? You or Miss Clearman? Or both? If you two are
working in cahoots, you'd better own up. It'll help you a lot. Which of
you killed Clearman?"

"I didn't do it," West said, his lean gaunt frame trembling, his lips
twitching and his eyes darting wildly.

"Lord! I believe I've got two nuts on my hands! Well, the nuttier they
are, the easier to handle,--in some respects. Now, look here, I'd
arrest you in a minute, but I think I'll get more out of you right here
on the spot. Maybe I haven't sufficient proof for an arrest, but I'm
going to get it, and you're going to help me. Come along, up to Mr.
Clearman's study."

"Oh, no--not that----"

"Yes, just that. Come, now, I want to ask you a few things. If you're
going along, Mr. Goring, I must ask you not to butt in on my work. I'm
carrying out orders and I hate to be interfered with. I'm on the right
trail at last and I'm going to follow it while the following's good."

"May I ask one thing?" Nicky sounded sarcastic. "Does your great theory
hint that West carried off Miss Lulie, too? Or that her aunt did?"

"I'm not tackling that end of the job. Tyndall is on that, and so I
don't take notice whether it hits against my work or not. I've got my
dander up and I'm going straight ahead to do my duty, the way I see it."

Though shocked at the situation and angry with Scott, and sorry for
West, Nicky still gave the detective credit for sincerity and honesty.
He had thought up that idea of the key in West's pocket, and it
certainly was plausible. Goring hadn't the least belief that Phoebe was
mixed up in the affair, but he felt that Scott was using her as a hold
over West.

He wasn't anxious to go to the study if there he would have to witness
a scene of third degree. But he felt that the family ought to be
represented at every possible discovery and he concluded to go.

The three men went quietly up to the room, and Scott unlocked the door.
The missing panel had been replaced with a temporary one.

"Now," Scott locked the door on the inside, "I'll sit in Mr. Clearman's
chair. You tie on me the mask he wore that last morning. Go ahead, I'm
not afraid of the things."

Scott sat in the desk chair, and with trembling fingers West adjusted
the mask in place and tied the leather thongs behind his head.

"Not so cumbersome as I thought," the detective said, turning his head
from side to side, as if he rather fancied himself in the heathen
decoration. "Now, pretend I'm Mr. Clearman. Go about the room, and do
the things you always did for him."

"What things?"

"How do I know? Whatever your duties were. Did you light his
cigarettes?"

"Cigars, sir." Quite unconsciously, West fell into the manner of a
servant. He brought a cigar box, held it out, and the hideous face
looked down as Scott took one.

"The eyeholes are big," he said, almost as if to himself, "and I
believe the mouth is quite large enough to smoke comfortably."

He thrust the cigar into the grinning lips of the mask, and found that
it was quite easy to manage.

West silently presented a lighted match and Scott used it. Then West
set an ash-receiver, a standard one, at his side, and Scott drew one or
two whiffs.

He turned to Nicky.

"Was Mr. Clearman smoking when you were here with him that morning?" he
asked.

"No, I asked him to, and he refused. Said he was nervous and tobacco
made it worse."

"H'm. Now, look here, Mr. Goring, or, no, wait a few moments longer."

Nicky waited, wonderingly, and Scott smoked on.

West stepped about the room, straightening some desk things, dusting
the telephone, and such trifles, and the eyes behind the horrid mask
followed all his movements.

"Now," Scott said, after a short length only of the cigar was left,
"now, West, take off this damned thing."

Obediently West removed the mask, and Scott took it from him.

He smelled carefully at the inside of the mask, where the mouth was.

Then he nodded his head with satisfaction.

"Come here, please, Mr. Goring," he said, "sniff at it, right there."

Nicky did so, and remarked that he smelled only tobacco.

"That's just it," cried Scott. "This thing is made of _papier maché_
which catches and holds odors. I smoked just now, and the tobacco
smell remains. Mr. Clearman took the Prussic acid, and the odor of it
remained on the mask's lips."

"Well?"

"Well, that proves it was not the pudding he ate for breakfast! It was
pure Prussic acid. The odor was faint but sure!"




CHAPTER XII

TWO INVESTIGATORS


In Carlotta's pretty boudoir, she was having a confab with her
sister-in-law.

The young widow looked very lovely in a negligee gown of black chiffon,
whose long, pointed sleeves fell away from her soft white arms, and a
string of black beads circled her throat.

"You see, Phoebe," she was saying, "it's all very well for you to want
to stay here in your lifelong home, where you were born and raised, but
for me, now that Stephen is gone, the house has no attraction and is
full of sad memories and associations."

"I understand, Carlotta," Phoebe Clearman responded, shaking her little
gray curls, "and I wouldn't keep you against your will. You are your
own mistress now,----"

"That's another thing," Carlotta interrupted, "I am my own mistress,
but that's nothing to wish for. A widow is an undesirable person in a
social set like ours. I should never be invited to dinners and dances,
because as everybody says, it's so hard to get extra men. No, Phoebe,
my life,--my social life, I mean, is over. Now, this is what I have
planned. I want to make it my life work to carry out Stephen's wishes
regarding the Stations. I want to go over there to do it, because that
is the only way it can be properly done. Of course I know just how and
where to go. Not every woman could travel in the Far East, but I was so
thoroughly in Stephen's confidence that I know all about his relations
with the great men over there, and I know all about the wicked ones. I
am sure I can attend to everything as my husband would wish it done."

"But you can't go all alone."

"No, I shall have to have a secretary, of course, and a maid, and I'd
like a woman companion. Would you like to go?"

"Mercy, no!"

"Oh, well, as to that, I can find a companion, I daresay, or I might
get along with only Violet. That is a minor detail."

"What about Lulie?"

"I'm sure I don't know. But I can do nothing in regard to Lulie that
you can't do. I love the girl, and I can't help thinking she'll turn up
safe and sound. As you know, I don't share your idea that the curse is
responsible for her disappearance,--and yet----"

"And yet, what?" asked Miss Clearman, with a little asperity.

"And yet, I can't help remembering how thoroughly Stephen believed
in all those things. That's another reason for my wanting to go back
there. I hope to find out some things that puzzle me in those matters."

"Well, as you know, Carlotta, I have never approved of the Stations,
but if you go 'way off there, what about Lulie's part of her father's
money?"

"Oh, I'll do right in that matter. I'll settle a proper sum on her
before I go, and then, if she never comes back, we can see about that
when I come back. What is the substance of your own will?"

"Everything to Lulie, of course, if she is here to get it. If not,--I
haven't decided as yet what I shall do."

"No, I suppose not. I shall sell my diamonds and use the proceeds
toward the work. I want it all to be a sort of memorial to Stephen, who
was always so good to me."

"Well, I loved my brother, but I shall give no part of my money toward
what I consider a foolish scheme. I shall remain in this home, and
spend the rest of my days in being as comfortable and happy as I can. I
want to make several changes----"

"In the house?"

"Oh, mercy, no! not in the house! The curse may get me because I'm a
Clearman, but never because I build or add to the building!"

"Phoebe, where is Lulie? Tell me your real opinion."

There was a challenge in the tone, which Phoebe resented, and she said
sharply:

"I don't know. I can only make guesses."

"What are your guesses?"

"What are yours?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then I think,--mind you, it's only surmise,--I think there's a young
man in the case."

"Oh, do you? I never thought of that. Who?"

"Lord, I don't know who. But I do think that nothing short of a love
affair would have made her run off like that. I don't for a minute
think anything has happened to her. I believe she went voluntarily and
will soon return."

"No, Carlotta, no. It is the Clearman curse."

"May I come in?" said Nan's voice at the door. "Mr. Tyndall is here."

"Who is Mr. Tyndall?" asked Phoebe.

"The detective who went on trail of Lulie. Apparently, he hasn't found
her, but I thought you two might want to come down and hear his story."

Tyndall proved to be a pleasant-looking, rather self-satisfied young
man with an off-hand manner and a nice voice.

His story might have been soon told, but he elaborated it all he
possibly could, in order to play a prominent part himself.

"I wish I might have followed the trail before it grew so old," he
said, with a deprecating cough, "but the quest was not assigned to
me until yesterday. Monday! A whole week after the young lady's
disappearance! But I set to work to do the best I could. I took the
train yesterday morning that Miss Clearman took the week before. The
eleven-thirty. I asked the people at the station here, if anyone
remembered seeing Miss Clearman take that train, and both the station
master and the baggage agent said they remembered it perfectly. One
of them said he saw the conductor help her on. Well, I made for that
conductor and he seemed a bit hazy. Said he helped so many people on
and off every day, he couldn't state positively anything about it. A
very conservative sort of person indeed. But he had a hazy glimmer
of having seen her, though he said he has been so pestered by people
asking him about it, that he can't say any more than that. A most
unsatisfactory chap."

"Did you learn anything further?" asked Nicky, trying to speed up the
narrator.

"Yes, and no," the young man enunciated clearly. "Yes,--and no."

Now if there was one thing that irritated Phoebe Clearman it was the
use of that particular phrase, and she said, crisply:

"Never mind the no part, tell us the yes."

He looked at her with a grieved air, and resumed:

"Well, I left no stone unturned. I asked the brake-man if he remembered
seeing her, and----"

"And did he?" cried Nan, exasperated at his slowness.

"No, not that he recollected. There's no parlor car on that train, you
see, so she must have sat in a plain coach. Well, I went on to New
York, and I questioned everybody in the Grand Central Station,--I mean
every official or employe,--without the least result,--I say, without
the least result! Now, what do you think of that?"

Tyndall paused, and sat back, as if he had announced triumph instead of
failure.

But, as Nicky Goring reflected, what more could the man do?

Miss Phoebe allowed herself a small "Hmph," of disappointment, Carlotta
sat gazing at the young detective, and Nan looked frankly distressed
and began to cry softly.

"Well," Scott observed, having listened attentively, "you sure didn't
pull off much, Tyn, but I can't blame you. I don't see, myself, what
more you could have done. Didn't the conductor have her ticket?"

"Now, how could he tell that?"

"Anyway, she uses a mileage book," put in Phoebe.

"Then that would show her name and address, in case of need," observed
Scott.

"Why did you wait so long before letting me at it?" Tyndall grumbled to
his superior.

"'Twasn't my fault," Scott retorted. "The family didn't want it made
public----"

"Because we thought every day she'd come home!" Nan defended.

"She'll never come home," groaned Phoebe.

"Why not?" and Tyndall turned quickly to her.

"Oh, Lord," Scott said, "don't begin on the spooks! Now, look here,
Tynney, you did all you could, but it doesn't amount to a hill of
beans. Fade away, son. I've a man's work to do on this case."

With elaborate farewells to each one present, the dapper chap took
himself off.

"I'm afraid you hurt his feelings," Nan said, with a slight smile.

"Not him, ma'am," Scott declared. "That's one of the impossibilities.
He thinks he pulled off a big job at sleuthing. That he did nothing
doesn't worry him a bit."

"He couldn't do any more than he did," said Carlotta, wearily. "What
are we going to do next?"

That question was partly answered shortly, when the Jack of Hearts
walked in. Though not wearing his heart on his sleeve this time, it was
none the less at promptings of that organ that Raynor had pushed his
investigation rather farther than Tyndall had done, and had brought
home at least a few vague results.

"I can't make it out," Raynor said, yet his declaration of ignorance
was far from sounding as hopeless as Tyndall's had.

"I started here at the station by asking the railroad people what they
remembered about Lulie's getting on the train. They said only what we
knew already, but it's sure that she did take that train."

"Yes, we can bank on that," said Nicky, "go on."

"Well, I chased up the conductor, he wasn't on the train I took, but
I got at him, and he remembered nothing at all about Lulie. So, I
made him think back to see if he could remember anyone who was on the
train. Pretty hard job, after nearly a week. He couldn't, but after I
made allusions to a certain monetary unit, he put his wits to work,
and raked out the information that Miss Booth must have been on the
train, because she always takes it on Mondays. Also Mr. Street, because
he gives him a _douceur_ every month and that was the day. Also Mrs.
Frelinghuysen, because he had the devil's own time to raise a window
for her, and she told him what she thought of him."

"Well, old chap, I'll say that was some clever work!" exclaimed Nicky,
in admiration. "Hasten on."

"I did," and Raynor smiled a little; "first, I tried to get more names,
but a promise of the whole Bank of England couldn't bring forth any
more memories. I got the addresses of these three people, and I've been
to see them."

Scott gazed at the speaker in unbounded admiration.

"Ought to be on the Force," he said to himself.

"Of course none of them lives in Valley Falls. The first one I tackled,
Miss Booth, is a stenographer, from somewhere above here, who goes down
Mondays and comes back Fridays. Well, she seemed to remember dimly that
she saw Lulie, but it made such a slight impression, that she could
tell me nothing. Mrs. Frelinghuysen, a stately dame, said that she
saw Lulie get on the train. She didn't know her, but recognized the
photograph I had with me, and she said Lulie got off at a way station,
she didn't go through to New York. But what station she didn't know, as
she was engrossed in her set-to with the conductor and the car window."

"At a way station," said Nan, wonderingly. "What on earth would she do
that for?"

"Go on," said Scott, annoyed at any interruption.

"And then," Raynor said, with a gleam of satisfaction at one small
element of success, "then I hunted out Mr. Street. And that very
observing man had seen Lulie, and, I'm afraid, had looked upon her
with the eye of admiration. He didn't know her, but recognized the
picture at a glance. 'Yes,' he told me, 'I saw that girl get on at
Valley Falls. She sat in front of me, and she got off again at the
next station, Hamilton.' I kept as cool as I could and tried to learn
more. 'Did the conductor take her ticket?' I asked him. 'Didn't have
time,' was his answer. 'He was fiddling with a window across the
aisle, and we reached Hamilton before he made his round. I remember
all about the young lady, because she was so beautiful.' He spoke in
a most respectful, courteous way, and I liked him a lot. Well, of
course, I asked him about Lulie's demeanor, or attitude, or anything he
could tell me, but there was nothing. She sat in front of him, so he
only caught her profile now and then, and after all, it's only a few
minutes' ride to Hamilton. And there you are."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Raynor," Scott said, heartily. "You have
accomplished more than the police have been able to do."

"But what does it amount to?" said Raynor, gloomily. "I've been to
Hamilton, I've visited every house in the place,--there's only a
handful,--and nobody,--man, woman or child,--knew Lulie or recognized
her picture."

"She got off there to go somewhere else," said Scott, sagaciously.

"Yes, I thought that out," Raynor agreed. "But where did she go, and
where is she now?"

Carlotta gave Phoebe a significant glance, which the latter readily
understood to mean a reference to the hypothetical love affair, which
the widow had hinted at. But Miss Clearman tossed her curls and set her
lips together in a stern refusal to mention the subject aloud.

So Carlotta shrugged her lovely shoulders a mite, and neither of them
knew that the same thought was making life a misery for the Jack of
Hearts.

He tried to down it, but it thrust up its ugly head, reminding him of
Lulie's speech that Leonard had overheard, "I wonder what Jack will
say."

Yet his whole attitude was one of clenched hands and gritted teeth,
and find that girl he would, if it was within the bounds of human
possibilities!

"From here, we must take it up," Scott said, not realizing how pompous
he sounded. "You have done wonderfully, Mr. Raynor--"

"I should say he had!" exclaimed Nicky, jealous for Jack's applause. "I
can't see how you thought of all that cleverness. Why, that tin-eared
person got exactly nowhere!"

"Nor did I get very far," Raynor said, ruefully.

"Now," Scott said, "I must insist on doing what should have been done
long ago. I must search Miss Clearman's room. The facts that Mr. Raynor
has set up, put this in the class of mysterious disappearances, and it
is rightly in the hands of the police."

"I shall allow no such intrusion--" Phoebe began, but Scott said,
quietly, "I'm afraid, Miss Clearman, we are not asking permission."

"May I be present?" asked Carlotta. "I think Lulie would prefer it so."

"Yes," said Scott, "and Miss Loftis, if she likes."

Apparently he was tacitly excluding the men, so the trio went upstairs.

Violet met her mistress in the hall, and seemed shocked at what was to
be done.

"Foh de Lo'd!" she cried, "su'ch Miss Lulie's room! What goin's on!"

"Be quiet, Violet," Carlotta said. "You may come in, you may be of
help."

Scott made no objection to this.

A methodical and careful search ensued.

Whatever Scott's other failings, he was a model room searcher. When
he opened Lulie's writing desk and read letters, he did it with a
deprecating air that was apology itself; when he examined her bureau
drawers, his regretful face showed his distress at the inevitable.
But nothing appeared to assist them in their quest. The letters, on
which Scott had banked the most, were from girl friends, or correct
male acquaintances. If Lulie received any more missives or had any
clandestine correspondence, it was, so far, securely hidden from the
prying eyes.

And it was this that mystified Scott.

Surely, he thought, every girl has some love letters. Since there
are none about, they are hidden. So he increased his efforts; he
tapped walls for secret panels, prodded chair cushions, looked behind
pictures, felt under piles of _lingerie_, and even looked between the
mattresses.

Nan watched him with scornful, but helpless disdain. Carlotta looked on
with sad eyes, wondering what would come to light. Violet, standing by,
showed a stolid, servile face, but her eyes followed the detective's
moves with such persistence and intensity, that it finally got on his
nerves.

"Put that woman out!" he said, irritably, and at a nod of dismissal
from Carlotta, Violet left the room.

Lulie's bathroom and small dressing room were given a like careful
scrutiny, with the final result that not one scrap of paper, not one
iota of evidence of any sort was found that pointed to her having gone
away from home on any secret errand. If she had, she had been most
scrupulously careful to leave behind no hint of it.

Nan could note but one thing missing. That was a photograph of Jean
Hayden, a friend of both girls.

She mentioned this to Scott, who showed a little interest.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"A girl we knew at school," Nan replied. "Did you ever know her, Carly?"

"No, I never saw her; I've seen that picture here among Lulie's friends
and asked who she was, but I took no special interest. Why on earth
should she take that with her? I don't believe she did. She more likely
threw it away."

"No," Nan insisted, "it was here Sunday night, before she left. We were
talking about Jean. She lives in New York, now. We both liked her, but
not especially. It's the queerest thing!"

"What did Miss Clearman say about the young lady?" Scott asked.

"Why, nothing much. Asked me if I thought she was pretty, and
if I liked the way she did her hair, and if I thought she was
intellectual-looking. But she didn't stress these things, and as we
drifted to other matters, she never even glanced at the picture again.
I'm sure she had little interest in Jean, personally."

"Well, it doesn't seem to mean anything to me," Scott decided, after
hearing Nan's tale. "And I can't find anything here that does tell me
anything. Let's leave it."

He went downstairs, and Nan and Carlotta sat a few moments in Lulie's
room wondering about Jean's picture.

"She simply grew tired of it," Carlotta opined, "and took it out of the
frame, meaning to put some other picture in. She often changes them
about like that. I don't believe she threw it away."

"Then where is it? We've been over all her things with a fine tooth
comb. What became of Jean's picture?"

"Gracious, Nan, _I_ don't know. She may have taken it with her. I can't
imagine why, but of course she may have done so."

"Of course," said Nan, absently, and they went downstairs.

In the servants' room, Scott was hammering at West again.

"I tell you man," the detective said, sternly, "this matter of Miss
Clearman's disappearance is one thing, and it will be looked after,
but there is also the matter of Mr. Clearman's murder, and that's
where you come in. I'm not arresting you, because I want to use you
here, but don't try any getaway business. You're under the strictest
surveillance,--if you know what that means. Now, listen here. You were
Mr. Clearman's secretary, in a small way,--as to some things, I mean."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Clearman didn't want a regular secretary around him,
though he often had expert stenographers and cataloguers and such to
work for him."

"I see. And just what did you do?"

"I looked after his stationery,--he was very particular. And I kept his
books, some of them. And I drew checks for him,--I mean, he signed them
but I wrote them."

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"I looked after all his money matters,--he trusted me."

West said this last with an air of quiet pride.

"Yes, of course; now, West, a few days before he died, he drew ten
thousand dollars from the bank in cash."

"Yes, sir. He often did that, sir. I mean, he always had ready money by
him, and he drew it in large sums."

"Where is that ten thousand dollars?"

"In Mr. Clearman's safe. I saw him put it there."

"You did! And as soon as the breath was out of his body, you took it
out! As soon as you had killed your master, with your damnable poison,
you robbed his safe!"

"I didn't do it, sir."

That peculiar phrase of West's always made Scott ireful, and he glared
at the man, as he said, "Yes, you did. If not, where is it? It isn't in
the safe."

"Maybe Miss Lulie took it, sir."

"What!" roared Scott, "how dare you use that lady's name?"

"I only thought she might have done so, because she was in the study
that morning, after I was."

Scott grew quiet.

"What are you saying, West?" he asked, in a low tone; "be careful, man."

"I will, sir," West's voice was steady. "I know Miss Lulie was in the
study after I cleaned it up----"

"Wait a minute, when did you clean it up?"

"I clean it mostly before Mr. Clearman gets up. Then as soon as he is
through his breakfast, I go there and cast about to see if there are
any odds and ends to be attended to. Windows, ash-trays or anything.
And, I left that place in perfect order. When I went in again,
after--after Mr. Clearman was dead, there was one cigarette end on a
tray. It was one of Miss Lulie's, sir."

"How do you know?"

"Hers have her initials on them."

"Go slow, now. What did you do with it?"

"I--I threw it away."

"Why?" Scott fairly shot the word at him.

"Because," West looked him squarely in the eye, "because I was afraid
some addlepated detective might mix her up in the trouble, sir. And, if
she was in there and if she took that money, her father gave it to her."

"Don't mention this to anybody, West," Scott said, and rising quickly,
he left the room.

He went straight to Jack Raynor and told him the whole story exactly as
he had had it from West.

Somehow, he felt, since Raynor's work on the train matter, he deserved
to come first in every way.

"Scott," said the Jack of Hearts, after he had listened, "here's where
we get the big Detective."

"Yes, sir," said Detective Scott.




CHAPTER XIII

TONY BARRON


They did get the big detective. He was the man Nicky had said he knew
or knew of, and his name was Tony Barron. He had been christened
Anthony, but now he used that name only when signing checks.

Scott had expressed himself willing to work in harmony with the
private investigator, and Barron was glad to undertake the unusual and
remarkable case.

Carlotta, who was the one to pay the bill, wanted him to come as soon
as possible, both because it would be better for his work and also
because she wanted to get away herself.

"I want to go to New York, Phoebe," she said to her sister-in-law. "I
want to go there and stay in some small hotel, while I make my plans
for my foreign trip and settle up the estate. Of course, Stephen's
lawyers are there; and all his securities and that sort of thing are in
the bank there."

"I see, Carlotta," Phoebe returned, thoughtfully, "and I don't blame
you. As you say, Clearman Court holds nothing for you but sad
associations. You will be near enough for us to see each other often,
and so, my dear, go as soon as you can manage it. I shall stay right
here."

Carlotta was secretly a little amused at the ease with which the older
woman appropriated the house. The whole residuary estate of the dead
man was Carlotta's very own, Phoebe's bequest being definitely stated.

But the widow was glad that the sister wanted to stay on in the home
she loved so well and too, it saved a lot of trouble in disposing of
the place otherwise.

"Do, Phoebe, and then if Lulie returns, you will be here to welcome
her. I shall make all settlements and arrangements with the lawyers,
and everything of that sort will be all right. Now this new detective
is coming, and I hope to goodness he'll be expeditious. I want the
thing settled, whether they find a murderer or not."

"They'll find no murderer,--and, look here, Carlotta, I don't want that
new nuisance questioning me all the time. I'm sick of being questioned!"

"Why, of course he'll question you, he'll question all of us. How can
he find out things otherwise?"

"We've been questioned by forty-'leven men already, and what good has
it done?"

"Well, don't be uppish, Phoebe. It won't get you anywhere, and it may
turn suspicion toward you."

Carlotta saw a grimace overspread the fine old face.

"Let 'em suspect me!" she retorted, and marched off in haughty
indignation.

Tony Barron came.

As was usual, introductions were made on the Terrace at tea time.
This was always one of the pleasant episodes of the day. The broad,
picturesque terrace, the extended view of lakes and rolling hills, the
formal gardens in the foreground and the setting sun casting shadows on
the lawns, made a charming setting for the group at the tea table.

Barron proved to be a rather athletic, rather good-looking young man,
of brownish blond effect. His hair narrowly escaped being golden, and
his eyes were of a penetrating blue that seemed to see right to the
very heart of things. He was tanned and wholesome-looking, muscular yet
graceful of movement.

And he was a little courtly of address, with a frequent whimsical smile
that was decidedly ingratiating.

Clearly, the man had on his company manners, for this fine gentleman
could never strike terror to a depraved criminal.

"Now, out with it," he said, as he accepted his cup of tea, "tell me
I don't look one bit like a detective,--tell me you thought I'd be
quite different,--ask me how I go about my work and how I came to be a
detective."

Carlotta ventured a smile.

"Just exactly what I was going to say," she exclaimed. "Are you a mind
reader as well as a detective, Mr. Barron?"

"Is there any difference?" he parried, looking at her quizzically. "A
detective, to be worth his salt, must be a mind reader. That is my
strong card. That, and perseverance."

"Those are your main lines of procedure, then?" Raynor said, quietly.

"I've one more," Barron returned, looking off over the hills, "that's
a strong mental bias in favor of anything I hear repeated a great many
times. For instance, in connection with this case, and of course, I
know quite a lot about it, I've been impressed with the continual
cropping up of reference to masks and magic. Therefore, I'm prepared to
take those into account."

He beamed on them all impartially and only Jack Raynor noted the
intentness and appraising acuteness of his glance.

"You well may be," Phoebe broke in, quickly, "for they are at the root
of the matter. If you like, Mr. Barron, I will undertake to show you
the masks and explain them."

"Thank you. I shall accept your offer. Now, if you'll pardon my talking
so much of myself, I just want to make a few stipulations. I am a
very busy man. I take a case and I put it through as expeditiously as
I can. I may not indulge in social chat, or even allow myself time for
sympathy," he gave a gravely smiling glance at Carlotta and Phoebe.
"I must have complete freedom of the house and permission to talk
to the family, guests or servants at my own convenience. All this
may sound peremptory and even autocratic, but that's the way I work.
Also, I play. A certain portion of each day I shall put in at tennis
or golf,--if available,--or walking. The rest I shall devote to the
business in hand, and I hope to make the results speedy."

His charming smile spread itself abroad again, and took from his speech
all effect of asperity or curtness.

"That's exactly the way I should choose to have you work," Carlotta
said, leaning back in her low porch chair, and looking at him from
under her long eye-lashes. She was rewarded by a flickering smile of
interest from the new man.

"And we all want to work with you," said the impulsive Nicky, "just in
so far as you want to have us do so."

"That's the kind of an offer I like," Barron said, heartily. "And now,
for I'm going to waste no time at all, the amenities are over, and we
may begin work. I want the history of the case. Please, Miss Clearman,
begin and tell me your version of it. And I warn you, I'll call a halt
if you get too prolix."

The man was fascinating, there was no doubt of that. His frank, almost
boyish face, his gleaming blue eyes, his recurring but short-lived
smile, and his wizard-like perception made the interview interesting
even to those who were tired of the whole subject.

He led Phoebe on to tell of her brother, of the masks, of the curse and
of the Clearman family. When she waxed diffuse, he gently checked her
up and set her off on another track. Then he turned to Carlotta and
from her learned much of her married life and her husband, incidentally
of her own temperament and disposition.

"I love that Face Card business," he exclaimed, as he heard of it.
"I'd like to see you, Mrs. Clearman, as the Queen of Diamonds. Perhaps
you'll wear some, just for me. And the King of Clubs," he added,
musingly. "Poor chap, he must have been a Court Card. And you're the
Jack of Hearts," he turned to Raynor.

"I have that honor," laughed Raynor. "A Jack is an honor, isn't it?"

"Sure. And Miss Lulie Clearman, what is she?"

"She's the Queen of Hearts," replied Raynor, quickly, "and I hope you
can find her." Only Tony Barron noted the little pout on Carlotta's
scarlet lips.

"Well, I am Big Casino," the detective stated, gravely, "and I shall
take anything that comes my way."

After tea, Barron and Phoebe Clearman went to the study, where he was
deeply interested in the masks. Some of the others drifted in, but,
without saying so, Barron gave them to understand that they were not
really needed, and they drifted out again.

Rapidly but surely the detective made himself familiar with the meaning
and use of the masks, and Phoebe's fairly comprehensive knowledge
taught him enough to grasp the subject so far as he needed it.

Moreover, he took in all the details of furnishing and appointments,
and devoted special attention to the desk and chair which marked the
scene of Stephen Clearman's last moments.

"I've trained myself," he said, smiling, "to see, absorb and assimilate
the contents of an ordinary room in just about two minutes. This study
will take a bit longer, I daresay."

His gaze wandered round again, noting the windows, the door, the walls.

"No," he murmured, "no secret passage, no sliding panels, positively no
ingress but that one door and that impossible window."

He stepped to the big window, and opened one of the long, narrow panes,
which swung on a vertical axis. When open, the orifice was not more
than six or eight inches across.

"Nothing doing," he said. "I say, Miss Clearman, what's your honest
opinion?"

She looked at him queerly.

"You're a man who commands truth, Mr. Barron."

"I am," he returned, rather gravely. "Everybody should be, but not
everybody is. Tell it, then, won't you?"

"First, do you believe in the supernatural?"

"I do not."

She sighed. "Well, then, Mr. Barron, I'm going to ask you to read
Dathan Clearman's diary, before you and I talk any further on this
subject."

"Then here endeth this lesson. Will you be good enough to put the diary
on my bedside table, and I'll read it in the night, when I can't be
doing other search work."

"Yes, you will find it in your room."

During dinner, Barron was a pleasant guest, told a few stories, made a
few good jokes, and listened to the others, but always his eyes were
studying unobtrusively the countenances that surrounded the table.

Nan was interested in him, but a little afraid of him. As Lulie had
said, Nan was muffin-minded, but it was only evident when she came in
contact with a really superior intellect. So she was shy, when she
found herself seated next to Barron, and quickly perceiving it, he
tried to put her at her ease.

"I'm particularly sorry for you, Miss Loftis," he said, looking kindly
at her, "for you've not only found yourself in a house of tragedy, but
you're worried to death about your dear friend."

"Yes, Mr. Barron," and the ready tears came to Nan's eyes. "I'm sorry
enough about Mr. Clearman, but in some ways, a certainty of death is
easier to bear than the awful suspense of not knowing----"

"But we shall know--we will know," and he gave her a cheering smile.
"And you're going to help. Let's talk about her. Every bit of
conversation helps me picture things out, and I've no time for dinner
talk. Tell me, Miss Loftis, anything you know about Miss Clearman's
affairs, I mean not exactly secrets, but little personal things."

"I can't think of anything to tell," Nan said, perplexedly, and
Carlotta interposed:

"Perhaps, Mr. Barron, you mean sidelights on Lulie's character. Well,
she was----"

"Don't say _was_," Raynor cried out, "I can't bear it!"

Again Barron noted a tiny pout, and Carlotta corrected herself, "All
right,--is, then. Lulie is of a strong, capable nature, quite able to
take care of herself in any ordinary emergency. So that, if anything
has happened to her it is something of a serious sort. I mean, an
accident----"

"We should have heard of that," Barron said, quietly.

"Or a kidnapping."

"Not likely, with a capable young woman, in broad daylight."

"Then, what is left," Carlotta hesitated, "but--that she went away of
her own accord and for her own reasons?"

"I think that is exactly what she did do," Barron said, so decidedly
that they all looked at him.

"But we know that," Nan said.

"Yes, we know she left this house voluntarily, and now it is for us to
find out the reasons. Tell me anything you can, anybody. How was she
dressed? What did she take with her? Was she what we may call 'dressed
up'?"

"No," Nan said; "that is, she wore a simple sports outfit. And we can't
discover that she took anything with her, unless it was a picture of a
friend."

"Man?"

"No, just a girl. A school friend."

"Does the friend live in New York?"

"Yes," put in Carlotta, "but she would scarcely need a picture of her
if she meant to go there."

"Scarcely," agreed Tony Barron. "Now, this picture. Describe it, will
you?"

"Well," said Nan, "it is a picture of Jean Hayden. She's a rather
pretty girl, very blonde and with a nice, sweet face. She's small and
saucy, with bobbed hair that curls of itself."

She shook her own bobbed pate, ruefully, for the wave was in need of
renewal.

"She looked much like the average flapper, but a little more
intellectual," Carlotta volunteered.

"Thanks," Tony said, drily, "I've got Miss Hayden down fine. Now a
little more about Miss Clearman. Does no one know anything of a man
friend? Don't," he smiled pleadingly, "think I'm trying to insinuate
anything, but you must know that that avenue of thought has to be
traversed."

He said this so straightforwardly, that even Raynor's resentment faded.

Miss Phoebe took it up.

"I understand," she said. "But, Mr. Barron, I think I know our Lulie
better than anyone else here, and while, of course, she has had many
admirers, neither her father nor I ever could detect her slightest
preference for one above another. Indeed, we have wished the child
would incline toward some one of the pleasant young men who have paid
her addresses."

For some reason Raynor's heart bounded. He had feared "some pleasant
young man" but this speech of Miss Phoebe's helped banish that fear.

"That makes it harder," said Barron. "A man would give us at least a
way to look."

Then Raynor told of his investigations of the train people and his
visit to Hamilton.

Barron listened in silence, seeming to attach little importance to the
recital.

"That got you just about nowhere," he said, as Jack finished.

"Yes. Did I miss a trick in my efforts?"

"Oh, I guess not. Now, as I told you people in the beginning, I've got
to search this house from one end to the other. If anybody objects he
must tell me why."

"I object," said Phoebe, firmly, "because I won't have a man going
through my belongings! You don't think I killed my brother, do you? Or
kidnapped Lulie? Then why search my apartments?"

"Miss Clearman," Barron did not smile now, "there are many reasons, but
I'll just give you one. Supposing a murderer had something to hide.
Suppose he was clever enough to hide it in your room, feeling certain
it would not be searched. Then--I may as well have stayed at home. See?"

The smile was dazzling now, so much so that Phoebe said no more, only
reiterating her disapproval by a sort of disagreeable sniff.

But all the searching that was done that evening was in a few
downstairs rooms and then Barron gravitated back to the study.

"It's a gruesome place," he said, "for more reasons than one. But the
secret lies in this room."

It was the first definite statement he had made, and Raynor grasped at
it eagerly. "You've found out something!" he cried.

"Heaps of things!" and Barron lighted a cigarette and then sat down, in
Clearman's desk chair, one of his long legs hanging over the arm of it.

The men were there alone, and West was running true to form.

He hovered about, the perfect servant, as always, and seemingly unaware
of the keen eyes that followed his every movement.

"West," said Barron, suddenly, "when you had that key in your pocket,
and Rogers came up to break in the door, how did you know he'd cut out
that upper panel? If he'd cut out a lower one, it would have been much
more difficult to fit your key in the lock."

"I told him to remove the upper one, sir."

"Oh, you did. Then you had things all your own way. How did you come to
think of that trick, West?"

"What trick, sir?"

"To have the key in your pocket----"

"It wasn't in my pocket, sir, it was in the keyhole, inside the door."

"Then who killed your master?"

"I didn't do it, sir."

"I know you didn't, West," and Tony Barron smoked on in silence.

"Tell me something about Miss Clearman," he said, "oh, Jack of Hearts."

Perhaps Raynor had had more pleasing requests in his life, but it
is doubtful. Anyway, he rushed into speech and in ten minutes the
detective had a verbal picture given him of a being half goddess, half
queen.

He leaned back, smoking placidly, and at last, he interrupted:

"Ash blonde hair, you say? Unusual but beautiful. Does she wear it
bobbed?"

"No," Jack smiled. "I asked her once how she'd look with bobbed hair,
and she said, 'Like the very old scratch!' Of course she couldn't look
like that in any case."

Raynor's serious speech upset Nicky, who roared at it.

But Tony said, gravely, "No, of course not. Will you call that West
back again? Delightful name, Galley West."

West answered the bell with his usual promptness and Barron said,
"Close the door, West." Then turning to the others, he proceeded.
"I'm going to let you two into a secret, but you must keep it secret.
West, here, is innocent of any crime, and I'm going to prove it. I'm
doing this because I want to use West, but I don't want any one outside
ourselves to know I have done so."

The two men agreed and Barron said, pleasantly; "To whom were those
three letters addressed, that you took away and posted, as soon as Mr.
Clearman's death was discovered?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Excuse me, Galley West, you know perfectly, and if you don't tell at
once, I'll hold back the proof I have of your innocence."

"Well, sir, I did look at the addresses, for Mr. Clearman always wished
me to do so."

"He did?"

"Yes, sir--he was a bit absent-minded at times, and he might forget
part of the address, sir. He trusted me."

West seemed to pride himself on that trust.

"I'm sure he did," said Barron, genially. "Now, for the names,
stay,--I'll jot them down."

As the man gave them, Barron wrote them down: two business men in New
York and a fellow club member in Valley Falls.

"Thank you. Now, I'll prove your innocence, West. You took these from
the desk and carried them down to the mail box on the porch from mere
force of habit, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Almost unconsciously?"

"Yes, you see, I always----"

"I know. I know. Well, they were not here, not written, when you tidied
up the room the last time?"

"No, sir."

"Then, gentlemen, if West had come in here at the time specified by the
police, between ten-fifteen and twelve o'clock, and killed his master,
and the letters had been here, I hold that he would have unconsciously
taken them away. But as he did not do that, and as a dead man couldn't
write them, they were written after West's departure, and that lets
West out."

"Pretty fine reasoning," said Nicky, struggling with this sequence.

"But true," Barron said, quietly. "Had West been guilty, all the more
would his subconscious mind have made him take the letters."

"All right," Jack said, "and we'll keep it dark, as you ask. Now what
about hunting for Lulie?"

West was again dismissed and Barron turned to the eager questioner.

"Of course all the regular ways to hunt for a missing person have been
tried," he said, "so we must resort to our own ingenuity. But there
is one cardinal rule. Begin your search where the missing one was last
known to be."

"But that's the railroad station, and we've done that."

"No, my boy, that is far from being the last place. She was seen on the
train after that, and later at Hamilton."

"She wasn't seen at Hamilton."

"She was seen to get off there, so that is the place to begin our
search. I said the last place she was known to be. We have no reason to
doubt Mr. Street's statement about her getting off there."

"But I've been to Hamilton," Jack complained, disappointed.

"You have, but I haven't. But look here, you two, if you want me to
find Miss Lulie, if you want me to find Mr. Clearman's murderer, you
must breathe no word of what I say to you. I do say it to you because
it is helpful to me to do so. I shall accomplish both these ends,--that
is--" he added, gravely, "I shall find out what became of Miss
Clearman."

"You think harm has befallen her?" Raynor's eyes blazed.

"I don't know yet. I know a few things,--many things, about the case,
but, you see," with a deprecating smile, "I've been here only a few
hours."

"I know--forgive me," and Raynor looked like a culprit.

"Oh, that's all right. Now I'm going to bed, for I have to read that
old diary tonight. It may finish my work for me, except some polishing
off."

"Good gracious, man! You are a wizard!" Nicky exclaimed.

"Oh, that's only my brag. Really, I've done nothing at all as yet."

"You seemed terribly interested in Miss Phoebe's explanation of the
masks," observed Jack.

"Not interested a bit. They weren't masks. They were red herrings for
Miss Phoebe. And what a dear she is."

Tony Barron went to his room, his brain full of teeming thoughts to be
sorted and classified.

The diary was not on his table. Stepping back to the hall, he
encountered Phoebe and asked her for it.

"I put it on your table myself," she said, with wondering eyes....

"Is this the book? Here it is, sir. I didn't do it."

Galley West handed it to Barron and Barron smiled.




CHAPTER XIV

HAMILTON CHILDREN


Tony Barron devoted the hours of what should have been his beauty sleep
to the reading of the diary. Had he been challenged, he probably would
have said, "Well, I'm good-looking enough as I am, and the diary is
exceedingly interesting."

But he would also have said, had he spoken truthfully, that to him the
chief interest lay in the concluding pages.

Although spoken of collectively as the diary, the affair was really a
portfolio, containing what was left in compact form of old Dathan's
daily journal and also dozens of loose leaves, tattered fragments, old
documents and other memoranda. Barron sitting up in his bed, read and
examined and scrutinized until the wee small hours.

Next morning, before he went downstairs, he summoned West, who by now
was his devoted slave, and asked him where he retrieved the diary,
which, Miss Clearman said, she had herself put in the detective's room.

"Well, sir," said West, "I got it off of Violet."

"Violet! The colored woman! What on earth did she want of it?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Send her to me."

It was some time before Violet appeared, but Barron waited patiently.
He had lots of patience.

"Yo' want me, suh?"

"Oh,--er,--yes. Why did you take this book from my room last night?"

Violet peered at the volume in question as if she had never seen it
before.

"No, suh, I didn', suh."

"Hush your nonsense! You did. Why did you?"

"'Scuse, suh, I'm deef," and she cupped her hand behind her ear.

"I have a dollar for you, but I don't give money to deaf people!"

"Suh?" again the cupped hand. The game didn't work.

"Violet, I know you took this book, for you gave it back to West. Now,
why?"

Barron had drawn nearer and spoken more clearly.

"Oh, dat," she said, beaming like a cherub. "Yes, suh, I was jes'
a clarin' up de room, yo' see. An' dat ornery, disgracious ole
book--co'se I tuk it out."

"Of course you did, and you got yourself in trouble by doing so. Now,
go, but remember you're in dire danger!"

Barron had no notion why he said this, but he glared at the woman with
a ferocity that ought to have frightened her, but didn't.

Her great eyes rolled about, but on her large mouth was the flicker of
a suppressed smile that enraged Tony.

So, she was laughing at him,--and his dollar,--was she?

Well, she'd find out--after he had!

To find out things, that was all he was bent on at present. They could
be collated and correlated afterwards.

So he went down to a busy day.

As soon as possible he started on his search of the house.

He was no less affable and courteous than the night before, but he was
obviously preoccupied, and deeply engrossed in his work.

Methodically he visited every bedroom--in each case merely stepping
inside the door, and standing a few minutes, while his eyes quickly
moving, scanned every stick of furniture and every bit of decoration.
A perfunctory examination, Nicky secretly thought, for what could a
man learn that way?

Nicky followed him, with Barron's permission. Indeed, all were at
liberty to follow him if they chose, but for most of them the game had
lost interest.

West was within call, Miss Phoebe was popping in and out, Carlotta
trailed along now and then, but for the most part Tony Barron worked
alone and silently.

When at last he came to Lulie's room, he made a more prolonged search.

As Scott had discovered, there were no incriminating or even evidential
letters, and nothing that could serve as a clue.

He seemed attracted by a small picture of a girl, clipped from a
newspaper which was stuck in a letter rack.

"Who is this?" he asked, casually.

Both Carlotta and Nan, who were present now, declared they had no idea.
It was a pretty picture, but more the type of a Film Queen than a girl
of Lulie's class. The enormous eyes, the coquettish smile, the bobbed
hair, the soft, weak chin, all bespoke the screen or the stage.

"My Heavens!" Nan said, gasping at her sudden thought, "do you suppose
Lulie ran away to join the movies?"

The combination of the absurd notion and Nan's horrified face brought
a vague smile to Carlotta's lips.

"Excuse me, Mr. Barron," she said, "but if you had ever seen Lulie
Clearman, you would know how funny that idea is!"

"It's an impossibility, then?" Barron lost no chance for information.

"The movies, yes! The stage,--of course, utterly improbable, and
nothing like that!" pointing scornfully to the impudent face in the
picture. "But a tragedy queen, now, or even a Juliet or Ophelia. Lulie
could do those--oh, how silly we are! If the girl had had any such
thoughts, we should have heard of it."

"I don't know," Phoebe said, coming along in time to hear the
discussion; "Lulie was a great one for keeping her own counsel----"

Nan whirled on her. "Miss Phoebe," she cried, "I believe you know where
Lulie is! I believe you connived at her getting away, and you know
where she went!"

"No, dear," Phoebe said, softly, "no, I don't know where she is."

But somehow her gentle words failed to satisfy the impulsive Nan, who
looked away indignantly.

Barron paid no evident attention to the incident. He laid the little
picture back where he had found it and after a little further looking
around, he left the room.

"Have you eliminated any of us from suspicion as yet?" Carlotta asked,
following him, her lovely eyes smiling at him, in half raillery.

Barron looked at her indulgently.

"I eliminate nobody," he said, "until I have found the criminal, beyond
all possible doubt. That is time for elimination to begin."

Carlotta pouted.

"I wish you'd eliminate me," she said, "I want to go to New York to
stay. I have so much to attend to there."

"Oh, is that the way of it?" Barron said, kindly. "Well, I don't see
why you can't go. Do you mean right away?"

"Yes, in two or three days,--or as soon as I can get packed."

"You go ahead with your packing. I reckon there won't be any trouble
about the elimination," and with one of his best smiles, Barron went on
to his next task.

"Do give us a hint, Mr. Barron!" begged Nan. "You go around the house
smiling like a Chessy cat, and as silent as a Sphinx. Please tell us if
you've discovered anything, won't you?"

"I've discovered enough to fill a book, Miss Loftis. But, as you may
imagine, I haven't time to sit down and reel it off to you. Besides,
you all seem to forget the possibility of the savages. Might not some
heathen enemy of Mr. Clearman have followed him over here and in some
secret way--not magical way--have come here and poisoned him?"

"Oh," said Nan, and turned her thoughts to this fearful possibility.

"Red herring," said Nicky, under his breath, but Barron flashed him a
glance of reproof.

As the detective passed Raynor's door, Jack called him in.

"Here's something I forgot to tell you," he said, as he closed the door
behind him. Then he told of the strange episode which he had witnessed
from his window at night, when Carlotta,--or somebody who resembled
her,--walked in the garden and painted the stone out there with red
paint. He showed his paint-daubed handkerchief in proof of his story.

Barron looked frankly puzzled.

"I don't get it at all," he said, perplexedly, "what can it mean?"

"I've no idea. Whatever Mrs. Clearman is, she's sane. What do you think
of her, anyway?"

"I think she's beautiful and charming, but--well, to be strictly
honest,--I do hate a woman who's always making eyes at a fellow."

"Yes, I know. Carly's a born vamp. I nearly fell for her, until Lulie
appeared on the scene. Barron, do find that girl! I've had flirtations
and romances and silly little affairs, but this is the big love of my
life! Never mind old Clearman, he's dead. Look after his daughter,--do,
Barron!"

Raynor's voice was agonized, and Barron replied, in all sincerity, "I
shall do my very best. But I thought you only met her for the first
time last week."

"That's true. It was love at first sight. But none the less real and
lasting for that reason. Go to it, Barron. When are you going to
Hamilton?"

"This afternoon, I think. See here, Raynor, spring that story of the
red paint at the luncheon table. I don't think there's anything in it,
but I'd like to get the reactions. Just tell it in a light way, and ask
Mrs. Clearman right out if she did it. See?"

The Jack of Hearts saw.

At luncheon, when a chance remark of Barron's seemed to give a
lead, Raynor told of the black draped figure who prayed to the
stone,--apparently,--and then daubed it with streaks of red paint.

"I say, Carly, was it you, and if so what the devil were you up to?"

Carlotta laughed,--a nervous chuckle.

"Yes," she said, "it was I." Then she grew serious, and said: "I'm not
exactly ashamed of it, though perhaps I ought to be. But I was over
there with Stephen so long, amid those heathen customs and rites, that
I think I absorbed some of it into my system and can never get it out."

"Really?" cried Nan, agog for a new thrill. "Tell us about it, Carly."

"Oh, it's only that they believe,--and Stephen believed,--that a
stone, under certain conditions, is a god, and can be worshipped and
propitiated. He thought if you prayed to a certain stone,--one which
he himself set up in the garden, it would respond with the answer you
wished. And--" here she hung her head a little, "and to paint the stone
with red paint, is part of the ritual."

"Well, I'll be--'most anything!" exclaimed Nicky. "Did Mr. Clearman
really carry his bughouse as far as that?"

Carlotta frowned at him.

"Don't speak like that, Nicky. Have a little respect for the dead,--if
you haven't for me."

"I beg your pardon," cried the contrite Goring, "but I say, Carly, this
is too much."

"It may be too much," said Carlotta, wearily, "but it's the true
explanation of the scene that caught Jack's attention."

Tony Barron, scrutinizing the face of the speaker, with his all-seeing
blue eyes, decided there was no important evidence concealed in the
stone-painting incident.

"And what were you praying for, Mrs. Clearman," he said, gently, "that
required that ritual?"

"I was beseeching," she said, "that the curse of the Clearmans might
end with its descent on my husband, and not continue to be hanging over
the family."

"Thank you," said Phoebe, with a new, a disagreeable note in her voice,
"but we Clearmans can look out for ourselves."

Every one was surprised and uncomfortable at this caustic speech from
the usually placid old lady, and Barron turned a frankly inquisitive
glance her way.

He began to wonder if she did know all about Lulie, or--what had come
over the spinster, anyway?

"All right, Phoebe," Carlotta said, with an air of finality. "It's your
affair."

"But I don't see how a savage tribe or even a single savage could get
into this house," Nicky Goring said, going back to the past remark.
"It's built like an impregnable fortress."

"Stone walls do not a curse keep out, nor iron bars a fate," said
Barron, with a half smile at his own feeble jest. "Well, I'm starting
for the village and then for a long tramp across country. Who wants to
go along? Only one."

"Me," sang out Raynor, before anyone else could speak. "Let me go,
please."

"All righty," agreed Barron, "hop it, old man."

Carlotta was the only one disappointed, for she had rather craved an
afternoon with the new man, and she was a good walker.

She did not press her wishes, and soon the two men started off.

"First," Barron said, growing very serious as soon as they had left the
house, "for the man in Valley Falls, who received one of those three
letters. Pray God he didn't throw it away!"

"You're on a trail, Barron?"

"A hot trail, my boy. And as it grows plainer, I see such a moil, such
a deep laid, cleverly constructed plot, that I am aghast at it."

"The Orientals, I suppose. Nothing like that could happen in the
family."

"Little old Phoebe's a deep one, isn't she?" said Barron, stalking
along and gazing appreciatively at the ever changing scenes before and
around him.

"Yes; is she in it?"

"Not ripe for picking yet, Raynor, but the fruits of my search are
maturing."

In the village they sought and found Mr. Masters, the clubman to whom
one of the letters had been sent.

"Why, yes," he said, genially, "I received that letter. Yes. I think
I still have it. But I want to keep it, it's a letter that can't be
duplicated now its writer is gone."

"I don't want it, Mr. Masters," Barron told him, "but I do want the
envelope. Will you give me that?"

"Surely, willingly," and in a short time with the precious paper in his
pocketbook, Barron jubilantly went on his way.

"What--" Raynor began, but the detective almost sharply choked him off.

"Don't ask questions," he besought him, "it's so big, and things are
coming on so wonderfully,--don't butt in, I beg of you!"

And the Jack of Hearts had sense enough not to be offended.

Almost in silence they took the train for the short distance to
Hamilton. It was a tiny hamlet, one street, a few houses, and a Four
Corners of small business places, that dignified themselves by the
titles of Clothing Emporium, Beauty Parlor, Palace Theater, and the
more prosaic Butcher and Grocer.

Barron strode along the wide, tree-bordered street, glared at the
signs and paused before a group of rollicking children playing on the
sidewalk.

"Listen," he cried, with his friendliest smile, "a dime to anyone who
will listen to my question and a quarter to anyone who can answer it!"

Seven boys and girls let this drift through their noddles and then
gathered eagerly round him.

"Say a week or ten days ago," he said, watching their faces, "who saw
a big splendid motor car here in Hamilton and didn't know whose it was?"

Blank looks of disappointment.

"Think hard now. As you were playing around, didn't you notice a fine
car----?"

"I did," and one little girl spoke primly, "but it comes every day,----"

"Then that isn't the one I mean. I mean a stranger's car----"

"Oh, I saw that one!" cried a freckled boy.

"Er--who were in the car?"

Barron tried to speak calmly, but his heart was thumping and Raynor's
was, too.

"Why, a shuffer, and two ladies back."

"Old ladies?"

"Naw. One was a red-haired dame, 'bout like my mother,----"

"And the other?"

"Oh, a girl, I guess,--I didn't notice much."

"I see. A girl with light hair----"

"Naw,--red hair like her mother's. I shouldn't noticed 'em at all, but
I thought first off it was my aunt and cousin from Pittsfield."

"H'm. Your aunt has a fine car, then?"

"Yep. A peach. And she and Minnie both has red hair."

Barron sighed.

"You get the quarter, son," he said, "and you each get your dime. But
can't any of you remember another car----"

Nobody seemed to; and apparently all had lost power of speech.

"Which way did the car go?" Barron inquired with a half interest.

"Off that way," with a wave in the general direction of Valley Falls.

"Describe the girl," he added, as an after-thought.

"Like all the rest. Skinny, white face and red lips, red hair, bobbed,
o' course, and new looking clothes."

"Did she look like this lady?" and Raynor a little diffidently showed
Lulie's picture.

"Nixy," the boy declared. "Not in a million years. The girl I saw was a
highflyer."

Raynor put away the photograph and looked at Barron.

"Anything more?" he said, despondently.

"Yes, this. Will you take a run down to New York, yourself, and do
an errand for me? You can go from here and be back this evening. I
don't want to trust it to any one else. Get these two envelopes, if
you can. They're the other two of those three letters Clearman wrote
just before he died. And Jack, be careful of 'em--in every way. As
soon as you get them--and pray heaven you do get them,--seal them up
in a large envelope and bring them home. Tell the men, here are their
addresses,--that we want only the envelopes. If they object tell them
it's for murder evidence. They may keep the letters themselves. The
fear is that they've filed the letters and destroyed the envelopes."

"I'll go, of course. But tell me, for God's sake, have you found out
anything,--anything at all in Hamilton?"

"Yes,--yes, I have. If you ask me what, I'll jail you!"

Raynor didn't ask what.

After they separated Tony Barron went slowly back to the Four Corners.

He looked at the posters in front of the Picture Palace, stared at the
enormous one of a Film Queen who looked exactly like all the other film
queens of Filmdom, and went slowly on, with downcast eyes.

He stared in at the windows of the Beauty Parlor and was about to enter
when he discovered the door was locked.

"Nobody home," he said to himself. The window held the usual assortment
of cheap cosmetics, perfumes and hair ornaments.

Tony gave another long comprehensive look about, which seemed to
embrace all Hamilton, and then with a deep sigh, as of unfulfilled
expectation, he went to the station and so back to Clearman Court.

By the time he reached there he had somehow ironed out his countenance
so that he was his own smiling self.

It was tea time, and all were on the terrace and gave the traveler a
warm welcome.

"Sit here by me," Carlotta begged. "Don't even go to wash up, sit down
just as you are----"

"But I'm travel-stained and weary," he smiled.

"No matter, a cup of tea will refresh you, and you can clean up
afterward. Where's Jack?"

"He started with me, and then flew off to New York on a wild goose
chase or fool's errand or something of the sort."

"Connected with Lulie?"

"Probably. He has about the worst case of Love's Young Dream I've ever
seen."

"He has," agreed Nan. "Where does he think she is?"

"He didn't confide in me that far, but he may have a maggot in his
brain that she's gone in for the movies. I'm suspicious he's starting
for Hollywood."

Though Barron spoke seriously, his eyes twinkled.

Then his mood changed.

"Thank you lots for the tea," he said; "I'm now going to look deeper
into Miss Clearman's room for traces of her longing for screen fame or
for love-letters or--something. There _must_ be something there."

"But you have searched there!" Nan cried.

"That's why I search again. I always fear I may miss a trick. I only
tell you, so you may know where I am."

His gaze, like a fluttering bird lighted on each in turn, and as it
paused at Miss Clearman's face, he seemed satisfied, and, rising, he
went upstairs, whistling softly.

Not more than ten or fifteen minutes later, Carlotta and Nan, going up
together, went to Lulie's room.

Their first glance showed them only the legs of the detective, as he
stood on a high step ladder.

He was feeling around on top of the tester, which was over Lulie's
elaborate mahogany bed.

"Awful dusty up here," he said, "but I'm still hunting those letters.
Hello, here's something,----"

He came down the steps; carrying the something in his hand.

It was a small bottle, empty, and smelling unmistakably and indubitably
of Prussic acid.




CHAPTER XV

THE RED-HAIRED GIRL


To go back a few days, it was on Monday morning, a week after the day
Stephen Clearman had come to his tragic end, that a girl sat on a large
flat rock on a bank that looked down into the deep water of a great
river. The scene spread out before her eyes was one of Nature's finest
masterpieces, but the girl had no thought for it.

A slender, graceful person she was, with Titian red hair, bobbed in the
newest fashion and curling prettily over her ears.

Her eyes were stormy and her whole attitude was remindful of a caged
tigress, ready, yet unable to spring.

She wore a simple one-piece frock, of good cut and material, and the
toe of her tan shoe dug into the ground in a very frenzy of despair and
desolation.

She gazed out across the water, with unseeing eyes, and then great sobs
rose in her throat, her shoulders shook, and she gave way to a storm
of blinding tears.

They were tears of anger rather than sorrow, her hands clenched into
fists which she shook in impotent rage, and her face went white as her
sobs grew less from sheer exhaustion.

"I _will_ find a way out!" she said, half aloud. "I will!"

She rose and walked up and down the river bank, now pausing to stare
down into the deep water, and wonder if that were the only way,--and
then, walking on with a steadier stride, as she made new resolutions.

She looked up at the clouds sailing across the blue, and half
involuntarily held out her hands in supplication.

Then there came to her mind one of her favorite stanzas from The
Rubaiyat, and she murmured:

    "And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
    Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
    Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
    As impotently moves as you or I."

"Cooped," she repeated, bitterly, "yes, cooped! And there is no help.
Sun, moon nor stars can help me. What shall I do? What _can_ I do?"

At the sound of a footstep behind her, she turned, angrily, to face a
handsome, middle-aged woman, who came, smiling.

"Now, now, dearie, don't take on so. You know it doesn't do one mite of
good."

"That doesn't matter!" the girl cried out. "Tell me! tell me _why_ I am
here! Whose doing is it? Who is your master? Tell me! Sometimes I think
I shall strike you if you don't tell me!"

"In one of your tantrums, are you?" the woman's voice was less
friendly. "Well, you'll find that doesn't pay."

"But I've been here a week--a week! And I know no more why or for what
reason than I did the day I came!"

"And you won't know, until the order is given. As I have told you,
we're not the principals, we're merely paid to obey orders. And the
orders will be obeyed."

There was something almost sinister in these last words. At any rate,
it was a sinister look that accompanied them.

The woman was, ordinarily, of a pleasant aspect, rather stout, but well
groomed and expensively dressed.

She wore a modish sport skirt and gay-colored silk blouse, and save for
some superfluous jewelry, was garbed in good taste. Her face was free
from wrinkles, but had the look of being sternly kept so. It was as if
wrinkles were straining at their leash, but had so far been kept back.

Her hair was red, of exactly the same shade as the girl's. A deep
lustrous auburn, plentiful and well arranged. Her eyes were dark and
though often tranquil, had the alert readiness of the feline tribe.

Watchful eyes they were; cruel eyes they could be.

And they were cruel now.

"It's useless to protest," the woman said, "useless to struggle against
the inevitable. You may as well give up your fight and settle down and
be as happy as you can."

"Happy!" and the girl's voice sounded like the reverberation of a
hollow tomb.

"Yes, why not? You have a lovely home here, you have everything
heart can wish. Whatever you want to eat, to wear, to read, to amuse
you--you've only to name it and it is brought to you as soon as
possible. You know that."

"I know that. Look here, Madame Murray,--do listen to reason. I know
you're being well paid for this job,--I know you are loyal to your
employers, but whoever they are,--they must be in the wrong. They are
wicked people. Savage or civilized, they are doing wrong,--and you know
it. Now, come over on my side, and I promise you twice as much money
as they offer, immunity from all prosecution or punishment,--which
you will certainly get sooner or later from this,--and the love
and gratitude of several influential people. Please, Madame
Murray,--please listen to me."

The woman had turned away with a bored air, as one who hears again an
oft-told tale.

"Then would you like to go for a little motor-boat ride, Jessica?" the
woman asked, turning back, and showing only pleasantness on her placid
face.

"Don't call me Jessica, it isn't my name!"

"It is for the present. And you'll be called nothing else here. So make
up your mind to that, miss!"

As always, a change of mental attitude changed the woman's face, and
she scowled unbecomingly.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," the girl said, wearily, "nothing
matters."

"That's right," Madame Murray spoke briskly now. "That's the way to
look at it. Now, brace up, and take things a mite easier. Come on,
let's go for a little ride, Tad will take us."

A shudder passed through the girl's frame, which was not lost upon the
older woman.

"Look here, Jessie," she said, not unkindly, "take it from me you'd
better treat Tad a little differently. Your scorn of him only makes him
admire you more. Can't you seem indifferent like?"

"Ugh! I hate the sight of him. I hate to have him anywhere near me!"

"But can't you see,--heavens, girl! where are your eyes? Can't you see
he's just the sort of man that is piqued by your attitude, and it makes
him bound to break you!"

"Break me! Me? Lulie Clearman? I rather think not!"

"You don't know--oh, you sheltered girls, you don't know what a bad man
is! But you'll find out, my lady, if you continue to treat him like the
dirt under your feet. He won't stand it forever."

"I won't, either," Lulie said, despairingly. "There's always the river."

"But you can't always get to the river. It's none of my business, but
I'm warning you. Tadousac is a bad man. I'm the best friend you've got
in this house."

"I know you are, Madame Murray, and that's why I'm appealing to you. Do
help me,--do let me get away--and get home,--and you'll never regret
it."

"Except all my life," the woman said, with a hard laugh. "Well, going
on the river?"

"No,--I don't believe I want to."

"All right, sit around and mope, then. But it won't get you anywhere."

"Nothing will get me anywhere, apparently," the girl flung out, as her
companion left her and went back toward the house.

Just a week,--Lulie reflected, as left alone, she resumed her seat on
the rock and stared down at the water. A week ago today she had left
Clearman Court, and taken the train to Hamilton.

"Oh, why did I do it? she mused; why did I give way to that foolish,
silly, idiotic notion of having my hair bobbed to surprise them all? Of
course I never meant to have the henna dye,--those wretched people did
that--but--oh, I wish I understood it all. Madame Murray said she would
take me home in her motor, said she was a friend of Aunt Phoebe's,--so
of course, I got in--and--here I am."

It all seemed like a vague dream,--the swift motor ride for miles and
miles. The strange sleepiness that overcame her shortly after they
started, the lunch in the car, the unintelligible chatter of the man
and woman who were in charge of it all.

Then the blurred, uncertain memory of a night in a sort of farmhouse,
where the people seemed to be foreigners, and though the food was
wholesome and the rooms clean, she could remember no distinct or vivid
impression of them.

Then on again next day, in the big, swift car, and at night as they
neared the lights of some big place, a sinking into deep oblivion that
only ended when she wakened in a pleasant room of the house where she
was now.

A good enough house,--large, airy, comfortable. But situated on
an island, on which, so far as she could see, there was no other
house. Trees, shrubs, rocks, even a few flowers, but no sign of other
habitation.

The occupants, beside herself and Madame Murray, were Tadousac,
a French Canadian and a general servant who was most capable and
efficient, and who was, or pretended to be, deaf and dumb.

Tadousac, much younger than Madame Murray, was glum and morose, as a
rule. For the first few days, he had not noticed Lulie, or talked to
her. Then he began to notice her in a way she did not like. His eyes
seemed to devour her, and while he was outwardly respectful, he seemed
filled with a slumbering warmth which sometimes threatened to break out
in a flame.

Still, he said little, but when she edged away as he drew near, or
looked scornfully at him when he was flattering of speech, a deeper
glow shone in his eyes, and he set his red lips in a hard line.

He was a handsome chap, about thirty, and though not tall, he was well
shaped and always well groomed.

It was he who had bobbed Lulie's hair, when she went to the little
Beauty Parlor in Hamilton to have it done, in pursuance of a mad freak
of wilfulness.

It was he who had added the henna dye, when she didn't know it, he
having duly apologized for the lack of a mirror, saying it was being
reframed.

Her amazement at the first sight of her red, curled short locks, was
only equalled by her fierce anger.

He had been profuse in his apologies, had said he spoke English only
slightly and had misunderstood her, but assured her that in a short
time the dye would wear off, and the new hair grow out, and all would
be well.

And then, the pleasant lady, who was there having a Marcel wave, had
told her that she was Madame Murray, a friend of Phoebe Clearman's and
that she would drive her home in her car, and call herself on her old
friend.

Lulie had gladly accepted the offer. The train service was not too
frequent. She had not noticed that the French barber had quickly locked
the beauty parlor and, in cap and Norfolk, had become Madame Murray's
chauffeur.

Then had come the mad, swift ride, the drugged conditions,--not always
sleep, but dullness,--and then, this place!

A week,--a week today since she had left home and kin and--and Jack
Raynor. For Lulie's affections had gone out to the Jack of Hearts as
swiftly as his had flown to her, and though she might not have admitted
this to herself had she been at home and had all been well, yet here in
this exile, she knew he was the love of her life, and she wondered when
she would see him again.

The week had given her much time for thought, and the more she thought
the less she could fathom the mystery.

She had been kidnapped, that was the one thing of which she could be
sure.

Doubtless, of course, for ransom; but who her kidnappers were, or what
steps they were taking in the matter, she had not the faintest idea.

She was allowed to see no newspapers whatever.

Almost everything else she desired was given her. If she wanted new
clothes or toilet appointments or books or magazines they were ordered
at once and reached her quickly. There seemed to be no lack of money.
Though there was but one servant the food was good, well cooked and
well served.

The house, though not immaculate, was decently clean, and the air and
scenery were superb.

She had no idea where she was, nor would her captors tell her.

Whenever she asked questions, they said frankly they were acting under
orders which they dared not disobey and had no intention of disobeying.

Nor could threats, cajolery, tears or hysterical rages move them in the
slightest degree.

Aside from all her anger, fear and despair, Lulie was puzzled.

She could think of no one who could have done this thing other than
some organized band of clever kidnappers, who had carefully worked up
the whole plan from the beginning.

For the little Beauty Parlor at Hamilton was a recent institution, and
though it did a thriving business in the matters of bobbed hair and
permanent waving, it was a temporary seeming affair, and she began to
think it had been started for some nefarious purpose.

Then at night she would think of all sorts of other strange and bizarre
explanations of her capture, and at last, her brain whirling, she would
sink into troubled slumber.

Madame Murray was uniformly kind and even chummy, except when Lulie
tried to worm an explanation out of her, and then she could grow very
ugly.

It occurred to Lulie many times that some of the savages, as they
called the Far Eastern natives, might have had such an enmity toward
her father that they used this means of torturing him. For much of
her own agony was because of the thought of her father's grief at her
mysterious disappearance.

And yet, it didn't seem like the work of the Oriental mind. They would
surely have chosen some more characteristic plan.

But, to be sure, if cunning foreigners had planned to kidnap her,
they might well have placed the matter in the hands of some American
scoundrels, with the present discomfiting results.

Her long vigils of thought had brought her decision down to a question
of only two solutions. One, that the Orientals had done this thing, the
other that a band of professional kidnappers of her own race had done
it.

And it mattered little which. Here she was, here she had to stay.

The first few days she had spent all her efforts trying to find a way
out. She had tried to watch for a passing steamer or motor boat or
yacht, and signal distress. But no opportunity offered, and once or
twice she detected her keepers laughing at her efforts.

They had newspapers, they had mail. Where they came from she did not
know. Nearly every morning either Tadousac or Fred, the servant,
took the motor boat and went away somewhere, returning with mail and
supplies.

And this was Lulie's one secret hope, that some day she could escape in
the motor boat. She knew, with the knowledge of much experience, how to
run one.

Moreover, she had been quick-witted enough to pretend she understood
nothing of them and even was afraid of them.

Occasionally, taken for a ride, she stepped in timidly and sat down
gingerly, as if fearing an upset.

Stealthily she watched the method of securing the boat to the little
dock, observed where keys were kept, and noted everything she could,
though with an air of hopeless abandon to her fate.

Nor was this air entirely assumed.

Her most careful scrutiny and her cleverest planning could compass no
way of escape.

The island was not large, yet large enough for ample exercise and even
games, had she wished them.

Yet, though she could see other land, it was so isolated and out of the
way that rarely did any craft pass, and never near enough to signal.

Truly, the kidnappers had chosen an ideal spot for their captive in
more senses than one.

Madame Murray herself looked after Lulie's comfort capably and even
solicitously. She consulted her tastes in food and was always ready to
read to her or chat with her or entertain her in any way she wished.

The girl seldom availed herself of these privileges, for her time was
spent brooding over her fate or striving to find a way out.

Sometimes she read, but she could scarcely keep her attention long
enough sustained for a book. She read magazine stories, and the chatter
in weekly papers and longed for the forbidden newspapers. Her appeals
for newspapers were invariably met with the stereotyped phrase, "It is
against our orders."

The week had gone by and she knew no more than at the beginning what
was to be her eventual fate.

She pictured her father receiving demands for her ransom. Well she knew
he would accede to them, but even then, such things do not always work
out as planned. Perhaps the police had intervened and that had delayed
matters.

Often she thought of Jack Raynor. He had wondered how she would look
with bobbed hair and in a spirit of mischief she had decided to show
him.

She had meant to go to Hamilton, have her hair cut and curled,--not
dyed,--and be back home by mid-afternoon.

All the way there she had hesitated, wondering if he would really like
it. He had said it would take off the St. Cecilia edge and she didn't
want to look Puritanic. And, too, she had reasoned,--it would soon grow
out again if it proved unbecoming.

Then she began to see the long arm of premeditation. The man who had
bobbed her hair was the one who had driven the car that kidnapped her,
and the woman, who, she supposed, was a casual customer getting a
Marcel wave, was one of the gang herself.

The last few days had been the worst, for the man, Tadousac, had begun
to look at her evilly, and she was frightened.

He came along now, as she still sat on the flat rock.

"Not going for a boat ride?" he asked.

"No, I'm afraid," she said, with a little shrug of her shoulders.

"Afraid? Surely not when I'm at the wheel. Do come."

"No, thank you, I'd rather not."

He came nearer. His voice was soft and suave, his manner ingratiating.

Lulie thought she could have stood it better if he had been rough or
uncouth.

His small black moustache was silky-looking and his red lips and white
teeth gleamed beneath it in a smile that was both sly and cruel.

"Do you know, I'll be greatly surprised if you don't go," he said, and
the smile widened.

"Why?" she returned, striving not to show the sudden terror she felt.

"Because,--" and still smiling, he came nearer still.

She rose, and with a desperate endeavor to be calm, she said, "I'll go
some other day, thanks, I don't care to, today."

"But I care to have you,--so much, that if you--if you still refuse, I
shall kiss you."

She turned on him like a tigress, and then, just in time, remembered
Mrs. Murray's assertion that the more she fought him, the more it
intrigued him.

Commanding her voice by her utmost effort, she said, "Oh, very well,
then, I prefer the alternative of going in the boat. But, Mr. Tadousac,
I had thought you at least a gentleman."

He flushed deeply, but only said, unsteadily, "I had thought so,
too,--but you----"

He broke off, turned round and went swiftly down toward the boat house.

Madame Murray met Lulie with a little comprehending smile and the trio
went for a sail.

The day was perfect, the water lovely and the scenery among the finest
in the country, but Lulie's heart was lead in her breast. Surely she
had had enough to cope with before, without a complication of this sort.

There was always the river,--but as Madame Murray had truly said, she
was not always allowed to reach the river.

She was allowed to do many things, to please herself in many ways, but
when a restriction was imposed, when an order was laid down, they were
as if made of iron.

There was little talk on the sail, and Lulie planned that if ever the
situation became absolutely unbearable, she would ask to be taken out
in the boat and then jump overboard. Surely in that deep water she
could drown before he could rescue her.

Tadousac molested her no more that day.

Mrs. Murray was sympathetic, Lulie could see that, and when she went
to her room that night, she asked the older woman to go with her for a
chat.

They sat at the window, the soft air stirring the light curtains
and the pretty room pleasant with the glow of candles, which Lulie
preferred to kerosene, that being the alternative.

"Madame Murray," the girl began, "I don't ask you to betray your
employers, I don't ask you to neglect what you hold to be your duty,
but can't you save me from that man?"

"I don't know what to do, my dear," was the reply, and Lulie was
astonished at the hint of tears in the tone. "No, I can't save you from
him. He is a beast! I have tried before this to save a woman from him,
but I was--and am powerless."

Lulie was aghast. This frankness was like a knell to her soul.

What should she do? What _could_ she do?

"Then," she said, "then Madame Murray, I am going to drown myself and
at once. I cannot live in the fear of that man. It is worse than the
awfulness of the rest of my fate. Oh, can't you have pity! Can't you
help me! Suppose it were your daughter in these terrible straits----"

"Hush! No, I cannot help you."

With a sudden gesture the woman brushed Lulie's hand from her arm, and
quickly left the room. Soon after Lulie heard the gate locked.

The girl was free to lock her own room door as she chose, but at the
head of the stairs was a tall secure gate. This was always locked at
night and prevented Lulie from going downstairs should she try to do so.

It did not interfere with the others doing so, for Lulie's room was on
a slightly higher floor level, and a turn of the staircase and three
extra steps led up to it.

She heard the key click in the lock with a new feeling of terror and
went to bed to pass a sleepless night.




CHAPTER XVI

BOBBED HAIR


"Well," said Tony Barron as he sniffed at the empty bottle that had
so positively been the recent container of the deadly poison, "that
eliminates one more."

"Who?" cried Nan, breathlessly.

"Miss Lulie, of course. Do you suppose anybody would do such an asinine
thing as to kill her father, pitch the bottle up on this high place
over her bed and then light out?"

"I don't," said Nicky Goring, who had followed the procession, "but I
can tell you, old man, the police are going to think just that very
thing."

"Yes,--they would," agreed Barron. "So s'pose we don't tell them
tonight. We don't have to tell every little thing we know, and tomorrow
is another day."

Everybody said yes to this plan, and seeming to forget his great desire
to hunt for love letters Barron went off to his own room to stay till
dinner time.

Dinner was a quiet meal. Raynor had not returned from New York; Nan,
notwithstanding Barron's remarks, was distressed about the vial found
in Lulie's room; Carlotta and Miss Phoebe both seemed thoughtful and
silent. And even the ebullient Nicky was taciturn, and his mind was
bothered by the deductions the police might wrongfully make from that
empty vial.

After dinner Barron proposed bridge, saying he deserved some recreation
and they ought to indulge him.

He and Carlotta played Nicky and Nan.

They began half-heartedly, but all were good players and interest grew
stronger as they went on. They were still playing when Raynor came home.

"Hello, Jack of Hearts," Barron called out. "Since you've come, I bid a
heart."

"Go out to the dining room, Jack," Carlotta said, hospitably. "Stagg
will fix you up."

"All right; don't stop your game," he returned, and went his way. He
came back later and took Barron's place, that worthy declaring himself
sufficiently refreshed to return to his work.

His work seemed to be with Miss Clearman, for he invited her to a
session in the study and they were still talking there when the others
came upstairs to go to bed.

Raynor went along with Barron and behind locked doors the two eagerly
began to compare notes.

"First, as to the letters," Tony said, and Jack gave him one envelope,
stating the other one had been destroyed.

"And this is no good," Barron said, surveying it with disappointment,
"it has a stamp printed on it."

"Does that spoil it for you?" laughed Jack.

"It does indeed. Now listen, for I want you to hear this from me. An
empty poison bottle has been found on top of that thing over Miss
Lulie's bed, tester, I believe they call it."

The Jack of Hearts looked as if he had suddenly received his death
sentence.

"Oh, pshaw, have a little sand," chided Barron. "Don't you see,
somebody else put it there,--she didn't do it."

Raynor's face beamed like sunshine after rain.

"You're the biggest kid!" laughed Tony. "But I haven't time to chatter.
Listen here. Now, I've told you, though you've probably forgotten it,
that I depend a whole lot on a repeated impression. No, not a hunch--I
won't have that word used in my presence. But ever since I began this
investigation I've been confronted with one suggestion after another
of--bobbed hair."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this. And it may amount to nothing at all. You asked Miss Lulie
how she'd look with her hair bobbed, didn't you?"

"Yes, and she said, 'like old scratch.'"

"I know. Didn't you then advise it--a little?"

Raynor thought. "Why, I believe I did tell her it would take off that
saintly edge,--you know she's like the Blessed Damozel pictures, so----"

"Yes, yes, I know. Now, soon after that, she discussed with Miss Loftis
the picture of that Hayden girl, and--asked Miss Nan how she liked the
way Jean had her hair. And, you see, the Hayden picture girl had bobbed
hair."

"Yes." Raynor stared.

"Yes. Then we found in her room a newspaper clipping showing a girl,--a
moving picture star, with her hair bobbed in particularly pretty
fashion. Can't you see the trend of Miss Clearman's mind? Can't you
see she was considering bobbing her hair, because Miss Loftis had, and
Miss Hayden had, and you had spoken of it,--and well, just supposing
that she went to Hamilton for that purpose,--just supposing. Wouldn't
she take Jean's picture with her as a guide to the barber,--there's
a Beauty Parlor in Hamilton, you know,--and wouldn't she feel such
hesitancy about it that she might turn back two or three times, and
wouldn't she murmur in her uncertainty, 'I wonder what Jack will say.'
Wouldn't she?"

Raynor thought deeply, his eyes fixed on Barron's.

"Why go so secretly?"

"To surprise you all."

"Then, where is she now?"

"Kidnapped by those people in the big car. She was the girl with
bobbed, red hair."

"But her hair isn't red."

"Henna dye. Lots of 'em do it."

"Never. Never, on your life! Lulie might have had her hair bobbed, she
might do it to surprise us, but dye it! Never!"

"Well, that's my notion. Anyway, whether she was the girl in the car or
not, don't you subscribe to the bob business?"

"I'll grant you that, but I think it's your imagination with no sort of
proof back of it."

"Then, if she had it duly bobbed, why didn't she come home again?"

"I don't know, Tony." Jack was humble now. "What do you think?"

"I think, that the evidence points to her having gone to the barber's.
What else could she have gone to Hamilton for? And since she didn't
come home I think she was forcibly prevented. Assume she was kidnapped,
and I can't think of any other forcible prevention; then, why not the
big car, with two women and a man, on the very day she was there and
did not come home?"

"I see," Jack said, slowly. "How are you going about it?"

"I suppose I'll have to go back to Hamilton tomorrow and chase up the
records of that barber shop. They called it a Beauty Parlor, but during
this bobbed-haired epidemic, the girls pay more attention to their
heads than to their faces. I hate to take the time----"

"Telephone."

"By Jove, you're right! To whom? The Parlor is shut up."

"The Post Office, I should say."

"Yes, but I wish we could telephone tonight. Telegraph office?"

"None in that tiny village, of course. Minister?"

"It isn't very late--only a little after ten. We all came upstairs
early. But it's pretty late to call up a poor old dominie,--I assume
he's old and I'm sure he's poor."

"Doctor."

"The very thing!"

Going softly downstairs to the servants' quarters, Barron used the
pantry telephone which was out of hearing of those upstairs.

Telephone central willingly connected him with the one doctor that
Hamilton boasted, and as might have been expected, he knew all about
everybody, whether they had ever been ill or not.

The information finally gleaned was to the effect that a
foreign-looking young man and a handsome middle-aged woman had opened
the Beauty Parlor and Ladies' Barber Shop about a month ago. That they
had left very suddenly something less than a fortnight ago, and it was
the village wonder what had become of them.

They owed no bills, rent was paid in advance and apparently they had
just turned the key and walked off. No one had noticed their departure
or knew how or where they went. They had left all their stock and
fixtures and the assumption was, that they had been called away by the
death of a relative or something of that sort and would soon return.

That was all the physician could tell them.

"And their names?" asked Barron.

"Madame Martigny and Monsieur De Vries."

"And that's that!" commented Tony as he hung up the receiver. "It's a
deep plot, Jack, a ver-y deep plot. Those two people are the agents of
the kidnappers, and they took that shop and fixed it all up to catch
the trade round here--there's no other ladies' barber that I know
of,--and hoped sooner or later to get Lulie--or, maybe some other rich
girl. It may have been a general trap and they merely took the first
daughter of a millionaire that came along."

"Then where's Lulie now?"

"Your naïveté is touching, boy. I don't know where she is, but we do
know what to look for. A car with three people of whom we have the
description."

"You haven't the description of those two villains."

"We can get it from anybody in Hamilton. What surprises me is that
there has as yet been no ransom demand. But of course that is because
of Mr. Clearman's sudden death. That must have knocked their plans into
a cocked hat!"

Barron didn't say that it also boded ill for Lulie's safety, but he
felt it none the less.

"And here's another thing, laddie," he said; "if the police get hold of
the discovery of that empty bottle, and of course they must, let them
think it points to Miss Clearman's guilt. It can't hurt her, and it
leaves the way clearer for my work."

"You're asking a great deal of me--" Jack began.

"Shut up! You make me tired. I tell you it is a help--a help toward
establishing the girl's innocence, and just because in your dazed
preoccupation you can't quite see through that, you begin to whine.
I've got a whole lot on my shoulders, and I'm afraid to move for fear
I'll joggle some off. Now don't you hinder me by running counter to my
advices. If you do, I'll throw up the case and go home."

When Barron got very deeply involved in a tangle of evidence it always
made him a little irritable until he could straighten it out. And so
Jack accepted the stinging reproof, that was perhaps a bit harsher than
he deserved.

He took it in good part, for he thoroughly believed in Barron, and had
faith he'd pull through somehow.

"You see, Jack," the detective added, "whether the villain in this play
is a white man or a wicked Oriental heathen,--whether it is one man or
an organized band of evildoers, in any case, whoever put that empty
bottle on top of Lulie's bed, also put her half-burned cigarette in
the study and probably took the ten thousand dollars,--and, possibly,
poisoned Stephen Clearman, too."

Lest he should make an inapposite remark, Raynor made none, and after a
hearty good night, he went off to bed.

Left alone, Tony Barron got very busy. He sniffed scornfully at the
envelope Jack had brought and after a careful scrutiny, tore it up and
threw it away.

He had a wonderful theory, if he could only prove it.

Barron was not one of those detectives who conceive a theory and then
try to make the facts fit it, but in the present instance they did fit
it, and he wanted others to see that they did.

It was much later, about midnight, in fact, when Miss Phoebe Clearman
softly tapped at his door, and when he opened it as softly, she handed
him, without a word, a large bandbox.

Without opening this, he put it on a high shelf in his closet and
locked the door.

Tony felt he had his work cut out for him to trace Lulie. Even if he
were entirely right in his assumptions, how could he ever find her? Or
how could the police, either. The Hamilton urchin might give up more
information about the big car, but how trace a car of which neither
make nor number was known, of which nothing was known save that it
carried a man and two women?

That was surely a needle in a haystack problem. However, if the police
could do anything at all, that was the sort of thing they might do.
Anyway, he proposed to put that part of the work in their hands; he had
troubles of his own.

He pulled out the old diary from a table drawer and began afresh on
that.

He had some magnifying glasses, and some testing acids and quite a bit
of paraphernalia besides some books on ancient documents and kindred
subjects.

His work on these things took a long time, but at last he raised his
weary head, stretched his arms and shook his shoulders. A light of
success gleamed in his blue eyes as he exclaimed, under his breath,
"Clever! the cleverest I ever saw!"

The next day being Saturday, Nan begged the detective to take a holiday
and go over to the country club for golf.

"Oh, do," Carlotta cried. "I wish I could go with you. It seems a
shame," she pouted a little, "that just because I am in mourning I
can't go anywhere. It doesn't help Stephen any for me to mope about
here----"

"In my day," said Phoebe, severely, "a widow wasn't supposed to want to
go into society for a few years."

"I don't want the society," Carlotta said, with a gentle pathos in her
voice, "but I want some outdoor life; some exercise, besides walking
or motoring. That's all I'm allowed to do. I tell you frankly, Phoebe,
when I get to New York I'm not going to stay mewed up in the house. I'm
going about wherever I like."

Phoebe's face registered silent disapproval, and Carlotta went on.

"Will you come to see me, Mr. Barron? I don't propose to entertain
largely, but I must see some friends now and then, or I shall die of
loneliness."

"I'll go to see you, Carly," said Nan, kindly. She was truly sorry for
the excitement-loving young woman, who though she had been a devoted
wife was so much younger and more pleasure-loving than her old and
staid sister-in-law.

Barron casually accepted the casual invitation for the future, but
declined to take the proposed holiday.

"It's Saturday," he said, "and I have a number of errands to attend to
that can't be done tomorrow and can't wait until Monday. So, we'll play
golf tomorrow, if you like, and I'll work today."

His first errand took him down to the village, where he spent most
of the morning with the town clerk, going over musty old records and
learning a few meager facts about some of the dead and gone Clearmans.
As is usual in such cases, and such places, many of the records had
been destroyed by fire, but Barron succeeded in finding much of
interest and, he hoped, of value.

Returning for luncheon, he went to his room, and chanced upon Violet in
the hall.

It seemed to him that she hovered about a great deal, and on a sudden
impulse, he told her to follow him into his room.

She demurred at first, but a peremptory command brought obedience.

"Violet," he began pleasantly, "will you stay with Mrs. Clearman after
she leaves here, or remain in this house?"

"Oh, I'se gwine stay with Miss Carly, dat I sho' is," and a decided nod
emphasized her words.

"Why do you call her that? Did you know her when she was a girl?"

"Well,--yo' see,--" the woman seemed to give the question more
consideration than it deserved, "I'se knowed her a long time, suh."

"Did you travel abroad with her and Mr. Clearman?"

"No, suh," and now she began to look sulky.

"Then she left you home here when she went?" Barron had no notion why
the woman resented these questions but he determined to find out.

"Well,--yes, suh."

"Where were you then? With Miss Carly's people?"

"No, suh--not 'zackly,----"

"Well, where, then? What the dickens is the matter with you? Can't you
talk?"

"Yo' see, suh--I'se deef."

"Deef, nothing! That's all a pretence. I've watched you, and you're no
more deaf than I am!"

"Oh, golly, molly, polly, how yo' does prosecute a po' good fo' nuffin
niggah! Am' yo' shamed of yo' self, suh, to pester an' tease me cos
I'se deef?"

"Hush that talk. How long have you lived with Mrs. Clearman as her
maid?"

The vacant-looking eyes rolled about as if in a mad effort of memory.

"Now, dat's jest 'zackly what I dunno,--no, suh, I dunno. I ain' no
good a reckonin' time, dat I ain't. Yo' ask Miss Carly,--she'll tell
you' all dem fac's yo'se a askin'. Yessuh, yo' ask her."

"All right, Violet, I'll ask her. Now see here. Is Mrs. Clearman in her
room now?"

"No, suh, she's done gone down to lunch."

"Well, I'm going in her room for a minute, and I want you to go
along so you can tell your mistress I didn't disturb anything. I am
privileged to do this at will, as you know."

Looking doubtful, but not daring to object, Violet followed the
detective.

He went through the main hall and into the smaller private hall that
led to the new wing. He went into Carlotta's beautiful boudoir, and
after a comprehensive though swift glance around, he turned and left
the room.

"That's all," he said over his shoulder. "As you see, I didn't touch
anything."

He went down to luncheon, seemingly a care-free young man, a guest at a
delightful country home.

They all seemed to possess the power of throwing off the horrors
of the situation at meal times, and the dining room usually saw a
pleasant, conversational crowd.

Stagg preserved exactly the same demeanor he had always shown, but
West, who acted as second man now, was nervous and uncertain of manner.

"Can't we forget it all, over Sunday, and have a pleasant week-end?"
Carlotta said: "This awfulness is getting on my nerves. The rest of
you never seem to realize that I have my own grief to bear as well as
all these horrors of police investigations and Lulie's absence and
everything. None of you others has lost a dear one--or, forgive me,
Phoebe, I know you loved Stephen, too."

"Yes, let's follow Mrs. Clearman's suggestion," Barron said, smiling
impartially about him. "I'll do my best, Fair Lady, to give you a quiet
peaceful Sunday tomorrow, if I can't promise you happiness."

She gave him a grateful look, and was about to reply, when West came in
with a telegram.

During these exigent days messages were delivered whenever they
arrived,--heedless of conventions.

The address was that of Miss Phoebe, but as she attempted to open it
her hands trembled so, she handed it over to Carlotta.

As the graceful white hands unfolded the paper, a look of amazed horror
came over her face. She turned white, her hands clutched at the paper,
and as she tried to read it aloud, her voice failed her, and the paper
fell to the floor.

Nicky Goring sprang to pick it up, and then to end the suspense of all
he read it aloud:

     "I cannot come home and face exposure and disgrace. I know you can
     never forgive but you can forget.

"LULIE."

A dreadful silence fell, broken only by Miss Phoebe's stifled sobs.

"Where is it dated from?" Carlotta asked, suddenly.

"From New York,--the Ritzmont Hotel," Nicky replied. "Of course that
doesn't mean she's there."

"But a message would reach her there, wouldn't it?" Carlotta cried.
"Can't we send for her to come? Of course we forgive her--surely if
I can, the rest of you can. Dear Lulie,--at least we must hear her
explanations."

They looked at her with varying expressions.

Nan with complete agreement. Raynor with such a bewildered, stunned
face, that his thoughts could not be read.

Tony Barron was non-committal. It was his job to deduce, not to advise.

But Phoebe Clearman was outspoken.

"No," she said, in clear, high tones, "no; if that wicked girl killed
her father, I for one, refuse her admittance to this house."

The kindly old face was transformed by righteous wrath until she looked
more like an avenging goddess than a gentle woman.

"Oh, Phoebe," begged Carlotta, "don't be too hard on her--remember how
young she is----"

"Not so terribly young," was the cold response.

"Remember we know nothing of her provocation,--they both had such
tempers."

"No!" and Phoebe's voice cut like ice, "the law is a life for a life.
If Lulie Clearman killed her own father, she deserves to suffer the
just penalty. Therefore, anyone who loves her must prefer that she stay
away."

And then the strong-willed and frail-bodied little creature rose with
dignity and left the room.

A dead silence followed, and as no one could eat any more, they all
left the luncheon unfinished and went their various ways.

Barron, going upstairs, saw Violet meet her mistress and assist her to
her room.

It was some hours later, that a few of them chanced to be together on
the terrace.

Carlotta, approaching, said, "I'm going to the village, anybody want to
go? I have the big car."

Raynor was not visible, so Nan and Goring said they'd go and Barron
echoed acceptance.

Drawing Nan aside a moment before they started, Barron whispered to her.

"Now, I'm going to brag of my mind reading. In the village, Mrs.
Clearman will stop at the post office. She will go in and get one of
those little stamp books, that hold a dollar's worth of stamps. After
she comes out if it is not in evidence, you jump out and go in, and ask
if she did this. You must obey me, it is imperative,--if we would save
Lulie."

"I will, but tell me this one thing. Is that telegram from Lulie?"

"No, it is a fake. Hush."

They joined the others and the big car rolled smoothly down the slopes
to the village, and--to the Post Office.




CHAPTER XVII

A PERILOUS DESCENT


Lulie, on her beautiful island, was growing each day more terrified of
Tadousac. True, he had not as yet actually touched her, but his every
word, his every glance, proved to her that he was only biding his time.

It was Saturday afternoon of the same day that the telegram purporting
to be from her was received at Clearman Court, that she sat on her
favorite rock,--looking out over the water. Often she had begged to
know where she was, but information was not accorded.

However, by dint of continuous and alert listening she had picked up a
few tiny bits of useful knowledge.

And by piecing them together she had a glimmer of an idea that she was
somewhere near Canada, Tadousac was a French Canadian and Fred, the
servant, also seemed to be.

Though said to be deaf and dumb, she had noticed a look of intelligence
in his eyes at some things said by the others, and she concluded that
she had been told the lie to prevent her plying him with undesirable
questions.

Also, many of the magazines and weeklies they let her have were English
publications, and cumulative evidence gave her a feeling of certainty
she was in or near Canada.

Had she known more about that part of the map she would have realized
at once that she was confined on one of the Thousand Islands.

But that was a region she had never before visited, her life having
been spent largely abroad. Nor had she chanced to hear much about the
beautiful St. Lawrence and the charms of the Islands.

Yet she kept on listening, until she had developed a real faculty for
hearing and registering, while seemingly paying no attention whatever.

And what she had learned, though piecemeal, made when put together such
a tissue of horror and unbelievable crime, that she shuddered to think
about it.

One thing she had proved to her satisfaction--the relationship between
her two keepers.

At first she had noticed that Tadousac, when in formal mood called the
woman Mrs. Murray, or simply Murray. If more genial, he called her
Molly. And on several occasions, when he was intensely interested,
or affectionately mellow by reason of wine, he had distinctly said,
"Mother."

Lulie was sure she was not the man's mother, but, she deduced,
mother-in-law. Watching carefully she could see signs of a woman and
her son-in-law banded together in some terrible scheme, who while
having no real affection for one another yet bowed to the so called
honor that is said to exist among thieves.

Yet Lulie was also sure they were not principals in the wrong being
done. They were at the orders of and under complete subjection to
someone whom they called The Boss. No other name had they ever used in
Lulie's hearing, and she had no means of knowing when or whether this
terrible Boss might appear.

Their talk betokened that the present arrangement was temporary, and
of late Mrs. Murray had been restless, and seemed to be now inciting
Tadousac to do his duty, and next urging him not to.

It fell out that Lulie learned what this mysterious duty was.

After luncheon, Tadousac, who had partaken rather freely of his
favorite wine, had been especially obnoxious in his leering attentions
to the girl.

As he sobered a little, his manner became no less amorous, but it
showed a deeper intent, a more desperately alarming seriousness.

At last, unable to stand it, Lulie had run out to her rock, and sat
down there in despair.

A shadow approached and she saw Mrs. Murray coming.

"It's the end," Lulie said, with determination. "Mrs. Murray, as you
are a decent woman, can't you feel a little pity for me when you see
how that man acts?"

The older woman's eyes showed a real compassion, but what she said was:

"You little fool, you owe your life to his infatuation for you! If
you care to live, humor him--if you--if you don't--" she snapped her
fingers, as if there was no more to be said.

Lulie thought quickly. If she turned on the speaker and demanded to
know what she meant, she would get no reply, and Mrs. Murray would
probably leave her.

The girl was beginning to know how to deal with her. If she murmured
some inoffensive remark, the woman might babble on, but a definite
question would stop her tongue at once.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, watching the other covertly; "everybody
wants to live, I suppose,--but--what do you mean--humor him?"

"What I say. If you want it more bluntly, I'll put it. If you
understand,--act on it." She rose.

"Oh, sit down," Lulie said, speaking in an indifferent voice, but with
a wildly beating heart. "Do you know, for a minute you had me scared. I
thought you meant Tadousac was going to murder me."

The woman stepped closer, they were both standing now, and looking deep
in the girl's eyes, said, "That's what he's here for."

Though she had herself well in hand, Lulie started at this, then she
recovered herself quickly, laughed lightly and said, "Nonsense! We're
not back in the Dark Ages."

"You laugh!" cried the woman, stung by ridicule, as Lulie meant her to
be, "but you'll see. Anyway, as I told you, it's his infatuation for
you that has saved you thus far."

She turned with an air of decision, and Lulie made no attempt to hold
her back.

She sat down on the rock again. Well, she had wanted to die, now
she had a choice between drowning or--or whatever mode pleased the
black-hearted man who had her at his mercy.

And then her determination rose. She was often at her best in an
emergency.

She didn't know what she would do, but she did know she was up against
it.

Every ounce of fighting blood in her body rose to the fray. Every
instinct of the old fighting Clearmans came to her aid. Dathan himself
could not have been more firm and inexorable of will.

But--what could she do?

She could die,--yes. She could even drown herself right now, perhaps
she'd not have a better chance before--The mere thought of Tadousac
roused her anger to white heat.

She'd evade him yet. She'd outwit him----

In the back of her brain was the germ of a pitiful little plan for
escape.

Dozens of times she had thought it over only to conclude it was
impossible. Now, she was going to try it. If it failed, she'd be no
worse off than she already was. Intuition told her it would not be
long before that dreadful man would make violent love to her. She knew
he purposed to, and she readily believed Mrs. Murray that it was his
infatuation that had spared her life this long.

So the man had been hired to kill her! And had fallen in love with her
instead! Well, death was far preferable to the merest touch of his
hand, but she vowed she'd put up a fight before she submitted to either.

It was Saturday, and usually on Wednesday and Saturday nights Mrs.
Murray and Tadousac indulged in the one amusement they cared for. A
game of cards with two other people who came in a motor boat to play
with them.

Lulie had never seen these people; when they were to come she was sent
to her room early, and she preferred it so.

The visitors came about half past eight or nine and played until ten or
thereabouts, when there was a rather elaborate supper, and after that
the four returned to their game and played till nearly morning.

Lulie knew all this from Mrs. Murray's tales and too, she often heard
the rather noisy good nights as the guests departed.

At the supper table, she preserved a polite and even merry demeanor.
She had learned that when she was depressed or rebellious, Tadousac was
more attracted than in her lighter moods.

A strange man he was, full of the smouldering fires of passion, and
then suddenly, cold, cruel and even brutal.

During supper she learned, without seeming to, that it was uncertain
whether the guests would come that evening or not.

The doubt struck a chill to her heart, for her plans were made, and if
the card game did not take place, she could not proceed.

But she said nothing.

Only one more speech gave her cause for thought.

As they rose from the table, she heard Mrs. Murray whisper, "You'll
hear from The Boss if you don't write that letter soon."

An ugly scowl was his only reply, and yet Lulie somehow knew that the
letter was the one to "The Boss" to tell that her own doom had been
forever sealed.

It wasn't what these two said, it was the expressive looks that
accompanied their speech, and Lulie had learned to translate them only
too accurately.

"If you care to go to your room early tonight, dearie, you may," was
Mrs. Murray's way of wording what was in reality a command.

"All right, I will," Lulie replied. "I've a new book to read, and I
think I'll turn in early."

Careful not to overdo this blithe, careless manner, Lulie found it
worked well, when they wanted to be rid of her.

She went to her room, and sat down to read.

The letters danced before her eyes, but she forced herself to turn
pages at proper intervals and appear engrossed in the story, for she
never knew when Mrs. Murray might come in unannounced.

Perhaps those hours then were the longest she ever experienced.

Fear lest the other card players might not come nearly paralyzed her
heart and when at last she heard the faint sound of their motor boat,
for the dock was a rather long walk from the house, she drew a long,
long breath of relief.

Then, after a time, she heard the unmistakable sound of the four legs
of a card table being jerked down, one by one.

So sensitive was she to every phase of her captors' temper, that she
knew the way he opened the table that Tadousac was in good humor.
Otherwise he would have slammed it open.

A hush fell over the house as the play began, and again Lulie needed
all her patience to sit still while the time crept slowly by.

As it neared ten o'clock, Fred shuffled up to her room, with a plate of
the good things that made up the feast.

He found Lulie quietly reading, left the tray on the table and
departed. If inquired of he could report, "All serene."

Then waiting about fifteen minutes longer, and hearing the hilarity
well under way in the dining room, Lulie made her start.

Her plan was simple enough, if she could work it, and if she were not
heard by anyone in the house.

Her room door opened on a small square platform, the width of the door.
This square platform was bounded on one side by another door, into a
closet.

Opposite her own door was the balustrade that guarded the well of the
staircase, and on the fourth side were the three steps that led down to
the lower floor level on which the rest of the second story rooms were
situated.

The gate across the top of Lulie's three steps was like the ones used
to keep children from falling downstairs save that it was higher and
much heavier and stronger. Also it projected over the banister rail in
a way that made it impossible to get around it. This gate was locked at
night, and when Fred brought her tray, he unlocked and relocked it with
meticulous care.

Her windows were barred, and she was as securely imprisoned as human
ingenuity could devise means.

But Lulie had a plan. A dangerous, a desperate plan, but if it should
work it meant freedom, and if not,--she was no worse off than now.

Her preparations consisted in securing what little money she had inside
her blouse, and donning a small, close hat.

She wore rubber soled shoes and fastened a small bag with a
handkerchief and her few jewels round her waist under her skirt.

Then, with infinite slowness and care she opened her room door.

She leaned over the banister and, though the dining room door below was
closed, she could hear the shouts of laughter that meant the party was
at its height.

Now came her perilous stunt.

She had read of it in a magazine story, and had hoped that with some
adjustment it might fit her case.

At the lowest of the three steps a short platform or landing ran for
about eight feet and then from that the rest of the staircase descended
in opposite direction from the three higher steps.

Therefore, from the balustrade on Lulie's square platform to the
banister rail of the stairs there was a space of three feet or so.

Had this space been narrower an agile girl could have swung herself
across somehow, but it was out of the question.

So the trick was to let herself over the rail on her own platform and
make the journey along the landing and down the staircase by hanging on
to the posts of the banister, her feet dangling.

Her mind was made up and her will was strong, but as she climbed over a
qualm of fear struck to her very heart.

Pushing aside all thought of failure, she devoted her entire attention
to keeping absolutely silent, for one of the chief dangers was to rouse
alarm.

Over the banister, then, went the slight figure, and stepped calmly off
into nothingness as the slender uprights bore the weight of Lulie's
body.

Only her desperate determination and her level head kept her from
dropping to the floor below as her arrested weight almost wrenched her
arms from their sockets.

But this was the crucial moment, and Lulie Clearman was right there.

Praying that the apparently secure uprights would hold her, and that
none would squeak or crack, she went on, hand over hand along the
platform and down the staircase.

An instant's pause, now and then, to assure herself of the continued
noise from the dining room, and she went on as swiftly as possible. She
felt her endurance giving out, and if she fainted or let go,--what then?

Half-way down the stairs she felt she must let go, the strain was too
great, then the realization that she was half way, and a boisterous
shout of laughter from Tadousac's throat, gave her new courage and she
went on,--on,--until at last the tips of her toes touched the hall
floor.

Nor did she relax then. With greatest care she put her feet down, one
after the other, still clinging to the rails.

At last she dared let go, and swayed so dizzily she almost fell over.

Not quite, though, and after a moment to get her breath, she made
silent haste to the front door.

As she had hoped and expected, it stood ajar, and in a moment she had
slipped through and was free--so far.

She assured herself the worst was over, but she had no time for
self-gratulation. They might discover her absence at any minute, so she
sped, swiftly now, to the boathouse.

She found the key, all her plans were working smoothly, and bringing
into play her knowledge of motor boats so carefully concealed from her
jailers, she was soon chugging out across the water.

The merry-makers would hear nothing, or if they did they would think it
merely some passing motor boat, and she flew on.

Where she was going she had no idea, but she made for the nearest and
brightest lights.

It was a long sail, but there were few craft about at that hour of the
night, and shortly before eleven o'clock she drew up beside a dock and
sprang out.

A stolid sort of person took care of her boat as a matter of course.

She told him she'd be back in half an hour, and paid him enough to
satisfy him but not rouse his suspicions.

Then wary enough not to ask where she was, though she thought it one
of the strangest places she had ever seen, she went along the streets
until she found a policeman.

"Please direct me to the best lawyer you know of," she demanded and so
imperious was Lulie's manner, and so great her charm, that the man met
her request at once.

"It's pretty late," he grumbled, as he showed her a nearby house, and
paused at the front steps.

"All the more reason to consult a lawyer," she said, skipping up the
steps and ringing the bell before he could raise further objection.

A sleepy-eyed maid admitted her, and she asked for Mr. Everson.

"I think he's going to bed, Miss," came the response. "Won't it keep
till morning?"

"No, please, it must be tonight. Tell him it's Miss Clearman."

"Yes, miss," and at last Lulie sat down in a chair in a house, where
she felt no reason for fear of any sort.

It was a pleasant, comfortable sort of home, and when Mr. Everson
appeared he was a pleasant sort of man.

Lulie had planned just how much and how little of her story she would
tell, but as soon as she began she saw the incredulity on the lawyer's
face.

"But I saw Miss Clearman's picture in many papers," he said, "and she
isn't a bit like you."

"Oh, I see," and Lulie threw off her hat, and pushed back her bobbed
curls and drew her hair as nearly as she could into a semblance of
the way she used to wear it. Then rapidly she told him of the bobbing
process and of the dye that was forced on her, indubitably for the
purpose of disguise.

Lawyer Everson stared at her. He believed her story, no one could help
it, and yet--the papers, many of them, declared this girl committed the
murder.

In a quandary, he excused himself a moment, and called his wife.

Mrs. Everson was a darling. She read Lulie through and through at once,
and grasped her hand in sympathy and affection.

"Wait a minute, Tom," she said. "When did you leave your home, Miss
Clearman?"

"Two weeks ago next Monday. On the eleven-thirty."

"Then--did you know, when you left of--er--of your father's
condition----"

"What do you mean? Has he had a stroke?"

"You see," and Mrs. Everson turned to her husband. Clearly this girl
knew nothing of the murder, no actress could compass that look of blank
apprehension.

But the lawyer gave her another test.

"He is dead," he said with purposeful suddenness.

"Father! Dead!" For a moment she looked straight ahead of her, as
thoughts rushed through her brain.

"Yes, dead. Murdered." Everson had no wish to be brutal, but he deemed
it his duty to get her reactions.

The last word though, affected her like an electric shock.

"Murdered! Then those people did it! Those brutes are at the bottom of
it."

Clearly here was no hysterical girl, but a strong character to deal
with. An avenging angel could not have shown more deadly intent of
retribution than shone then in Lulie Clearman's eyes.

"It's too long a story. I can't tell it you now," she said, with swift,
sure decision. "Where am I? Tell me, please."

"You are in Clayton," Mrs. Everson said, gently. "Clayton, New York,
near the Thousand Islands."

"Oh! Thousand Islands! I see. I've never been to them before. Well, I
hate to seem so decided, but I didn't know Dad was dead--dead--" her
voice broke. "Do they know who killed him?"

"Some think that you did--" Everson began, but Lulie interrupted.

"Yes,--that would be the way of it! Well, I know who killed him. I know
all about it, and I must get home the very minute I can. Is there a
train tonight? Oh, don't be afraid to let me out of your sight. Send a
policeman with me if you like,--I wish you would,--if he's a good one.
Or come yourselves, come with me to Clearman Court, be my lawyer and
help me get things straightened out. If my father is dead, I'm a rich
woman. I'll pay you. Come, Mr. Everson, Mrs. Everson, do. How shall we
go? Train or motor car?"

"There, there, dear," Mrs. Everson said, "you're getting hysterical,
and I don't wonder. You stay here all night and tomorrow we'll see
about it."

"Is there a train tonight?" Lulie asked, more quietly.

"No, not till ten in the morning. But you may take that if you wish----"

"Well, may I stay here until then? May I telephone home--no, I don't
want to do that--oh, I don't know what to do."

"Let us advise you," said Mrs. Everson. "First, are you hungry?"

"No, indeed!" and Lulie gave a shiver of disgust at recollection of the
tray Fred had brought her but which she didn't touch.

"Well, you shall have a glass of hot milk and a biscuit, and then you
can do just as you prefer,--tuck into bed, or get into one of my nice,
comfy dressing gowns and tell us the whole story."

"That's the thing!" and Lulie's eyes glistened as she remembered one
terrible incident after another, that she had to tell. "And then, Mr.
Everson, will you be my lawyer? For I don't trust anybody if Dad is
gone. His lawyers were none too--too--oh, you know, they wound him
round their fingers. And the estate must be looked after--don't think
me mercenary, but I shall most surely be done out of my rights. So you
be my lawyer, and I'll tell you everything tonight, and tomorrow we
three will go to Valley Falls, and--oh, my goodness, these people who
have been holding me, mustn't escape--they must be punished,--the man,
anyhow!"

And then, Mrs. Everson carried the girl off and made her comfortable,
and the two women had a little heart-to-heart talk before the great
history of the case was begun.

And after it was told, Thomas Everson, with a great sense of
responsibility, took up the case with intent to see justice done in
full.

As a first step, he called up the Police and asked the Chief to come
round at once.

Lulie was spared this interview, and after kind, motherly Mrs. Everson
tucked her in bed, she slept the calm and deep sleep that comes after
relief from great and grievous troubles.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE QUEEN OF HEARTS


When the Clearman car reached the village, Carlotta asked the chauffeur
to stop at the Post Office.

"I won't be a minute," she said, as she sprang out before Nicky could
offer to do her errand.

Barron gave a blank sort of glance at Nan, who understood. Before
Carlotta returned, Nan said, "My gracious, I want to get a money
order,--I forgot all about it. Wait for me, please." And, passing
Carlotta on the steps Nan entered the Post Office.

Once inside she went to the stamp window, and said, "Please give me a
book of stamps,--the same as that other lady just bought."

The attendant handed out a book of fifty stamps, and Nan paid for it,
asked for a money order blank and went back to the car, the stamps
safely hidden in her bag and the order fluttering in her fingers.

She had no idea what it all meant, but she was obeying orders, and she
marveled at Barron's knowledge of what Carlotta would do.

Though, to be sure, she said to herself, "There's certainly nothing
wrong about buying a book of postage stamps!"

The ride proved a pleasant one, for Barron exerted himself to be
entertaining, Carlotta seemed in the best of spirits and the others
followed the cue.

They reached home for dinner and the evening passed without incident.

Rather early Carlotta excused herself, saying she had begun some
preliminary packing and wished to continue it.

"When are you going, Carly?" asked Nan, interested.

"I want to get off early in the week, if I can," Carlotta returned. "Of
course, I shall be in New York, so, if the local authorities here want
to see me they can easily do so."

"What would they want to see you about?" asked Phoebe, a little crisply.

"I don't know, dear," Carlotta replied, in a gentle voice; "but I think
they resent my leaving before their work is finished. Yet, there seems
small chance of their work ever being finished. What is your opinion,
Mr. Barron? Who do you think is responsible for my husband's death?"

Carlotta looked pathetically weary, not so much physically, as worn out
mentally and emotionally.

Barron returned:

"I hope I am not too deliberate in coming to a decision, but, I really
haven't yet formed a positive opinion. There are loose ends yet to
be gathered up before I can feel that I have spun my web of theory
correctly."

"Do you suspect West at all?" Carlotta asked, in a low voice, lest the
man might be hovering about.

"No, he is eliminated."

"I'm glad of that," she said, thoughtfully, "he is a good man."

And very soon, Carlotta went off upstairs, and after a few moments Nan
and Miss Phoebe followed, leaving the three men alone for a good night
smoke and chat.

But the chat was perfunctory, and there was a restraint over them all.

"I can't stand it much longer," said Raynor finally, "if I don't learn
something about Lulie, I shall go crazy."

"No, old chap," said Tony, kindly, "you won't go crazy, but I'm sorry
for you. However, I think I shall settle up the murder business
tomorrow or Monday at latest, and then we'll tackle the disappearance
problem. They're pretty closely connected, you know."

"I'm banking on you, Barron," Jack returned, "but do push things all
you can."

"I will. Now, look here, you fellows, if you hear any disturbance
or noise in the halls tonight, don't pay any attention to it. Don't
come out of your rooms. It will be the working out of an important
experiment in which you can't help, but may hinder. And that's that.
Cheer up, Raynor, I know you're in doleful depths, but all I can say
for your comfort is, that I hope Miss Clearman is all right. She is in
danger, there's no use blinking that fact, but I hope tomorrow to find
out at least where she is----"

"Only find that out," Raynor burst forth, "and I'll go and get her,
if----"

"Yes, I know,--if it's at the ends of the earth, and all that! You're a
typical Romeo, old top, and afraid of nothing. Well, it's quite on the
cards that by Monday you may be starting to get Miss Lulie and bring
her back home----"

He had nearly added, alive or dead, but stopped himself just in time.

Raynor's eager look of delight wrung his heart-strings, for he had
grave fears as to Lulie Clearman's fate.

The men went upstairs together, and with whispered good nights
separated in the hall, and went to their own rooms.

Tony Barron sat for a couple of hours, almost without moving. He tested
his theory from every possible point of objection and it came through
unscathed.

"Clever! clever!" he assured himself, over and over. "Now if the letter
comes tomorrow,--a Special Delivery will bring it on Sunday,--and if
tonight's experiment works out, I've got the goods!"

It was about one o'clock when he rose and took from his closet shelf
the big bandbox. Opening it, he took out a mask,--one of the masks from
Stephen Clearman's study, and a particularly frightful one.

With utmost care he took it from the box, and with an efficient
arrangement of adhesive plaster and strong string, he fastened it to
the end of a stout hickory walking stick. Then he arranged inside it a
tiny flashlight which had an adjustable spring.

As pleased as a child with a new toy, he gazed admiringly at his
completed work, and brandished the fearful thing aloft in triumph.

Extinguishing his room lights, he stepped softly out into the dark
hall, and holding the dimly illuminated mask high above his head, he
went noiselessly along the corridors, straight toward the new wing.

He paused outside Carlotta's bedroom door and listened. He thought he
heard her restlessly moving about in her bed, but was not quite sure.

With his hickory stick firmly grasped in his right hand, he silently
turned the knob with his left and opened the door part way.

Then he slowly thrust the mask through, still holding it high. The
effect was as of the head floating in at the door.

He waited a moment, and then heard a calm voice say, in low but clear
tones, "I am not at all frightened, Mr. Barron, you may take it away."

Unable to suppress a chuckle, Tony withdrew the mask, gently closed the
door and returned to his own room.

"Perfect success," he said, to himself, still broadly smiling. "She is
certainly one wonder!" He put the mask carefully back in the bandbox,
and then the self-satisfied detective made ready for bed, and gave
himself up to a well-earned rest.

Sunday morning neither he nor his hostess made any reference to the
strange performance of the previous night.

Carlotta looked a little pale, and her manner showed a trace of
nervousness, but she was in gentle mood and declared that her packing
and the thought of leaving Clearman Court had made her a trifle
homesick.

"Why go, then?" asked Barron, looking at her.

"Because I want to," she returned with some spirit. "I feel a touch of
regret at leaving some things here, that I have loved,--my beautiful
rooms, and the gardens--but, on the whole I am very unhappy here and I
prefer fresh scenes, where I am not continually reminded of happy days
with my lost husband."

"I understand," Nan said, sympathetically. "Have you decided on your
hotel, Carly?"

"Not quite, I've written to three and I'm awaiting the last answer.
Then I'll decide. I want a good hotel, but not one of the very large
ones."

Sunday afternoon Carlotta asked Barron to go for a walk with her. This
did not surprise the others, for Carlotta always appreciated a man to
herself if she could, but it greatly surprised Tony Barron himself.

He accepted the invitation with avowed pleasure, and the pair sauntered
away down the garden path and toward the nearby woods.

For a time they walked in silence and then Carlotta said,

"Why did you cut up that absurd trick last night, Mr. Barron?"

"To see if you would be frightened," he returned, speaking as
straightforwardly as she had done.

"And I wasn't," she gave him a look that would have turned the head of
many a man, but Tony was unimpressed.

"No," he said, and then he gave her a meaning glance.

But she ignored the implication and said, plaintively:

"Why do you hate me so, Mr. Barron?"

"I don't hate you," he declared, a little taken aback.

"Yes, you do. You're trying your best to prove I have done something
wrong."

"And haven't you?"

"No," she said, earnestly, and now she stopped in the path, turned to
face him, and clasped her hands in appeal. "Please, _please_, Tony,
tell me what you are holding over my head,--tell me what you are
trying to prove against me. I haven't done anything wrong--you know I
haven't----"

Tears welled up in her beautiful eyes, her scarlet lips quivered, and
her white hands, like fluttering doves, hovered about and came to rest
on his hands.

Her clear eyes looked up into his own, her lovely brow was drawn with
anguish and her whole attitude was full of pathetic appeal; through her
thin black gown he could see her white shoulders shaking with stifled
sobs and the elusive fragrance of her person came to him like a breath
of Araby the Blest.

It was this that brought his wits back to him.

For Tony Barron could withstand the temptations of a beautiful face,
or a beautiful voice, but when a certain kind of scent assailed his
senses, he knew he was in danger. And at such times he brought himself
up with a round turn.

"I haven't accused you of doing anything wrong, have I?" he said, and
if his voice was unnecessarily harsh, it was because he was struggling
against the wonderful charm of this wonderful woman.

"I am so very alone," she went on, ignoring his question. "I hoped you
would be my friend----"

"Do you need a friend?"

The question was so sharp she looked up quickly. Then, seeing his
enforced severity, she made one more attempt to break it down.

"I have always needed a friend," she said, in a sad, sweet voice,
"except for the short time my husband was with me. Now, I have lost
him, I have lost all that made life worth living."

"Yet he was much older than you are----"

"Love is not measured by years. How little you know, if you think that!
Have you never been in love--Tony?"

The inflection of this speech left no room for doubt as to its intent,
and the irreverent detective said to himself, "Look out for follow-up
literature!"

But he only replied, and mendaciously at that, "Oh, yes, I am engaged
to the dearest girl in the world."

Her disappointment at this turn of affairs but slightly exceeded his
own, for the intrepid young man had a secret regret that he hadn't time
to continue this promising little affair.

"And now," he went on as they resumed their walk by tacit mutual
consent, "tell me why you weren't frightened at my silly prank with the
floating mask."

"Because I've seen just such before," she returned, serenely.

"You mean the recent appearances,--just before your husband died?"

"Yes."

"And were they brought about in practically the same way I managed it?"

"I think so,--it must have been in some such fashion."

"You never believed they were real spooks, then?"

"Certainly not."

"Didn't Mr. Clearman think they were?"

"Yes,--perhaps. You see, his inherent belief in magic and his common
sense were always at odds."

"And Miss Phoebe,--she believed the appearances supernatural, didn't
she?"

Carlotta turned on him. "Phoebe!" she cried, "why she did it!"

"Oho, so it was Phoebe who boosted the ghosts around!"

"Of course it was, and you must know it if you're the clever detective
you think you are!"

"How do you explain her actions, then?" Barron spoke gravely now.

"You must know that, too," Carlotta said, with equal seriousness.
"Phoebe is--mad. At least, on that subject. All the Clearmans are, a
little. My husband was, Phoebe is, and as you've read the Diary, you
know that many of the Clearman ancestors were."

"Ah, yes, the Diary. That's what I want to talk about."

Barron was lighting a cigarette as he spoke, and it proved refractory.

When, after a successful ignition, he looked up, he found himself alone.

"Well,--I'll be damned!" he remarked not loud but emphatically, as he
caught sight of Carlotta's black gown disappearing among the trees.

At dinner that evening, Carlotta was in charming mood. As she had
once promised Barron, she put on a few of her beautiful jewels. With
her exquisitely _chic_ gown of dull black silk, she was a lovely and
pathetic Queen of Diamonds.

Tony had received the Special Delivery letter he had been waiting for
and had a satisfied look as he read it and put it in his pocket.

Of course no reference was made by either to the walk in the woods,
and the detective marvelled anew at the poise and self-control of the
capricious young widow.

After dinner, as it was damp outside, they elected to sit in the
library. They were having their coffee there, when suddenly there
appeared in the doorway a girlish figure, fairly quivering with
excitement.

"Lulie!" Raynor exclaimed, and was the first to spring to her side.

The revelation dazed, awed, the others.

"Yes," she replied, putting her hand in his, and seeming thereby to
regain her natural calm. "And here are," she presented her companions,
"Mr. and Mrs. Everson,--my friends, and the friends of us all. This is
Aunt Phoebe," and Phoebe Clearman rose with her pretty old-fashioned
air to greet the guests.

Carlotta, too, took her share of the general introductions, but Lulie
was so set upon by Nan, and Nicky, to say nothing of the joyful Jack
of Hearts, that the occasion seemed to be a rapturous welcome of a
returned prodigal.

"First, there are some matters to be settled," Lulie said, as she
extricated herself from Nan's embrace.

"Excuse me a moment," murmured Carlotta, "and I will see about your
rooms and some supper for you----"

"No, you won't," said Lulie, sternly, "you'll stay right straight here!
Oh, I can't go through with it, Mr. Everson,--you tell them."

Lulie sank down on a sofa beside Jack, and Thomas Everson took up the
tale.

All day in the train, Lulie had told him added details, until he was
entirely conversant with her side of the tragic story. The rest he had
yet to hear.

So the lawyer gave, in his clear, concise way, a full account of
Lulie's abduction, of her life in the house on one of the Thousand
Islands, of her escape from her jailers there, of her appeal to him and
his willingness to take the case in charge.

As the recital went on, Barron narrowly watched Carlotta. He knew her
so well by this time that he could read her changing views, her quickly
made plans, her sudden realization of obstacles, her consequent remade
plans--all these things he saw, as the brilliant brain conceived them.

He felt sorry for her, and he was fascinated by her pluck and courage.
When would she give in?

Mr. Everson having finished the story, to which Lulie gave her
continuous assent and verification, paused as if his work were at an
end.

"And who was The Boss, of whom these two villains were so afraid?" was
the first question asked, and it was put by Tony Barron.

Lulie answered it.

"There she sits," she said, and her finger, pointed at Carlotta, was as
the sword of an avenging goddess. The simple gesture was more eloquent,
more dramatic, than any show of wrath could have been.

"What do you mean?" Carlotta's face was white, but she bore herself
proudly.

"Never mind the denials, Carlotta," Lulie said. "They won't do a bit of
good. I hate to tell it all, but I must. I overheard enough while I was
there to get the whole truth at last. The woman, Mrs. Murray, Carlotta,
is your mother, and the man,--Tadousac,--is," she paused, and then went
on, with a break in her voice, "is your husband. My father was never
your husband."

There was a silence as everyone present thought over this stunning
revelation.

Phoebe Clearman went over and sat by Lulie.

"You're sure, dear?" was all she said.

"Sure, Aunt Phoebe," the girl replied, with a solemn distinctness.

"Then," Phoebe said, facing Carlotta, "answer for your crimes. Did you
kill my brother?"

"No!" Carlotta screamed, but Barron interposed.

"She did," he said, and his voice, though quiet, hushed all the others,
Carlotta's included. "She did, and in the most diabolically clever way
I have ever heard of. Sit still, Mrs. Clearman. It must be told, and it
shall be told now."

"I refuse to listen! You can't compel me to. You can't keep me here."

"Yes, we can," and Everson's voice had a ring of command. "Stay where
you are, Madame--Tadousac."

With a scared face, Carlotta sank back in her chair, and out of sheer
humanity, Goring went and sat by her side. Be she ever so guilty, she
was a woman alone and friendless, and Nicky couldn't stand everything!

"The appearances of the floating masks were brought about by Madame
Tadousac," Barron began, accepting the new name at once. "She
abstracted the masks from the study and either she or her colored maid,
carried them through the hall on the occasions when they were seen,
fastened to the end of a long pole. I proved this by trying the same
experiment, and instead of being scared, the lady said, calmly, 'I am
not frightened, Mr. Barron. Take it away.' Had she not done this very
thing herself, she would have been alarmed at the sight. I charge this
woman, also, with the murder of Stephen Clearman. The means used was
poison, but the method, as I said, diabolic in its ingenuity, was this:

"Mr. Clearman was in the habit of writing letters in the morning. For
some he used post-office envelopes with the stamps printed on them,
and on some he placed stamps, moistening them with his tongue. Knowing
this, his wife,--as he supposed her to be,--prepared certain stamps
with a strong solution of Prussic acid, one taste of which means
instant death. Mr. Clearman used one of the prepared stamps and died
instantly. I speak assuredly, for I retrieved the letter with the stamp
in question and had it analyzed. I received the report today by special
mail. The poison was easily discernible on the stamp."

"Ridiculous!" cried Carlotta, who was recovering her bravado, and sat
wide-eyed and scornful-faced, listening. "How could any one tell what
stamp a man would use?"

"That was all part of the cleverness," said Barron, with a half sad
smile. "I looked into the matter pretty thoroughly, and I found that
the stamps were from a stamp book. I traced in the village two or three
letters that Mr. Clearman had written in the last few days of his life.
They were all stamped from the same stamp book. You may not know it,
Mr. Everson, but seldom do those books show exactly the same sized
margins. Some are wider at one side, some at one end,--I'd have to show
you, to make it clear. However, it proved that the stamp book which I
found on Mr. Clearman's desk was not the one he had been last using.
I deduced a change of books and as there were none in the house save
one on Mrs. Clearman's boudoir desk, I confiscated that, and replaced
it by another. Not knowing this, but being alarmed, the lady herself
exchanged it yesterday for a new one. A guilty conscience and so forth.
Today I received the envelope that carried the poison stamp, and it
exactly fits the book I confiscated from the boudoir desk.

"Wherefore, I justifiably conclude that Mrs.--Tadousac poisoned the
stamps, compassed the death of Stephen Clearman, who died in the locked
room alone,--and then, unnoticed, changed the little stamp books and,
of course, destroyed the unused stamps that were touched with poison.

"Also, fearing some such revelation as I have managed to bring about,
she endeavored to get those letters back from the letter box, making
a flimsy excuse about an undated letter of her own. Had she retrieved
those letters of Mr. Clearman's our case would have been weakened. As
it is, it is complete."

"You're talking in riddles, Mr. Barron," Carlotta said, lightly, "I
fail to understand you."

"And yet I have never accused you of stupidity," Barron returned,
paying no further attention to this speech.

"It is difficult to conceive," he went on, "of such a brilliant mind
lending itself to such despicable and deplorable work. In order to
achieve the fortune she wanted, the diamonds she craved, this woman has
committed the gravest of crimes, and----"

"And has attempted to repeat it," Lulie broke in, with a sorrowful look
at Carlotta, for whom the hardest-hearted agent of justice must now
feel pity. "For, what she really sent me up to that house for,--that
lonely, isolated house, was to have me murdered."

"No!" cried Raynor, clasping Lulie to him.

"Yes," she said, putting away his arm. "As you say, Mr. Barron, it must
be told,--and told now. The man Tadousac was under orders to abduct me
and--kill me."

"Why didn't he?" sneered Carlotta, consumed by her own curiosity, and
breaking through all bounds of discretion to gratify it.

"Because--" Lulie hesitated and then went doggedly on, "because he did
me the honor to fall in love with me instead."

Carlotta's face was a study. She saw at once that this was the
truth, and she realized that it was a contingency she ought to have
anticipated and planned for.

"That seems to be the only trick you missed," Barron put in. "Your
forgeries of the leaves of the old diary are masterpieces of art. Had I
not discovered in the annals of the town registry clerk, that the two
Clearmans in question died natural deaths I might never have suspected
it. How did you learn to make that paper and ink look old and timeworn?
Yet they would never have deceived experts. Mr. Clearman was so
wrapped up in his studies and so trustful of his--wife,--that he never
suspected a fake."

"Did you telegraph us yesterday?" Carlotta suddenly asked of Lulie.

"No," said the girl, wonderingly; and Barron confessed, "That was my
fake, mine and Miss Phoebe's. I thought it would keep you quiet a few
days longer. Did you think you were going to get away to New York,
really?"

"How could you do it, Carly?" Lulie had only just begun to realize the
heinousness of the woman's sin.

"Realize, Miss Clearman, that what seems impossible normally sometimes
can be done on great provocation," Barron put in. "A criminal, after
all, is only an ordinary person whose morals are obliterated by some
stupendous passion--some monstrous motive----"

Nicky lost the end of this speech for he suddenly recollected how the
first time he had met Carlotta, speaking of diamonds, she had said she
could kill for them. And she had.

Now that quick thinking brain of hers had leaped to the conclusion that
the game was up, and that her only hope, her slim chance of leniency,
lay in confession.

Well, she would make it a good one.

"It is all true," she said, in a low voice that commanded and held
attention. "I did do it all just as you have heard. But I claim a
little consideration. I was brought up poor, in squalid poverty. I
was taught only evil all my life. I was married as a mere child to
that brute of a man, who treated me brutally always. It was at his
instigation, at his command, that I married Stephen Clearman and so had
a short period of the only happiness I have ever known. At the behest
of Tadousac, and in fear of my life, if I deviated one iota from his
orders, I did--all I have done. I forged the odd pages of the Diary,
I forged the bit that doubled the curse on any one named Stephen. I
proposed to Lulie, when we walked in the garden that Sunday evening,
that she have her hair bobbed as a jesting surprise. But Tadousac
arranged for the henna dye, for the abduction and for the--the fate of
Lulie."

"That is not true," rang out Lulie's clear voice. "I overheard enough
up there to know that you were the leading spirit. That Tadousac, brute
beast though he is, was entirely at your orders. And save for your
mother's hint to me--they might have been carried out."

"Yes," Phoebe added to the count. "I learned some time ago, that it was
Carlotta who taught Stephen to love the custards with the Bitter Almond
flavoring. This, I see now, was to provide a reason for the odor of the
poison when the time came."

"So you see through that, do you?" said Carlotta, with a sarcastic
sneer. "Quite true, and it was I who put the poison bottle up over
Lulie's bed, and put Lulie's cigarette end in the study, and took
the ten thousand dollars. But for all of your smartness, none of
you have guessed why I did it,--or rather why I struck when I did.
It was because Stephen had had reason to suspect I was not his
wife--that Tadousac lived and was really my husband. I had to get rid
of Stephen then,--Tadousac ordered it. He was the one who had told
Stephen,--written to him to ask me about my former life--Stephen never
questioned it himself--so I had to bring about his 'going-away.' And
unless Lulie too was out of the way, I'd have trouble--so--well," she
returned for a moment to her one time gayety, "it was really too easy.
Once get a man to believe in anything supernatural, and he's ready to
swallow any and all things that are told him. As for me,--there's only
one thing left for me to swallow,--and--here goes!"

With a swift and unmistakable gesture her hand flew to her mouth, and in
another moment beautiful Carlotta had received her "going-away" by the
same means that had taken Stephen Clearman from the world.

It was not a surprise to Tony Barron, for his never failing eyes had
watched all her motions, and though he could not have reached her
in time to stop her, yet he did not care, for as he afterward said,
"Wasn't it the best way out for her?"

As the others gathered round the stricken woman, Raynor whispered to
Lulie, "Come with me, dear; you shan't see any more horrors that I can
save you from. Come out on the terrace,--come, my Queen of Hearts."

And Lulie went gladly.






_A Selection from the
Catalogue of_

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS


Complete Catalogues sent
on application




_Five Excellent and Diverting Novels of Romance and Mystery_


     Burned Evidence

     By MRS. WILSON WOODROW

     An elderly financier is found murdered under mysterious
     circumstances. From this fact there radiate a series of incidents
     and circumstances which are woven into an unusual story by one of
     the best known fictionists.


     The Tiger of Baragunga

     By J. INMAN EMERY

     A spirited tale of intrigue and crime centering about a great
     emerald known as "The Tiger." It contains suspense from cover to
     cover. The background is India and Europe.


     The Murder Club

     By HOWEL EVANS

     A group of business and professional men in search of diversion,
     band together with officials of Scotland Yard in solving notorious
     crimes. The ramifications of their adventures provide a weird and
     colorful mystery story.


     The Quest

     By JOHN FREDERICK

     The tale of a man's long hunt for an ideal and of how a great wild
     stallion became entangled in the course of his search. This is a
     book of the west, of camp fires and wild horses and the beauty of
     the desert and the mountains.


     The Bronze Collar

     By JOHN FREDERICK

     A dramatic tale of Southern California during the days of the
     Spanish occupation when adventurers of every nationality were
     drawn into the colorful settlements between the blue Pacific and
     the high Sierras. The Bronze Collar is one of the most picturesque
     figures in recent fiction.



     New York         G. P. Putnam's Sons           London


[The end of _Face Cards_ by Carolyn Wells]