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Vera, The Medium

by Richard Harding Davis

August, 1999 [Etext #1843]

Project Gutenberg Etext Vera, The Medium by Richard Harding Davis

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Vera, The Medium

by Richard Harding Davis

Part I

Happy in the hope that the news was "exclusive", the Despatch

had thrown the name of Stephen Hallowell, his portrait, a

picture of his house, and the words, "At Point of Death!" across

three columns. The announcement was heavy, lachrymose, bristling

with the melancholy self-importance of the man who "saw the

deceased, just two minutes before the train hit him."

But the effect of the news fell short of the effort. Save that

city editors were irritated that the presidents of certain

railroads figured hastily on slips of paper, the fact that an

old man and his millions would soon be parted, left New York

undisturbed.

In the early 80's this would not have been so. Then, in the

uplifting of the far West, Stephen Hallowell was a national

figure, in the manoeuvres of the Eastern stock market an active,

alert power. In those days, when a man with a few millions was

still listed as rich, his fortune was considered colossal.

A patent coupling-pin, the invention of his brother-in-law, had

given him his start, and, in introducing it, and in his efforts

to force it upon the new railroads of the West, he had obtained

a knowledge of their affairs. From that knowledge came his

wealth. That was twenty years ago. Since then giants had arisen

in the land; men whose wealth made the fortune of Stephen

Hallowell appear a comfortable competence, his schemes and

stratagems, which, in their day, had bewildered Wall Street, as

simple as the trading across the counter of a cross-roads store.

For years he had been out of it. He had lost count. Disuse and

ill health had rendered his mind feeble, made him at times

suspicious, at times childishly credulous. Without friends,

along with his physician and the butler, who was also his nurse,

he lived in the house that in 76, in a burst of vanity, he had

built on Fifth Avenue. Then the house was a "mansion," and its

front of brown sandstone the outward sign of wealth and fashion.

Now, on one side, it rubbed shoulders with the shop of a man

milliner, and across the street the houses had been torn down

and replaced by a department store. Now, instead of a sombre

jail-like facade, his outlook was a row of waxen ladies, who,

before each change of season, appeared in new and gorgeous

raiment, and, across the avenue, for his approval, smiled

continually.

"It is time you moved, Stephen," urged his friend and lawyer,

Judge Henry Gaylor. "I can get you twice as much for this lot as

you paid for both it and the house."

But Mr. Hallowell always shook his head. " Where would I go,

Henry?" he would ask. "What would I do with the money? No, I

will live in this house until I am carried out of it."

With distaste, the irritated city editors "followed up" the

three-column story of the Despatch.

"Find out if there's any truth in that," they commanded. "The

old man won't see you, but get a talk out of Rainey. And see

Judge Gaylor. He's close to Hallowell. Find out from him if that

story didn't start as a bear yarn in Wall Street."

So, when Walsh of the Despatch was conducted by Garrett, the

butler of Mr. Hallowell, upstairs to that gentlemen's library,

he found a group of reporters already entrenched. At the door

that opened from the library to the bedroom, the butler paused.

"What paper shall I say?" he asked.

"The Despatch," Walsh told him.

The servant turned quickly and stared at Walsh.

He appeared the typical butler, an Englishman of over forty,

heavily built, soft- moving, with ruddy, smooth-shaven cheeks

and prematurely gray hair. But now from his face the look of

perfunctory politeness had fallen; the subdued voice had changed

to a snarl that carried with it the accents of the Tenderloin.

"So, you're the one, are you?" the man muttered.

For a moment he stood scowling; insolent, almost threatening,

and then, once more, the servant opened the door and noiselessly

closed it behind him.

The transition had been so abrupt, the revelation so unexpected,

that the men laughed.

"I don't blame him!" said young Irving. "I couldn't find a

single fact in the whole story. How'd your people get it --

pretty straight?"

"Seemed straight to us," said Walsh.

"Well, you didn't handle it that way," returned the other. "Why

didn't you quote Rainey or Gaylor? It seems to me if a man's on

the point of death" -- he lowered his voice and glanced toward

the closed door -- "that his private doctor and his lawyer might

know something about it."

Standing alone with his back to the window was a reporter who

had greeted no one and to whom no one had spoken.

Had he held himself erect he would have been tall, but he stood

slouching lazily, his shoulders bent, his hands in his pockets.

When he spoke his voice was in keeping with the indolence of his

bearing. It was soft, hesitating, carrying with it the courteous

deference of the South. Only his eyes showed that to what was

going forward he was alert and attentive.

"Is Dr. Rainey Mr. Hallowell's family doctor?" he asked.

Irving surveyed him in amused superiority.

"He is!" he answered. You been long in New York?" he asked.

Upon the stranger the sarcasm was lost, or he chose to ignore

it, for he answered simply, "No, I'm a New Orleans boy. I've

just been taken on the Republic."

"Welcome to our city," said Irving. "What do you think of our

Main Street?"

From the hall a tall portly man entered the room with the

assurance of one much at home here and, with an exclamation,

Irving fell upon him.

"Good morning, Judge," he called. He waved at him the clipping

from the Despatch. "Have you seen this?"

Judge Gaylor accepted the slip of paper gingerly, and in turn

moved his fine head pompously toward each of the young men. Most

of them were known to him, but for the moment he preferred to

appear too deeply concerned to greet them. With an expression of

shocked indignation, he recognized only Walsh.

"Yes, I have seen it," he said, "and there is not a word of

truth in it! Mr. Walsh, I am surprised! You, of all people!"

"We got it on very good authority," said the reporter.

"But why not call me up and get the facts?" demanded the Judge.

"I was here until twelve o'clock, and -- "

"Here!" interrupted Irving. "Then he did have a collapse?"

Judge Gaylor swung upon his heel.

"Certainly not," he retorted angrily. "I was here on business,

and I have never known his mind more capable, more alert." He

lifted his hands with an enthusiastic gesture. "I wish you could

have seen him!"

"Well," urged Irving, "how about our seeing him now?"

For a moment Judge Gaylor permitted his annoyance to appear, but

he at once recovered and, murmuring cheerfully, "Certainly,

certainly; I'll try to arrange it," turned to the butler who had

re-entered the room.

"Garett," he inquired, "is Mr. Hallowell awake yet?" As he asked

the question his eyebrows rose; with an almost imperceptible

shake of the head he signaled for an answer in the negative.

"Well, there you are!" the Judge exclaimed heartily. "I can't

wake him, even to oblige you. In a word, gentlemen, Stephen

Hallowell has never been in better health, mentally and bodily.

You can say that from me -- and that's all there is to say."

"Then, we can say," persisted Irving, "that you say, that

Walsh's story is a fake?"

"You can say it is not true," corrected Gaylor. "That's all,

gentlemen." The audience was at an end. The young men moved

toward the hall and Judge Gaylor turned to the bedroom. As he

did so, he found that the new man on the Republic still held his

ground.

"Could I have a word with you, sir?" the stranger asked. The

reporters halted jealously. Again Gaylor showed his impatience.

"About Mr. Hallowell's health?" he demanded. "There's nothing

more to say."

"No, it's not about his health," ventured the reporter.

"Well, not now. I am very late this morning." The Judge again

moved to the bedroom and the reporter, as though accepting the

verdict, started to follow the others. As he did so, as though

in explanation or as a warning he added: "You said to always

come to you for the facts." The lawyer halted, hesitated. "What

facts do you want?" he asked. The reporter bowed, and waved his

broad felt hat toward the listening men. In polite embarrassment

he explained what he had to say could not be spoken in their

presence.

Something in the manner of the stranger led Judge Gaylor to

pause. He directed Garrett to accompany the reporters from the

room. Then, with mock politeness, he turned to the one who

remained. "I take it, you are a new comer in New York

journalism. What is your name?" he asked.

"My name is Homer Lee," said the Southerner. "I am a New Orleans

boy. I've been only a month in your city. Judge," he began

earnestly, but in a voice which still held the drawl of the

South, "I met a man from home last week on Broadway. He belonged

to that spiritualistic school on Carondelet Street. He knows all

that's going on in the spook world, and he tells me the ghost

raisers have got their hooks into the old man pretty deep. Is

that so?"

The bewilderment of Judge Gaylor was complete and, without

question, genuine.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"My informant tells me," continued the reporter, "that Mr.

Hallowell has embraced -- if that's what you call it --

spiritualism."

Gaylor started forward.

"What!" he roared.

Unmoved, the other regarded the Judge keenly.

"Spiritualism," he repeated, "and that a bunch of these mediums

have got him so hypnotized he can't call his soul his own, or

his money, either. Is that true?"

Judge Gaylor's outburst was overwhelming. That it was genuine

Mr. Lee, observing him closely, was convinced.

"Of all the outrageous, ridiculous" -- the judge halted, gasping

for words -- "and libelous statements!" he went on. "If you

print that," he thundered, "Mr. Hallowell will sue your paper

for half a million dollars. Can't you see the damage you would

do? Can't your people see that if the idea got about that he was

unable to direct his own affairs, that he was in the hands of

mediums, it would invalidate everything he does? After his

death, every act of his at this time, every paper he had signed,

would be suspected, and -- and" -- stammered the Judge as his

imagination pictured what might follow -- "they might even

attack his will!" He advanced truculently. "Do you mean to

publish this libel?"

Lee moved his shoulders in deprecation. "I'm afraid we must," he

said.

"You must!" demanded Gaylor. "After what I've told you? Do you

think I'm lying to you?"

"No," said the reporter; "I don't think you are. Looks more like

you didn't know."

"Not know? I?" Gaylor laughed hysterically. "I am his lawyer. I

am his best friend! Who will you believe?" He stepped to the

table and pressed an electric button, and Garrett appeared in

the hall. "Tell Dr. Rainey I want to see him," Gaylor commanded,

"and return with him."

As they waited, Judge Gaylor paced quickly to and fro. "I've had

to deny some pretty silly stories about Mr. Hallowell," he said,

"but of all the absurd, malicious - - There's some enemy back of

this; some one in Wall Street is doing this. But I'll find him

I'll -- " he was interrupted by the entrance of the butler

and Dr. Rainey, Mr. Hallowell's personal physician.

Rainey was a young man with a weak face, and knowing, shifting

eyes that blinked behind a pair of eyeglasses. To conceal an

indecision of character of which he was quite conscious, he

assumed a manner that, according to whom he addressed, was

familiar or condescending. At one of the big hospitals he had

been an ambulance surgeon and resident physician, later he had

started upon a somewhat doubtful career as a medical "expert."

Only two years had passed since the police and the reporters of

the Tenderloin had ceased calling him "Doc." In a celebrated

criminal case in which Gaylor had acted as chief counsel, he had

found Rainey complaisant and apparently totally without the

moral sense. And when in Garrett he had discovered for Mr.

Hallowell a model servant, he had also urged upon his friend,

for his resident physician, his protege Rainey.

Still at white heat, the older man began abruptly: "This

gentleman is from the Republic. He is going to publish a story

that Mr. Hallowell has fallen under the influence of mediums,

clairvoyants; that everything he does is on advice from the

spirit world -- " he turned sharply upon Lee. "Is that right?"

The reporter nodded.

"You can see the effect of such a story. It would invalidate

every act of Mr. Hallowell's!"

Dr. Rainey laughed offensively.

"It might," he said, "but who'd believe it?"

"He believes it!" cried Gaylor, "or he pretends to believe it.

Tell him!" he commanded. "He won't believe me. Does Mr.

Hallowell associate with mediums, and spirits -- and spooks?"

Again the young doctor laughed.

"Of course not!" he exclaimed. "It's not worth answering, Judge.

You ought to treat it with silent contempt." From behind his

glasses he winked at the reporter with a jocular, intimate

smile. He was adapting himself to what he imagined was his

company. "Where did you pick up that pipe dream?" he asked.

Without answering, the Southerner regarded him steadily with

inquiring, interested eyes. The doctor coughed nervously and

turned to Judge Gaylor. In the manner of a cross-examination

Gaylor called up his next witness.

"Garrett, does any one visit Mr. Hallowell without your

knowledge?" he asked. You may not open the door for him, but you

know every one who gets in to see Mr. Hallowell, do you not?"

"Every one, sir."

"Do you admit any mediums, palm-readers, or people of that

sort?"

"Certainly not," returned the butler.

"Dr. Rainey," he added, "would not permit it, sir."

Gaylor stamped his foot with impatience.

"Do you admit any one," he demanded, "without Dr. Rainey's

permission?"

"No, sir!" The reply could not have rung with greater emphasis.

Triumphantly, Gaylor, with a wave of the hand, as though saying,

"Take the witness," turned to Lee. "There you are," he cried.

"Now, are you satisfied?"

The reporter moved slowly toward the door. "I am satisfied," he

said, "that the man doesn't admit any one without Dr. Rainey's

permission."

Indignantly, as though to intercept him, Judge Gaylor stepped

forward. Both Rainey and himself spoke together.

"What do you mean by that?" Rainey demanded.

"Are you trying to be insolent, sir?" cried the Judge.

Lee smiled pleasantly. "I had no intention of being insolent,"

he said. "We have the facts -- I only came to give you a chance

to explain them."

Gaylor lost all patience.

"What facts?" he shouted. "What facts? That mediums come here?"

"Yes," said Lee.

"When?" Gaylor cried. "Tell me that! When?"

Lee regarded the older man thoughtfully.

"Well, today is Thursday," he said. "They were here Monday

morning, and Tuesday morning -- and -- the one they call Vera --

will be here in half an hour."

Rainey ran across the room, stretching out eager, detaining

hands.

"See here!" he begged. "We can fix this!"

"Fix it?" said the reporter. "Not with me, you can't." He turned

to the door and found Garrett barring his exit. He halted, fell

back on his heels, and straightened his shoulders. For the first

time they saw how tall he was.

"Get out of my way," he said. The butler hesitated and fell

back. Lee walked into the hall.

"I'll leave you gentlemen to fight it out among you," he said.

"It's a better story than I thought."

As he descended to the floor below, the men remained motionless.

The face of Judge Gaylor seemed to have grown older. When the

front door closed, he turned and searched the countenance of

each of his companions. The butler had dropped into a chair

muttering and beating his fist into his open palm.

Gaylor's voice was hardly louder than a whisper. "Is this true?"

he asked.

Like a cur dog pinned in a corner and forced to fight, Rainey

snarled at him evilly. "Of course it's true," he said.

"You've let these people see him!" cried Gaylor. "After I

forbade it? After I told you what would happen?"

"He would see them," Rainey answered hotly. "Twas better I

chose them than -- "

Gaylor raised his clenched hands and took a sudden step forward.

The Doctor backed hastily against the library table. "Don't you

come near me!" he stammered. "Don't you touch me."

"And you've lied to me!" cried Gaylor. "You've deceived me. You

you jailbirds -- you idiots." His voice rose hysterically.

"And do you think," he demanded fiercely, "I'll help you now?"

"No!" said the butler.

The word caught the Judge in the full rush of his anger. He

turned stupidly as though he had not heard aright. "What?" he

asked. From the easy chair the butler regarded him with sullen,

hostile eyes.

"No!" he repeated. "We don't think you'll help us. You never

meant to help us. You've never thought of any one but yourself."

The face of the older man was filled with reproach.

"Jim!" he protested.

"Don't do that!" commanded the butler sharply. "I've told you

not to do that."

The Judge moved his head slowly in amazement. The tone of

reproach was still in his voice.

"I thought you could understand," he said. "It doesn't matter

about him. But you! You should have seen what I was doing!"

"I saw what you were doing," the butler replied. "Buying stocks,

buying a country place. You didn't wait for him to die. What

were we getting?"

With returning courage, Rainey nodded vigorously.

"That's right, all right," he protested. "What were we getting?"

"What were you getting?" demanded Gaylor, eagerly. "If you'd

only left him to me, till he signed the new will, you'd have had

everything. It only needs his signature."

"Yes," interrupted Garrett contemptuously; that's all it needs."

"Oh, he'd have signed it!" cried Gaylor. "But what's it worth

now! Nothing! Thanks to you two -- nothing! They'll claim undue

influence, they'll claim he signed it under the influence of

mediums -- of ghosts." His voice shook with anger and distress.

"You've ruined me!" he cried. "You've ruined me."

He turned and paced from them, his fingers interlacing, his

teeth biting upon his lower lip. The two other men glanced at

each other uncomfortably; their silence seemed to assure Gaylor

that already they regretted what they had done. He stood over

Garrett, and for an instant laid his hand upon his shoulder. His

voice now was sane and cold.

"I've worked three years for this," he said. "And for you, too,

Jim. You know that. I've worked on his vanity, on his fear of

death, on his damn superstition. When he talked of restitution,

of giving the money to his niece, I asked Why?' I said, Leave it

for a great monument to your memory. Isn't it better that ten

million dollars should be spent in good works in your name than

that it should go to a chit of a child to be wasted by some

fortune hunter? And -- then -- I evolved the Hallowell

Institute, university, hospital, library, all under one roof,

all under one direction; and I would have been the director. We

should have handled ten millions of dollars! I'd have made you

both so rich," he cried savagely, "that in two years you'd have

drunk yourselves into a mad-house. And you couldn't trust me!

You've filled this house with fakes and palm-readers. And, now,

every one will know just what he is -- a senile, half-witted old

man who was clay in my hands, clay in my hands -- and you've

robbed me of him, you've robbed me of him!" His voice, broken

with anger and disappointment, rose in an hysterical wail. As

though to meet it a bell rang shrilly. Gaylor started and stood

with eyes fixed on the door of the bedroom. The three men eyed

each other guiltily.

The butler was the first to recover. With mask-like face he

hastened noiselessly across the room. In his tones of usual

authority, Gaylor stopped him.

"Tell Mr. Hallowell," he directed, "that his niece and District

Attorney Winthrop will be here any moment. Ask him if he wishes

me to see them, or if he will talk to them himself?"

When the faithful servant had entered the bedroom Gaylor turned

to Rainey.

"When do these mediums come today?" he asked.

Rainey stared sulkily at the floor.

"I think they're here now -- downstairs," he answered. Garrett

generally hides them there till you're out of the house."

"Indeed," commented Gaylor dryly. "After Winthrop and Miss

Coates have gone, I want to talk with your friends."

"Now, see here, Judge," whined Rainey; "don't make trouble. It

isn't as bad as you think. The old man's only investigating -- "

"Hush!" commanded the Judge.

From the bedroom, leaning on the butler's arm, Stephen

Hallowell came stumbling toward them and, with a sigh, sank into

an invalid's chair that was placed for him between the fire and

the long library table.. He was a very feeble, very old man,

with a white face, and thin, white hair, but with a mouth and

lower jaw as hard and uncompromising as those of a skull. His

eyes, which were strangely brilliant and young-looking, peered

suspiciously from under ragged white eyebrows. But when they

fell upon the doctor, the eyes became suddenly credulous,

pleading, filled with self-pity.

"I'm a very sick man, Doctor," said Mr. Hallowell.

Judge Gaylor bustled forward cheerily. "Nonsense, Stephen,

nonsense," he cried; "you look a different man this morning.

Doesn't he, Doctor?"

"Sure he does!" assented Rainey. "Little sleep was all he

needed." Mr. Hallowell shook his head petulantly. "Not at all!"

he protested. "That was a very serious attack. This morning my

head hurts -- hurts me to think -- "

"Perhaps," said Gaylor, "you'd prefer that I talked to your

niece."

"No!" exclaimed the invalid excitedly. "I want to see her

myself. I want to tell her, once and for all -- " He checked

himself and frowned at the Doctor. "You needn't wait," he said.

"And Doctor," he added meaningly, "after these people go, you

come back."

With a conscious glance at the Judge, Rainey nodded and left

them.

"No," continued the old man; "I want to talk to my niece myself.

But I don't want to talk to Winthrop. He's too clever a young

man, Winthrop. In the merger case, you remember -- had me on the

stand for three hours. Made me talk too." The mind of the old

man suddenly veered at a tangent. "How the devil can Helen

retain him?" he demanded peevishly. "She can't retain him. She

hasn't any money. And he's District Attorney too. It's against

the law. Is he doing it as a speculation? Does he want to marry

her?"

Judge Gaylor laughed soothingly.

"Heavens, no!" he said. "She's in his office, that's all. When

she took this craze to be independent of you, he gave her a

position as secretary, or as stenographer, or something. She's

probably told him her story, her side of it, and he's helping

her out of charity.:" The Judge smiled tolerantly. "He does that

sort of thing, I believe."

The old man struck the library table with his palm. "I wish he'd

mind his own business," he cried. "It's my money. She has no

claim to it, never had any claim --"

The Judge interrupted quickly.

"That's all right, Stephen; that's all right," he said. "Don't

excite yourself. Just get what you're to say straight in your

mind and stick to it. Remember," he went on, as though coaching

a child in a task already learned, "there never was a written

agreement.

"No!" muttered Hallowell. "Never was!"

"Repeat this to yourself," commanded the Judge. "The

understanding between you and your brother-in-law was that if

you placed his patent on the market, for the first five years

you would share the profits equally. After the five years, all

rights in the patent became yours. It was unfortunate,"

commented the Judge dryly, "that your brother-in-law and your

sister died before the five years were up, especially as the

patent did not begin to make money until after five years.

Remember -- until after five years."

"Until after five years," echoed Mr. Hallowell. "It was over six

years," he went on excitedly, "before it made a cent. And, then,

it was my money -- and anything I give my niece is charity.

She's not entitled -- "

Garrett appeared at the door. "Miss Coates," he announced, "and

Mr. Winthrop." Judge Gaylor raised a hand for silence, and as

Mr. Hallowell sank back in his chair, Helen Coates, the only

child of Catherine Coates, his sister, and the young District

Attorney of New York came into the library. Miss Coates was a

woman of between twenty-five and thirty, capable, and self-

reliant. She had a certain beauty of a severe type, but an

harassed expression about her eyes made her appear to be always

frowning. At times, in a hardening of the lower part of her

face, she showed a likeness to her uncle. Like him, in speaking,

also, her manner was positive and decided.

In age the young man who accompanied her was ten years her

senior, but where her difficulties had made her appear older

than she really was, the enthusiasm with which he had thrown

himself against those of his own life, had left him young.

The rise of Winthrop had been swift and spectacular. Almost as

soon as he graduated from the college in the little "up-state"

town where he had been educated, and his family had always

lived, he became the prosecuting attorney of that town, and

later, at Albany, represented the district in the Assembly. From

Albany he entered a law office in New York City, and in the

cause of reform had fought so many good fights that on an

independent ticket, much to his surprise, he had been lifted to

the high position he now held. No more in his manner than in his

appearance did Winthrop suggest the popular conception of his

role. He was not professional, not mysterious. Instead, he was

sane, cheerful, tolerant. It was his philosophy to believe that

the world was innocent until it was proved guilty.

He was a bachelor and, except for two sisters who had married

men of prominence in New York and who moved in a world of

fashion into which he had not penetrated, he was alone.

When the visitors entered, Mr. Hallowell, without rising,

greeted his niece cordially.

"Ah, Helen! I am glad to see you," he called, and added

reproachfully, "at last."

"How do you do, sir?" returned Miss Helen stiffly. With marked

disapproval she bowed to Judge Gaylor.

"And our District Attorney," cried Mr. Hallowell. "Pardon my not

rising, won't you? I haven't seen you, sir, since you tried to

get the Grand Jury to indict me." He chucked delightedly. "You

didn't succeed," he taunted.

Winthrop shook hands with him, smiling, "Don't blame me," he

said, "I did my best. I'm glad to see you in such good spirits,

Mr. Hallowell. I feared, by the Despatch -- "

"Lies, lies," interrupted Hallowell curtly. "You know Judge

Gaylor?"

As he shook hands, Winthrop answered that the Judge and he were

old friends; that they knew each other well.

"Know each other so well!" returned the Judge, "that we ought to

be old enemies."

The younger man nodded appreciatively. "That's true!" he

laughed, "only I didn't think you'd admit it."

With light sarcasm Mr. Hallowell inquired whether Winthrop was

with them in his official capacity.

"Oh, don't suggest that!" begged Winthrop; "you'll be having me

indicted next. No sir, I am here without any excuse whatsoever.

I am just interfering as a friend of this young lady."

"Good," commented Hallowell. "I'd be sorry to have my niece

array counsel against me -- especially such distinguished

counsel. Sit down, Helen."

Miss Coates balanced herself on the edge of a chair and spoke in

cool, business-like tones, "Mr. Hallowell," she began, "I came."

"Mr. Hallowell?" objected her uncle.

"Uncle Stephen," Miss Coates again began, "I wish to be as brief

as possible. I asked you to see me today because I hoped that by

talking things over we might avoid lawsuits and litigation."

Mr. Hallowell nodded his approval. "Yes," he said encouragingly.

"I have told Mr. Winthrop what the trouble is," Miss Coates went

on, "and he agrees with me that I have been very unjustly

treated -- "

"By whom?" interrupted Hallowell.

"By you," said his niece.

"Wait, Helen," commanded the old man. "Have you also told Mr.

Winthrop," he demanded, "that I have made a will in your favor?

That, were I to die tonight, you would inherit ten millions of

dollars? Is that the injustice of which you complain?"

Judge Gaylor gave an exclamation of pleasure.

"Good!" he applauded. "Excellent!"

Hallowell turned indignantly to Winthrop. "And did she tell you

also," he demanded, "that for three years I have urged her to

make a home in this house? That I have offered her an income as

large as I would give my own daughter, and that she has refused

both offers. And what's more" -- in his excitement his voice

rose hysterically -- "by working publicly for her living she has

made me appear mean and uncharitable, and -- "

"That's just it," interrupted Miss Coates. "It isn't a question

of charity."

"Will you allow me?" said Winthrop soothingly. "Your niece

contends, sir," he explained, "that this money you offered her

is not yours to offer. She claims it belongs to her. That it's

what should have been her father's share of the profits on the

Coates-Hallowell coupling pin. But, as you have willed your

niece so much money, although half of it is hers already, I

advised her not to fight. Going to law is an expensive business.

But she has found out -- and that's what brings me uptown this

morning -- that you intend to make a new will, and leave all her

money and your own to establish the Hallowell Institute. Now,"

Winthrop continued, with a propitiating smile, "Miss Coates also

would like to be a philanthropist, in her own way, with her own

money. And she wishes to warn you that, unless you deliver up

what is due her, she will proceed against you."

Judge Gaylor was the first to answer.

"Mr. Winthrop," he said impressively, "I give you my word, there

is not one dollar due Miss Coates, except what Mr. Hallowell

pleases to give her. "

Miss Coates contradicted him sharply. "That is not so," she

said. She turned to her uncle, "You and my father," she

declared, "agreed in writing you would share the profits

always." Mr. Hallowell looked from his niece to his lawyer. The

lawyer, eyeing him apprehensively, nodded. With the patient

voice of one who tried to reason with an unreasonable child, Mr.

Hallowell began. "Helen," he said, "I have told you many times

there never was such an agreement. There was a verbal -- "

"And I repeat, I saw it," said Miss Coates.

"When?" asked Hallowell.

"I saw it first when I was fifteen," answered the young woman

steadily, "and two years later, before mother died, she showed

it to me again. It was with father's papers."

"Miss Coates," asked the Judge, "where is this agreement now?"

For a moment Miss Coates hesitated. Her dislike for Gaylor was

so evident that, to make it less apparent, she lowered her eyes.

"My uncle should be able to tell you," she said evenly. "He was

my father's executor. But, when he returned my father's papers"

she paused and then, although her voice fell to almost a

whisper, continued defiantly, "the agreement was not with them."

There was a moment's silence. To assure himself the others had

heard as he did, Mr. Hallowell glanced quickly from Winthrop to

Gaylor. He half rose from his chair and leaned across the table.

"What!" he demanded. His niece looked at him steadily.

"You heard what I said," she answered.

The old man leaned farther forward.

"So!" he cried; "so! I am not only doing you an injustice, but I

am a thief! Mr. Winthrop," he cried appealingly, "do you

appreciate the seriousness of this?"

Winthrop nodded cheerfully. "It's certainly pretty serious," he

assented.

"It is so serious," cried Mr. Hallowell, "that I welcome you

into this matter. Now, we will settle it once and forever." He

turned to his niece. "I have tried to be generous," he cried; "I

have tried to be kind, and you insult me in my own house." He

pressed the button that summoned the butler from the floor

below. "Gentlemen, this interview is at an end. From now on this

matter is in the hands of my lawyer. We will settle this in the

courts."

With an exclamation of pleasure that was an acceptance of his

challenge, Miss Coates rose.

"That is satisfactory to me," she said. Winthrop turned to Mr.

Hallowell.

"Could I have a few minutes talk with Judge Gaylor now?" he

asked. "Not as anybody's counsel," he explained; "just as an old

enemy of his?"

"Well, not here," protested the old man querulously. "I'm -- I'm

expecting some friends here. Judge, take Mr. Winthrop to the

drawing room downstairs." He turned to Garrett, who had appeared

in answer to his summons, and told him to bring Dr. Rainey to

the library. The butler left the room and, as Gaylor and

Winthrop followed, the latter asked Miss Coates if he might

expect to see her at the "Office." She told him that she was now

on her way there. Without acknowledging the presence of her

uncle, she had started to follow the others, when Mr. Hallowell

stopped her.

After they were alone, for a moment he sat staring at her, his

eyes filled with dislike and with a suggestion of childish

spite. "I might as well tell you," he began, "that after what

you said this morning, I will never give you a single dollar of

my money."

The tone in which his niece replied to him was no more

conciliatory than his own. "You cannot give it to me," she

answered, "because it is not yours to give." As though to add

impressiveness to what she was about to say, or to prevent his

interrupting her, she raised her hand. So interested in each

other were the old man and the girl that neither noticed the

appearance in the door of Dr. Rainey and the butler, who halted,

hesitating, waiting permission to enter.

"That money belongs to me," said Miss Coates slowly, "and as

sure as my mother is in Heaven and her spirit is guiding me,

that money will be given me."

In the pause that followed, a swift and singular change came

over the face of Mr. Hallowell. He stared at his niece as though

fascinated. His lower lip dropped in awe. The look of hostility

gave way to one of intense interest. His voice was hardly louder

than a whisper.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

The girl looked at him, uncomprehending. "What do I mean?" she

repeated.

"When you said," he stammered eagerly, "that the spirit of your

mother was guiding you, what did you mean?"

In the doorway, Rainey and the butler started. Each threw the

other a quick glance of concern.

"Why," exclaimed the girl impatiently, "her influence, her

example, what she taught me."

"Oh!" exclaimed the old man. He leaned back with an air almost

of disappointment.

"When she was alive?" he said.

"Of course," answered the girl.

"Of course," repeated the uncle. "I thought you meant -- " He

looked suspiciously at her and shook his head. "Never mind," he

added. "Well," he went on cynically, striving to cover up the

embarrassment of the moment, "your mother's spirit will probably

feel as deep an interest in her brother as in her daughter. We

shall see, we shall see which of us two she is going to help."

He turned to Garrett and Rainey in the hall. "Take my niece to

the door, Garrett," he directed.

As soon as Miss Coates had disappeared, Hallowell turned to

Rainey, his face lit with pleased and childish anticipation.

"Well," he whispered eagerly, "is she here?"

Rainey nodded and glanced in the direction opposite to the one

Miss Coates had taken. "She's been waiting half an hour. And the

Professor too."

"Bring them at once," commanded Mr. Hallowell excitedly. "And

then shut the door -- and -- and tell the Judge I can't see him

tell him I'm too tired to see him. Understand?"

Rainey peered cautiously over the railing of the stairs to the

first floor, and then beckoned to some one who apparently was

waiting at the end of the hall.

"Miss Vera, sir," he announced, "and Professor Vance."

Although but lately established in New York, the persons Dr.

Rainey introduced had already made themselves comparatively

well-known. For the last six weeks as "headliners" at one of the

vaudeville theatres, and as entertainers at private houses,

under the firm name of "The Vances," they had been giving an

exhibition of code and cipher signaling. They called it mind

reading. During the day, at the house of Vance and his wife, the

girl, as "Vera, the Medium," furnished to all comers memories of

the past or news of the future. In their profession, in all of

its branches, the man and the girl were past masters. They knew

it from the A, B, C of the dream book to the post-graduate work

of projecting from a cabinet the spirits of the dead. As the

occasion offered and paid best, they were mind readers,

clairvoyants, materializing mediums, test mediums. From them, a

pack of cards, a crystal globe, the lines of the human hand,

held no secrets. They found lost articles, cast horoscopes, gave

advice in affairs of the heart, of business and speculation,

uttered warnings of journeys over seas and against a smooth-

shaven stranger. They even stooped to foretell earthquakes, or

caused to drop fluttering from the ceiling a letter straight

from the Himalayas. Among those who are the gypsies of the

cities, they were the aristocrats of their calling, and to them

that calling was as legitimate a business as is, to the roadside

gypsy, the swapping of horses. The fore-parents of each had

followed that same calling, and to the children it was

commonplace and matter-of-fact. It held no adventure, no moral

obloquy.

"Prof." Paul Vance was a young man of under forty years. He

looked like a fox. He had red eyes, alert and cunning, a long,

sharp-pointed nose, a pointed red beard, and red eyebrows that

slanted upward. His hair, standing erect in a pompadour, and his

uplifted eyebrows gave him the watchful look of the fox when he

hears suddenly the hound baying in pursuit. But no one had ever

successfully pursued Vance. No one had ever driven him into a

corner from which, either pleasantly, or with raging

indignation, he was not able to free himself. Seven years before

he had disloyally married out of the "profession" and for no

other reason than that he was in love with the woman he married.

She had come to seek advice from the spirit world in regard to

taking a second husband. After several visits the spirit world

had advised Vance to advise her to marry Vance.

She did so, and though the man was still in love with his wife,

he had not found her, in his work, the assistance he had hoped

she might be. She still was a "believer"; in the technical

vernacular of her husband -- "a dope." Not even the intimate

knowledge she had gained behind the scenes could persuade her

that Paul, her husband, was not in constant communication with

the spirit world, or that, if he wished, he could not read the

thoughts that moved slowly through her pretty head.

At the time of his marriage, the girl Vera, then a child of

fourteen, had written to Vance for help. She was ill, without

money, and asked for work. To him she was known as the last of a

long line of people who had always been professional mediums and

spiritualists, and, out of charity and from a sense of noblesse

oblige to one of the elect of the profession, Vance had made her

his assistant. He had never regretted having done so. The bread

cast upon the waters was returned a thousandfold. From the

first, the girl brought in money. And his wife, the older of the

two, had welcomed her as a companion. After a fashion the Vances

had adopted her. In the advertisements she was described as

their "ward."

Vera now was twenty-one, tall, wonderfully graceful, and of the

most enchanting loveliness. Her education had been cosmopolitan.

In the largest cities of America she had met persons of every

class -- young women, old women, mothers with married sons and

daughters; women of society as it is exploited in the Sunday

supplements; school girls, shop girls, factory girls -- all had

told her their troubles; and men of every condition had come to

scoff and had remained to express, more or less offensively,

their admiration. Some of the younger of these, after a first

visit, returned the day following, and each begged the beautiful

priestess of the occult to fly with him, to live with him, to

marry him. When this happened Vera would touch a button, and

"Mannie" Day, who admitted visitors, and later, in the hall,

searched their hats and umbrellas for initials, came on the run

and threw the infatuated one out upon a cold and unfeeling

sidewalk.

So Vera had seen both the seamy side of life and, in the drawing

rooms where Vance and she exhibited their mind reading tricks,

had been made much of by great ladies and, for an hour as brief

as Cinderella's, had looked upon a world of kind and well-bred

people. Since she was fourteen, for seven years, this had been

her life -- a life as open to the public as the life of an

actress, as easy of access as that of the stenographer in the

hotel lobby. As a result, the girl had encased herself in a

defensive armor of hardness and distrust, a protection which was

rendered futile by the loveliness of her face, by the softness

of her voice, by the deep, brooding eyes, and the fine forehead

on which, like a crown, rested the black waves of her hair.

In her work Vera accepted, without question, the parts to which

Vance assigned her. When in their mummeries they were

successful, she neither enjoyed the credulity of those they had

tricked nor was sobered with remorse. In the world Vance found a

certain number of people with money who demanded to be fooled.

It was his business and hers to meet that demand. If ever the

conscience of either stirred restlessly, Vance soothed it by the

easy answer that if they did not take the money some one else

would. It was all in the day's work. It was her profession.

As she entered the library of Mr. Hallowell, which, with Vance,

she already had visited several times, she looked like a child

masquerading in her mother's finery. She suggested an ingenue

who had been suddenly sent on in the role of the Russian

adventuress. Her slight girl's figure was draped in black lace.

Her face was shaded by a large picture hat, heavy with drooping

ostrich feathers; around her shoulders was a necklace of jade,

and on her wrists many bracelets of silver gilt. When she moved

they rattled. As the girl advanced, smiling, to greet Mr.

Hallowell, she suddenly stopped, shivered slightly, and threw

her right arm across her eyes. Her left arm she stretched over

the table.

"Give me your hand!" she commanded. Dubiously, with a watchful

glance at Vance, Mr. Hallowell leaned forward and took her hand.

"You have been ill," cried the girl; "very ill -- I see you -- I

see you in a kind of faint -- very lately." Her voice rose

excitedly. "Yes, last night."

Mr. Hallowell protested with indignation. "You read that in the

morning paper," he said.

Vera lowered her arm from her eyes and turned them reproachfully

on him.

"I don't read the Despatch," she answered.

Mr. Hallowell drew back suspiciously. "I didn't say it was the

Despatch," he returned.

Vance quickly interposed. "You don't have to say it," he

explained with glibness; "you thought it. And Vera read your

thoughts. You were thinking of the Despatch, weren't you? Well,

there you are! It's wonderful!"

"Wonderful? Nonsense!" mocked Mr. Hallowell. "She did read it in

the paper or Rainey told her."

The girl shrugged her shoulders patiently. "If you would rather

find out you were ill from the newspapers than from the spirit

world," she inquired, "why do you ask me here?"

"I ask you here, young woman," exclaimed Hallowell, sinking back

in his chair, "because I hoped you would tell me something I

can't learn from the newspapers. But you haven't been able to do

it yet. My dear young lady," exclaimed the old man wistfully, "I

want to believe, but I must be convinced. No tricks with me! I

can explain how you might have found out everything you have

told me. Give me a sign!" He beat the flat of his hand upon the

table. "Show me something I can't explain!"

"Mr. Hallowell is quite right, Vera," said Vance. "He is

entering what is to him a new world, full of mysteries, and that

caution which in this world has made him so successful -- "

With an exclamation, Hallowell cut short the patter of the

showman.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted petulantly; "I tell you, I want to

believe. Convince me."

Considering the situation with pursed lips and thoughtful eyes,

Vera gazed at the old man, frowning. Finally she asked, "Have

you witnessed out demonstrations of mind reading?"

Mr. Hallowell snorted. "Certainly not," he replied; "it's a

trick!"

"A trick!" cried the girl indignantly, "to read a man's mind --

to see right through your forehead, through your skull, into

your brain? Is that a trick?" She turned sharply to Vance. "Show

him!" she commanded; "show him!" She crossed rapidly to the

window and stood looking down into the street, with her back to

the room.

Vance, with his back turned to Vera, stood close to the table,

on the other side of which Hallowell was reclining in his arm

chair. Vance picked up a pen holder.

"Think of what I have in my hand, please," he said. "What is

this, Vera?" he asked. The girl, gazing from the window at the

traffic in the avenue below her, answered with indifference, "A

pen holder."

"Yes, what about it?" snapped Vance.

"Gold pen holder," Vera answered more rapidly. "Much engraving

initials S. H. -- Mr. Hallowell's initials -- "

"There is a date too. Can you -- "

"December -- " Vera hesitated.

"Go on," commanded Vance.

"Twenty-five, one, eight, eight, six; one thousand eight hundred

and eighty-six." She moved her shoulders impatiently.

"Oh, tell him to think of something difficult," she said.

From behind Mr. Hallowell's chair Rainey signaled to Vance to

take from the table a photograph frame of silver which held the

picture of a woman.

Vance picked it up, holding it close to him.

"What have I here, Vera?" he asked.

Hallowell, seeing what Vance held in his hand, leaned forward.

"Put that down!" he commanded. But Vera had already begun to

answer.

"A picture, a picture of a young woman. Ask him to think of who

it is and I will tell him."

At the words Mr. Hallowell hesitated, frowned, and then nodded.

"It is his sister," called Vera. "Her name was -- I seem to get

a Catherine -- yes, that's it; Catherine Coates. She is no

longer with us. She passed into the spirit world three years

ago." The girl turned suddenly and approached the table, holding

her head high, as though offended.

"How do you explain that trick?" she demanded.

Mr. Hallowell moved uneasily in his chair. "Oh, the picture's

been on my desk each time you've been here," he answered

dubiously. "Rainey could have told you."

"As a matter of fact, I didn't," said Rainey.

Hallowell's eyes lightened with interest. "Didn't you?" he

asked. He turned to Vera. "If you can read my mind," he

challenged -- "you," he added, pointing at Vance, "keep out of

this now -- tell me of what I am thinking." As Vance drew back,

Rainey and himself exchanged a quick glance of apprehension, but

the girl promptly closed her eyes, and at once, in a dull,

measured tone, began to speak.

"You were thinking you would like to ask a question of some one

in the spirit," she recited. "But you are afraid. You do not

trust me. You will wait until I give you a sign; then you will

ask that question of some one dear to you, who has passed

beyond, and she will answer, and your troubles will be at an

end." She opened her eyes and stared at Mr. Hallowell like one

coming out of a dream. "What did I say?" she asked. "Was I

right?"

Hallowell slank back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Yes," he began grudgingly, "but -- "

With an eagerness hardly concealed, Vance interrupted.

"What is the question you wish to ask?" he begged.

With a frown of suspicion, Hallowell turned from him to Rainey.

"I don't think I ought to let them know," he questioned; "do

you?" But his attention was sharply diverted.

Vera, in a hushed and solemn voice, called for silence.

"My control," she explained -- her tone was deep and awestruck

"is trying to communicate with me."

Vance gave an exclamation of concern. The prospect of the

phenomena Vera promised seemed to fill him with delightful

expectations. "Be very quiet," he cautioned, "do not disturb

her."

Deeply impressed, Mr. Hallowell struggled from his chair.

Unaided, he moved to below the table and leaning against it

looked, with unwilling but fascinated interest, at Vera's

uplifted face.

"Some one in the spirit," Vera chanted, in an unemotional,

drugged voice, "wishes to speak to Mr. Hallowell. Give me your

hand."

"Quick!" directed Vance, "give her your hand. Take her hand."

"Yes, he is here," Vera continued. "A woman has a message for

you, she is standing close beside you. She is holding out her

arms. And she is trying, so hard, to tell you something. What is

it?" the girl questioned. "Oh, what is it? Tell me," she begged.

"Can't you tell me?"

Hallowell eyed her greedily, waiting almost without breathing

for her words. The hand with which he held hers crushed her

rings into her fingers.

"What sort?" -- whispered the old man. "What sort of a woman?"

With eyes still closed, swaying slightly and with abrupt

shudders running down her body, the girl continued in dull,

fateful tones.

"She is a fair woman; about forty-five. She is speaking. She

calls to you, Brother, brother." Vera's voice rose excitedly.

"It is the woman in the picture; your sister! Catherine! I see

it written above her head -- Catherine. In letters of light."

She turned suddenly and fiercely. "Ask her your question!" she

commanded. "Ask her your question, now!"

By the sudden swaying forward of Vance and Rainey, in the intent

look in their eyes, it was evident that a crisis had approached.

But Mr. Hallowell, terrified and trembling, shrank back. His

voice broke hysterically. "No, no!" he pleaded. Both anger and

disappointment showed in the face of Vance and Rainey; but the

girl, as though detached from any human concerns, continued

unmoved. "I see another figure," she recited. "A young girl, but

she is of this world. I seem to get an H. Yes. Helen, in letters

of fire."

"My niece, Helen!" Hallowell whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, your niece," chanted the girl. Her voice rose and

thrilled. "And I see much gold," she cried. "Between the two

women, heaps of gold. Everywhere I look I see gold. And, now,

the other woman, your sister, is trying to speak to you. Listen!

She calls to you, Brother!"

So centered was the interest of those in the room, so compelling

the sound of the girl's voice, that, unnoticed, the sliding

doors to the library were slipped apart. Unobserved, Judge

Gaylor and Winthrop halted in the doorway. To the Judge the

meaning of the scene was instantly apparent. His face flushed

furiously. Winthrop, uncomprehending, gazed unconcerned over

Gaylor's shoulder. The voice of Vera rose hysterically to her

climax.

"She bids me tell you," Vera cried; " Tell my brother -- "

Gaylor swept toward her.

"What damned farce is this?" he shouted.

The effect of the interruption was instant and startling. Mr.

Hallowell, who, in the last few minutes, had believed he was

listening to a voice from the dead, collapsed upon the shoulder

of Rainey, who sprang to support him. Like a somnambulist

wrenched from sleep, Vera gave a scream of fright, half genuine,

half assumed, and swayed as though about to fall. Vance caught

her in his arms. He turned on Gaylor, his cunning red eyes

flashing evilly.

"You brute!" he cried, "you might have killed her."

Between her sobs, Vera, her head upon the shoulder of Vance,

whispered a question. As quickly, under cover of muttered

sympathy, Vance answered: "Gaylor. The Judge."

Still slightly swaying, Vera stood upright. She passed her hand

vaguely before her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked feebly. "Where

am I?"

Gaylor shook his fist at the girl.

"You know where you are!" he thundered; "and you know where

you're going -- you're going to jail!"

In the hush that followed Vera drew herself to her full height.

She regarded Gaylor wonderingly, haughtily, as though he were

some drunken intruder from the street.

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked.

"Yes, to you," shouted the lawyer. "You're an imposter, and a

swindler, and -- and -- "

Winthrop pushed between them.

"Yes, and she's a woman," he said briskly. "If you want a row,

talk to the man."

To this point the scene had brought to Vera no emotion save the

excitement that is felt by the one who is struggling to escape.

The appearance of a champion added a new interest. Through no

fault of her own, she had learned by experience that to the one

man who annoyed her there always were six to spring to her

protection. So the glance she covertly turned upon Winthrop was

one less of gratitude than curiosity.

But at the first sight of him the girl started, her eyes lit

with recognition, her face flushed. And then, although the man

was in no way regarding her, her eyes filled, and in

mortification and dismay she blushed crimson.

His anger still unsatisfied, Gaylor turned upon Vance.

"And you," he cried; "you're going to jail too. I'll drive -- "

The voice of Mr. Hallowell, shaken with pain and distress, rose

feebly, beseechingly. "Henry!" he begged. "I can't stand it!"

"Judge Gaylor!" thundered Rainey, "I won't be responsible if you

keep this up."

With an exclamation of remorse, Vera ran to the side of the old

man. With Rainey on his other hand, she raised him upright upon

his feet.

"Lean on me," begged the girl breathlessly. "I'm very strong.

Lean on me."

Mr. Hallowell shook his head. "No, child," he protested, "not

you." He turned to his old friend. "You help me, Henry," he

begged.

With the authority of the medical man, Rainey waved Vance into

the bedroom. "Close those windows," he ordered. "You help me!"

he commanded of Gaylor. "Put your arm under him."

Mr. Hallowell, protesting feebly and leaning heavily upon the

two men, stumbled into the bedroom , and the door was shut

behind him.

For a moment the girl and the man stood in silence, and then, as

though suddenly conscious of her presence, Winthrop turned and

smiled.

The girl did not answer his smile. From under the shadow of the

picture hat and the ostrich feathers her eyes regarded him

searchingly, watchfully.

For the first time, Winthrop had the chance to observe her. He

saw that she was very young, that her clothes cruelly disguised

her, that she was only a child masquerading as a brigand, that

her face was distractingly lovely. Having noted this, the fact

that she had driven several grown men to abuse and vituperation

struck him as being extremely humorous; nor did he try to

conceal his amusement. But the watchfulness in the eyes of the

girl did not relax.

"I'm afraid I interfered with your seance," said the District

Attorney.

The girl regarded him warily, like a fencer fixing her eyes on

those of her opponent. There was a pause which lasted so long

that had the silence continued it would have been rude. "Well,"

the girl returned at last, timidly, "that's what the city

expects you to do, is it not?"

Winthrop laughed. "How did you know who I was?" he asked, and

then added quickly, "Of course, you're a mind reader."

For the first time the girl smiled. Winthrop found it a charming

smile, wistful and confiding.

"I don't have to ask the spirit world," she said, "to tell me

who is District Attorney of New York."

"Yes," said the District Attorney; "yes, I suppose you have to

be pretty well acquainted with some of the laws -- those about

mediums?"

"If you knew as much about other laws," began Vera, "as I do

about the law -- " She broke off and again smiled upon him.

"Then you probably know," said Winthrop, "that what our excited

friend said to you just now is legally quite true?"

The smile passed from the face of the girl. She looked at the

young man with fine disdain, as a great lady might reprove with

a glance the man who snapped a camera at her. "Yes?" she asked.

"Well, what are you going to do about it -- arrest me?" Mocking

him, in a burlesque of melodrama, she held out her arms. "Don't

put the handcuffs on me," she begged.

Winthrop found her impudence amusing; and, with the charm of her

novelty, he was conscious of a growing conviction that,

somewhere, they had met before; that already at a crisis she had

come into his life.

"I won't arrest you," he said with a puzzled smile, "on one

condition."

"Ah!" mocked Vera; "he is generous."

"And the condition is," Winthrop went on seriously, "that you

tell me where we met before?"

The girl's expression became instantly mask-like. To learn if he

suspected where it was that they had met, she searched his face

quickly. She was reassured that of the event he had no real

recollection.

"That's rather difficult, isn't it," she continued lightly,

"when you consider I've been giving exhibitions of mind readings

for the last six weeks on Broadway, and in the homes of people

you probably know?"

"No," Winthrop exclaimed eagerly, "it wasn't in a theatre, and

it wasn't in a private house. It was -- " he shook his head

helplessly, and looked at her for assistance. "You don't know,

do you?"

The girl regarded him steadily. "How should I?" she said. And

then, as though decided upon a course of action of the wisdom of

which she was uncertain, she laughed uneasily.

"But the spirits would know," she said. "I might ask them."

"Do!" cried Winthrop, delightedly. "How much would that be?"

As though to reprove his flippancy, the girl frowned. With a

nervous tremor, which this time seemed genuine enough, she threw

back her head, closed her eyes, and laid her arm across her

forehead.

Winthrop, unobserved, watched her with a smile, partly of

amusement, partly on account of her beauty, of admiration.

"I see -- a court room," said the girl. "It is very mean and

bare. It is somewhere up the State; in a small town. Outside,

there are trees, and the sun is shining, and people are walking

in a public park. Inside, in the prisoner's dock, there is a

girl. She has been arrested -- for theft. She has pleaded

guilty! And I see -- that she has been very ill -- that she is

faint from shame -- and fear -- and lack of food. And there is a

young lawyer. He is defending her; he is asking the judge to be

merciful, because this is her first offence, because she stole

the cloak to get money to take her where she had been promised

work. Because this is his first case."

Winthrop gave a gasp of disbelief.

"You don't mean to tell me -- " he cried.

"Hush!" commanded the girl. "And he persuades the judge to let

her go," she continued quickly, her voice shaking, "and he and

the girl walk out of the court house together. And he talks to

her kindly, and gives her money to pay her way to the people who

have promised her work."

Vera dropped her arm, and stepping back, faced Winthrop. Through

her tears her eyes were flashing proudly, gratefully; the

feeling that shook her made her voice vibrate. The girl seemed

proud of her tears, proud of her debt of gratitude.

"And I've never forgotten you," she said, her voice eager and

trembling, "and what you did for me. And I've watched you come

to this city, and fight it, and fight it, until you made them

put you where you are." She stopped to control her voice, and

smiled at him. "And that's why I knew you were District

Attorney," she said; "and please -- " she fumbled in the mesh

purse at her waist and taking a bill from it, threw it upon the

table. "And please, there's the money I owe you, and -- and -- I

thank you -- and goodbye." She turned and almost ran from him

toward the door to the hall.

"Stop!" cried Winthrop.

Poised for flight, the girl halted, and looked back.

"When can I see you again?" said the man. The tone made it less

a question than a command.

In a manner as determined as his own, the girl shook her head.

"No!" she said.

"I must!" returned the man.

Again the girl shook her head, definitely, finally.

"It won't help you in your work," she pleaded, "to come to see

me."

"I must!" repeated Winthrop simply.

The eyes of the girl met his, appealingly, defiantly.

"You'll be sorry," said the girl.

Winthrop laughed an eager, boyish laugh. When he spoke the

tenseness in his voice had gone. His tone was confident,

bantering.

"Then I will not come to see you," he said.

Uncertain, puzzled, Vera looked at him in distress. She thought

he was mocking her.

"No?" she questioned.

"I'll come to see Vera, the medium," he explained.

Vera frowned, and then, in happy embarrassment, smiled

wistfully.

"Oh, well," she stammered; "of course, if you're coming to

consult me professionally -- my hours are from four to six."

"I'll be there," cried the District Attorney.

Vera leaned forward eagerly.

"What day will you come?" she demanded.

"What day!" exclaimed the young man indignantly. "Why, this

day!"

Vera gave a guilty, frightened laugh.

"Oh, will you?" she exclaimed delightedly. She clasped her

fingers in a gesture of dismay. "Oh, I hope you won't be sorry!"

she cried.

For some moments the District Attorney of New York stood looking

at the door through which she had disappeared.

Part II

The home of the Vances was in Thirty-fifth Street, nearly

opposite the Garrick Theatre. It was one of a row of old-

fashioned brick houses with high steps. As the seeker after

truth entered the front hall, he saw before him the stairs to

the second story; on his right, the folding doors of the "front

parlor," and at the far end of the hall, a single door that led

to what was, in the old days, before this row of houses had been

converted into offices, the family dining room. To Vera the

Vances had given the use of this room as a "reception parlor."

The visitor first entered the room on his right, from it passed

through another pair of folding doors to the reception parlor,

and then, when his audience was at an end, departed by the

single door to the hall, and so, to the street.

The reception parlor bore but little likeness to a cave of

mystery. There were no shaded lights, no stuffed alligator, no

Indian draperies, no black cat. On a table, in the centre, under

a heavy and hideous chandelier with bronze gas jets, was a green

velvet cushion. On this nestled an innocent ball of crystal.

Beside it lay the ivory knitting needle with which Vera pointed

out, in the hand of the visitor, those lines that showed he

would be twice married, was of an ambitious temperament, and

would make a success upon the stage. In a corner stood a wooden

cabinet that resembled a sentry box on wheels. It was from this,

on certain evenings, before a select circle of spiritualists,

that Vera projected the ghosts of the departed. Hanging inside

the cabinet was a silver-gilt crown and a cloak of black velvet,

lined with purple silk and covered in gold thread with signs of

the zodiac.

Save that these stage properties illustrated the taste of Mabel

Vance, the room was of no interest. It held a rubber plant, a

red velvet rocking chair, across the back of which Mrs. Vance

had draped a Neapolitan scarf; an upright piano, upon which

Emmanuel Day, or, as he was known to the cross-roads of Broadway

and Forty-second street, "Mannie" Day, provoked the most

marvelous rag-time, an enlarged photograph in crayon, of

Professor Vance, in a frock coat and lawn tie, a china bull dog,

coquettishly decorated with a blue bow, and, on the mantel

piece, two tall beer steins and a hand telephone. From the long

windows one obtained a view of the iron shutters of the new

department store in Thirty-fourth Street, and of a garden, just

large enough to contain a sumach tree, a refrigerator, and the

packing-case in which the piano had arrived.

After leaving Winthrop, without waiting for Vance, Vera had

returned directly to the house in Thirty-fifth Street, and

locked herself in her room. And although "Mannie" Day had

already ushered two visitors into the front room, Vera had not

yet come downstairs. In consequence, Mabel Vance was in

possession of the reception parlor.

Mrs. Vance was plump, pink-and-blonde, credulous and vulgar, but

at all times of the utmost good humor. Her admiration for Vera

was equaled only by her awe of her. On this particular

afternoon, although it already was after five o'clock, Mrs.

Vance still wore a short dressing sack, open at the throat, and

heavy with somewhat soiled lace. But her blonde hair was freshly

"marcelled," and her nails pink and shining. In the absence of

Vera, she was making a surreptitious and guilty use of the

telephone. From the fact that in her left hand she held the

morning telegraph open at the "previous performances" of the

horses, and that the page had been cruelly lacerated by a hat

pin, it was fair to suppose that whoever was at the other end of

the wire, was tempting her with the closing odds at the races.

In her speculations, she was interrupted by "Mannie" Day, who

entered softy through the door from the hall.

"Mannie" Day was a youth of twenty-four. It was his heart's

desire to be a "Broadwayard." He wanted to know all of those,

and to be known only by those, who moved between the giant

pillars that New York threw into the sky to mark her progress

North.

He knew the soiled White Way as the oldest inhabitant knows the

single street of the village. He knew it from the Rathskellers

underground, to the roof gardens in the sky; in his firmament

the stars were the electric advertisements over Long Acre

Square, his mother earth was asphalt, the breath of his nostrils

gasolene, the telegraph was his Bible. His grief was that no one

in the Tenderloin would take him seriously; would believe him

wicked, wise, predatory. They might love him, they might laugh

with him, they might clamor for his company, in no flat that

could boast a piano, was he not, on his entrance, greeted with a

shout; but the real Knights of the Highway treated him always as

the questioning, wide-eyed child. In spite of his after-midnight

pallor, in spite of his honorable scars of dissipation, it was

his misfortune to be cursed with a smile that was a perpetual

plea of "not guilty."

"What can you expect?" an outspoken friend, who made a living as

a wireless wire tapper, had once pointed out to him. "That smile

of yours could open a safe. It could make a show girl give up

money! It's an alibi for everything from overspeeding to

murder."

Mannie, as he listened, flushed with mortification. From that

moment he determined that his life should be devoted to giving

the lie to that smile, to that outward and visible sign of

kindness, good will, and innate innocence. As yet, he had not

succeeded.

He interrupted Mabel at the telephone to inquire the whereabouts

of Vera. "There's two girls in there, now," he said, "waiting to

have their fortunes doped."

"Let'em wait!" exclaimed Mabel. "Vera's upstairs dressing." In

her eyes was the baleful glare of the plunger. "What was that

you give me in the third race?"

At the first touch of the ruling passion, what interest Mannie

may have felt for the impatient visitors vanished. "Not in the

third," he corrected briskly. "Keene entry win the third."

Mabel appealed breathlessly to the telephone. "What price the

Keene entry in the third?" She turned to Mannie with reproachful

eyes. "Even money!" she complained.

"That's what I told you," retorted Mannie. He lowered his voice,

and gazed apprehensively toward the front parlor. "If you want a

really good thing," he whispered hoarsely, "ask Joe what

Pompadour is in the fifth!" Mabel laughed scornfully,

disappointedly.

"Pompadour!" she mocked.

"That's right!" cried the expert. "That's the one daily hint

from Paris today. Joe will give you thirty to one."

Upon the defenseless woman he turned the full force of his

accursed smile. "Put five on for me, Mabel?" he begged.

With unexpected determination of character Mabel declared

sharply that she would do nothing of the sort.

"Two, then?" entreated the boy.

"Where," demanded Mabel unfeelingly, "is the twenty you owe me

now?"

The abruptness of this unsportsmanlike blow below the belt

caused Mannie to wince.

"How do I know where it is?" he protested. "As long as you

haven't got it, why do you care where it is?" He heard the door

from the hall open and, turning, saw Vera. He appealed to her.

"Vera," he cried, "You'll loan me two dollars? I stand to win

sixty. I'll give you thirty."

Vera looked inquiringly at Mabel. "What is it, Mabel,:" she

asked, "a hand book?"

Mrs. Vance nodded guiltily.

"Mannie!" exclaimed Vera gently but reproachfully, "I told you I

wouldn't loan you any more money till you paid Mabel what you've

borrowed."

"How can I pay Mabel what I borrowed," demanded Mannie, if I

can't borrow the money from you to pay her? Only two dollars,

Vera!"

Vera nodded to Mabel.

Mabel, at the phone, called, "Two dollars on Pompadour -- to --

win -- for Mannie Day," and rang off.

"That makes thirty for you," exclaimed Mannie enthusiastically,

"and twenty I owe to Mabel, and that leaves me ten."

Mrs. Vance, no longer occupied in the whirlpool of speculation,

for the first time observed that Vera had changed her matronly

robe of black lace for a short white skirt and a white

shirtwaist. She noted also that there was a change in Vera's

face and manner. She gave an impression of nervous eagerness, of

unrest. Her smile seemed more appealing, wistful, girlish. She

looked like a child of fourteen.

But Mabel was concerned more especially with the robe of virgin

white.

For the month, which was July, the costume was appropriate, but,

in the opinion of Mabel, in no way suited to the priestess of

the occult and the mysterious.

"Why, Vera!" exclaimed Mrs. Vance, "whatever have you got on?

Ain't you going to receive visitors? There's ten dollars waiting

in there now."

In sudden apprehension, Vera looked down at her spotless

garments.

"Don't I look nice?" she begged.

"Of course you look nice, dearie," Mabel assured her, "but you

don't look like no fortune teller."

"If you want to know what you look like," said Mannie sternly,

"you look like one of the waiter girls at Childs's -- that's

what you look like."

"And your crown!" exclaimed Mabel, "and your kimono. Ain't you

going to wear your kimono?"

She hastened to the cabinet and produced the cloak of black

velvet and spangles, and the silver-gilt crown.

"No, I am not!" declared Vera. She wore the frightened look of a

mutinous child. "I -- I look so -- foolish in them!"

Such heresy caused Mannie to gasp aloud; "You look grand in

them," he protested; "don't she, Mabel?"

"Sure she does," assented that lady.

"And your junk?" demanded Mannie, referring to the jade necklace

and the gold- plated bracelets. His eyes opened in sympathy.

"You haven't pawned them, have you?"

"Pawned them?" laughed Vera; "I couldn't get anything on them!"

As the only masculine point of view available, she appealed to

Mannie wistfully. "Don't you like me better this way, Mannie?"

she begged.

But that critic protested violently.

"Not a bit like it," he cried. "Now, in the gold tiara and the

spangled opera cloak," he differentiated, "you look like a

picture postal card! You got Lotta Faust's blue skirt back to

Levey's. But not in the white goods!" He shook his head sadly,

firmly. "You look, now, like you was made up for a May-day

picnic in the Bronx, and they'd picked on you to be Queen of the

May."

Mabel carried the much-admired opera cloak to Vera, and held it

out, tempting her. "You'll wear it, just to please me and

Mannie, won't you, dearie?" she begged. Vera retreated before it

as though it held the germs of contagion.

"I will not," she rebelled. "I hate it! When I have that on, I

feel -- mean. I feel as mean as though I were picking pennies

out of a blind man's hat." Mannie roared with delight.

"Gee!" he shouted, "but that's a hot one."

"Besides," said Vera consciously, "I'm -- I'm expecting some

one."

The manner more than the words thrilled Mabel with the most

joyful expectations.

She exclaimed excitedly. "A gentleman friend, Vera?" she asked.

That Vera shunned all young men had been to Mabel a source of

wonder and of pride. Even when the young men were the friends of

her husband and of herself, the preoccupied manner with which

Vera received them did not provoke in Mabel any resentment. It

rather increased her approbation. Although horrified at the

recklessness of the girl, she had approved even when Vera

rejected an offer of marriage from a wine agent.

Secretly, for a proper alliance for her, Mabel read the society

columns in search of eligible, rich young men. Finding that they

invariably married eligible, rich young women, she had lately

determined that Vera's destiny must be an English duke.

Still if, as she hoped, Vera had chosen for herself, Mabel felt

assured that the man would prove worthy, and a good match. A

good match meant one who owned not only a runabout, but a

touring car.

"It's a man from home," said Vera. "Home?" queried Mannie.

"From up the State," explained Vera, "from Geneva. It's -- Mr.

Winthrop."

With an exclamation of alarm, Mannie started upright.

"Winthrop!" he cried; then with a laugh of relief he sank back.

"Gee! You give me a scare," he cried. "I thought you meant the

District Attorney."

Mabel laughed sympathetically.

"I thought so too," she admitted.

"I do mean the District Attorney," said the girl.

"Vera!" cried Mabel.

"Winthrop -- coming here?" demanded Mannie.

"I met him at Mr. Hallowell's this morning," said Vera. "Didn't

Paul tell you?"

"Paul ain't back yet," said Mannie. "I wish he was!" His lower

jaw dropped in dazed bewilderment. "Winthrop -- coming here?" he

repeated. "And they're all coming here!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Paul just phoned me. They've taken Gaylor in with them, and

we're all working together now on some game for tonight. And

Winthrop's coming here!" He shook his head decidedly,

importantly. As the only man of the family present, he felt he

must meet this crisis. "Paul won't stand for it!" he declared.

"Well, Paul will just have to stand for it!" retorted Mrs.

Vance.

With a murmur of sympathy she crossed to Vera. "I'm not going to

see our Vera disappointed," she announced. "She never sees no

company. Vera, if Mr. Winthrop comes when that bunch is here,

I'll show him into the front parlor."

Vera sat down in front of the piano and let her fingers drop

upon the keys. The look of eagerness and anticipation had left

her eyes.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, "that I want to see him -- now."

With complete misunderstanding, Mannie demanded truculently,

"Why not?" His loyalty to Vera gave him courage, in her behalf,

to face even a District Attorney. "He doesn't think he's coming

here to make trouble for you, does he?"

Vera shook her head and, bending over the piano, struck a few

detached chords.

"Oh, no," she said consciously; "just to see me --

professionally -- like everybody else."

Mabel could no longer withhold her indignation at the obtuseness

of the masculine intellect.

"My gracious, Mannie!" she exclaimed, "can't you understand he's

coming here to make a call on Vera -- like a gentleman -- not

like no District Attorney."

Mannie precipitately retreated from his position as champion.

"Sure, I understand," he protested.

With the joy that a match-making mother takes in the hunt, Mabel

sank into the plush rocking chair and, rocking violently, turned

upon Vera an eager and excited smile.

"Think of our Vera knowing Mr. Winthrop socially?" she

exclaimed. "It's grand! And they say his sisters are elegant

ladies. Last winter I read about them at the opera, and it

always printed what they had on. Why didn't you tell me you

knowed him, Vera?" she cried reproachfully. "I tell you

everything!"

"I don't know him," protested the girl. "I used to see him when

he lived in the same town."

Mabel, inviting further confidences, ceased rocking and nodded

encouragingly. "Up in Geneva?" she prompted.

"Yes," said Vera, "I used to see him every afternoon then, when

he played ball on the college nine -- "

"Who?" demanded Mannie incredulously.

"Winthrop," said Vera.

"Did he?" exclaimed Mannie. His tone suggested that he might

still be persuaded that there was good in the man.

"What'd he play?" he demanded suspiciously.

"First," said Vera.

"Did he!" exclaimed Mannie. His tone now was of open

approbation.

Vera had raised her eyes and turned them toward the windows.

Beyond the soot- stained sumach tree, the fire escapes of the

department store, she saw the sun- drenched campus, the

buttressed chapel, the ancient, drooping elms; and on a canvas

bag, poised like a winged Mercury, a tall straight figure in

gray, dusty flannels.

"He was awfully good-looking," murmured the girl, "and awfully

tall. He could stop a ball as high as -- that!" She raised her

arm in the air, and then, suddenly conscious, flushed, and

turned to the piano.

"Go on, tell us," urged Mabel. "So you first met him in Geneva,

did you?"

"No," corrected Vera, "saw him there. I -- only met him once."

Mannie interrupted hilariously.

"I only saw him once, too," he cried, "that was enough for me."

Vera swiftly spun the piano stool so that she faced him. Her

eyes were filled with concern.

"You, Mannie!" she demanded anxiously. "What had you done?"

"Done!" exclaimed Mannie indignantly, "nothing! What'd you think

I'd done? Did you think I was a crook?"

Vera bowed her shoulders and shivered as though the boy had

cursed at her. She shook her head vehemently and again swung

back to the piano. Stumbling awkwardly, her fingers ran over the

keys in a swift clatter of broken chords. "No," she whispered,

"no, Mannie, no."

With a laugh of delighted recollection, Mannie turned to Mabel.

"He raided a poolroom I was working at," he explained. "He

picked me out as a sheet writer because I had my coat off, see?

I told him I had it off because it was too hot for me, and he

says, Young man, if you lie to me, I'll make I a damn sight

hotter!" Mannie threw back his head and shouted uproariously.

"He's all right, Winthrop!" he declared.

Mabel, having already married Winthrop to Vera in Grace Church,

with herself in the front pew, in a blue silk dress, received

this unexpected evidence of his rare wit with delight. In

ecstasy of appreciation she slapped her knees.

"Did he say that, Mannie?" she cried. "Wasn't that quick of him!

Did you hear what he said to Mannie, Vera?" she demanded.

Their mirth was interrupted by the opening and closing of the

front door and, in the hall, the murmur of men's voices.

Vance opened the door from the hall and entered, followed by

Judge Gaylor and Rainey. With evident pride in her appearance,

Vance introduced the two men to his wife, and then sent her and

Mannie from the room -- the latter with orders to dismiss the

visitors in the front parlor and to admit no others.

At the door Mrs. Vance turned to Vera and nodded mysteriously.

"If that party calls," she said with significance, "I'll put him

in the front parlor." With a look of dismay, Vera vehemently

shook her head but, to forestall any opposition, Mrs. Vance

hastily slammed the door behind her.

In his most courteous manner Judge Gaylor offered the chair at

the head of the centre table to Vera, and at the same table

seated himself. Vance took a place on the piano stool; Rainey

stood with his back to the mantel piece.

"Miss Vera," Gaylor began impressively, "I desire to apologize

for my language this morning. As Rainey no doubt has told you, I

have opposed you and Professor Vance. But I -- I know when I'm

beaten. Your influence with Mr. Hallowell today -- is greater

than mine. It is paramount. I congratulate you." He smiled

ingratiatingly. "And now," he added, "we are all working in

unison."

"You've given up your idea of sending me to jail," said Vera.

"Vera!" exclaimed Vance reprovingly. Judge Gaylor has

apologized. We're all in harmony now."

"Is that door locked?" asked Gaylor. Vance told him, save Mrs.

Vance, Mannie, and themselves, there was none in the house; and

that he might speak freely.

"Miss Vera," began the Judge, "we left Mr. Hallowell very much

impressed with the message you gave him this morning. The

message from his dead sister. He wants another message from her.

He wants her to decide how he shall dispose of a very large sum

of money -- his entire fortune."

"His entire fortune!" exclaimed Vera. "Do you imagine," she

asked, "that Mr. Hallowell will take advice from the spirit

world about that? I don't!"

"I do," Gaylor answered stoutly, "I know I would."

"You?" asked Vera incredulously.

"If I could believe my sister came from the dead to tell me what

to do," said the lawyer, "of course, I'd do it. I'd be afraid

not to. But I don't believe he does. And he believes you can

bring his sister herself before him. He insists that tonight you

hold a seance in his house, and that you materialize the spirit

of his dead sister. So that he can see his sister, and talk with

his sister. Vance says you can do that. Can you?"

From Vera's face the look of girlishness, of happy anticipation,

had already disappeared.

"It is my business to do that," the girl answered. She turned to

Vance and, in a matter-of-fact voice, inquired, "What does his

sister look like -- that photograph we used this morning.?"

"No," Vance answered. "I've a better one, Rainey gave me. Taken

when she was older. Has white hair and a cap and a kerchief

crossed -- so." He drew his hands across his shoulders. "Rainey,

show Miss Vera that picture."

"Not now," Gaylor commanded. "The important thing now is that

Miss Vera understands the message Mr. Hallowell is to receive

from his sister."

The two other men nodded quickly in assent. Gaylor turned to

Vera. He spoke slowly, earnestly.

"Miss Vera," he said, "Mr. Hallowell's present will leaves his

fortune to his niece. He has made another will, which he has not

signed, leaving his fortune to the Hallowell Institute. He will

ask his sister to which of these he should leave his money. You

will tell him -- " he corrected himself instantly. "She will tell

him to give it where it will be of the greatest good to the most

people -- to the Institute." There was a pause. "Do you

understand?" he asked.

"To the Institute. Not to the niece," Vera answered. Gaylor

nodded gravely.

"What," asked Vera, "are the fewest words in which that message

could be delivered? I mean -- should she say, You are to endow

the Hallowell Institute, or Brother, you are to give -- Sign

the new will?" With satisfaction the girl gave a sharp shake of

her head, and nodded to Vance. " Destroy the old will. Sign the

new will. That is the best," she said.

"That's it exactly," Gaylor exclaimed eagerly; "that's

excellent!" Then his face clouded. "I think," he said in a

troubled voice, "we should warn Miss Vera, that to guard himself

from any trickery, Mr. Hallowell insists on subjecting her to

the most severe tests. He -- "

"That will be all right," said the girl. She turned to Vance

and, in a lower tone but without interest, asked: "What, for

instance?" Vance merely laughed and shrugged his shoulders. The

girl smiled. Nettled, and alarmed at what appeared to be their

overconfidence, Gaylor objected warmly.

"That's all very well," he cried, "but for instance, he insists

that the entire time you are in the cabinet, you hold a handful

of flour in one hand and of shot in the other" -- he illustrated

with clenched fists -- "which makes it impossible," he

protested, "for you to use your hands."

The face of the girl showed complete indifference.

"Not necessarily," she said.

"But you are to be tied hand and foot," cried the Judge. "And on

top of that," he burst forth indignantly, pointing aggrievedly

at Vance, "he himself proposed this flour-and-shot test. It was

silly, senseless bravado!"

"Not necessarily," repeated the girl. "He knew that I invented

it." Rainey laughed. Gaylor gave an exclamation of

enlightenment.

"If it will be of any comfort to you, Judge," said Vance, "I'll

tell you one thing; every test that ever was put to a medium --

was invented by a medium."

Vera rose. "If there is nothing more," she said, "I will go and

get the things ready for this evening. Destroy the old will.

Sign the new will." she repeated. She turned suddenly to Vance,

her brow drawn in consideration. "I suppose by this new will,"

she asked, "the girl gets nothing?" "Not at all!" exclaimed

Gaylor emphatically. "We don't want her to fight the will. She

gets a million."

"A million dollars?" demanded Vera. For an instant, as though

trying to grasp the possibilities of such a sum, she stood

staring ahead of her. With doubt in her eyes, and shaking her

head, she turned to Vance.

"How can one woman spend a million dollars?" she protested.

"Well, you see, we don't intend to starve her," exclaimed Gaylor

eagerly, "and at the same time the Institute will be benefiting

all humanity. Doing good to -- "

Vera interrupted him with a sharp, peremptory movement of the

hand.

"We won't go into that, please," she begged.

The Judge inclined his head. "I only meant to point out," he

said stiffly, "that you are giving Mr. Hallowell the best

advice, and doing great good."

For a moment the girl looked at him steadily. On her lips was a

faint smile of disdain, but whether for him or for herself, the

Judge could not determine.

"I don't know that," the girl said finally. "I don't ask." She

turned to Rainey. "Have you that photograph?" He gave her a

photograph and after, for an instant, studying it in silence,

she returned it to him.

"It will be quite easy," she said to Vance. She walked to the

door, and instinctively the two men, who were seated, rose.

"I will see you tonight at Mr. Hallowell's," she said, and, with

a nod, left them.

"Well," exclaimed Rainey, "you didn't tell her!"

"I know,"Vance answered. "I decided we'd be wiser to take advice

from my wife. She understands Vera better than I do." He opened

the door to the hall, and called "Mannie! Tell Mabel -- Oh,

Mabel," he corrected, "come here a minute." He returned to his

seat on the piano stool. "She can tell us," he said.

In expectation of the arrival of Winthrop, Mrs. Vance had

arrayed herself in a light blue frock, and, as though she had

just come in from the street, in such a hat as she considered

would do credit not only to Vera but to herself.

"Mabel," her husband began, "we're up against a hard

proposition. Hallowell insists that Winthrop and Miss Coates

must come to the seance tonight."

"Winthrop and Miss Coates!" cried Mabel. In astonishment she

glanced from her husband to Rainey and Gaylor. "Then, it's all

off!" she exclaimed.

"That's what I say," growled Rainey.

"We want you to tell us," continued Vance, unmoved, "whether

Vera should know that now, or wait until tonight?"

"Paul Vance!" almost shrieked his wife, "do you mean to tell me

you're thinking of giving a materialization in front of the

District Attorney! You're crazy!"

"That's what I tell them," chorused Rainey.

Gaylor raised his hand for silence.

"No, Mrs. Vance," he said wearily. "We are not crazy, but," he

added bitterly, "we can't help ourselves. You mediums have got

Mr. Hallowell in such a state that he'll only do what his

sister's spirit tells him. He says, if he's robbing his niece,

his sister will tell him so; if he's to give the money to the

Institute, his sister will tell him that. He says, if Vance is

fair and above-board, he shouldn't be afraid to have his niece

and any friends of hers present. We can't help ourselves."

"I helped a little," said Vance, "by insisting on having our own

friends there -- told him the spirit could not materialize

unless there were believers present."

"Did he stand for that?" asked Mabel.

"Glad to have them," her husband assured her. "They like to

think there are others as foolish as they are. And I'm going to

place Mr. District Attorney," he broke out suddenly and

fiercely, "between two mediums. They'll hold his hands!"

Already frightened by the possible result of the plot, Rainey,

with a vehemence born of fear, retorted sharply: "Hold his

hands! How're you going to make him hold his tongue, afterward?"

Gaylor turned upon him savagely.

"My God, man!" he cried, "we're not trying to persuade the

District Attorney that he's seen a ghost. If your friends can

persuade Stephen Hallowell that he's seen one, the District

Attorney can go to the devil!"

"Well, he won't!" returned Rainey, "he'll go to law!"

"Let him!" cried Gaylor defiantly. "Get Hallowell to sign that

will, and I'll go into court with him."

His bravado was suddenly attacked from an unexpected source.

"You'll go into court with him, all right," declared Mrs. Vance,

"all of you! And if you don't want him to catch you," she cried,

"you'll clear out, now! He's coming here any minute."

"Who's coming here?" demanded her husband.

"Winthrop," returned his wife, "to see Vera."

"To see Vera!" cried Vance eagerly. "What about? About this

morning?"

"No," protested Mabel, "to call on her. He's an old friend -- "

In alarm Rainey pushed into the group of now thoroughly excited

people. "Don't you believe it!" he cried. "If he's coming here,

he's coming to give her the third degree -- "

The door from the hall suddenly opened, was as suddenly closed,

and Mannie slipped into the room. One hand he held up for

silence; with the other he pointed at the folding doors.

"Hush!" he warned them. "He's in there! He says he's come to

call on Vera. She says he's come professionally, and I must

bring him in here. I've shut the door into the parlor, and you

can slip upstairs without his seeing you."

"Upstairs!" gasped Rainey, "not for me!" He appealed to Gaylor

in accents of real alarm. "We must get away from this house," he

declared. "If he finds us here -- " With a gesture of dismay he

tossed his hands in the air. Gaylor nodded. In silence all, save

Mannie, moved into the hall, and halted between the outer and

inner doors of the vestibule. Gaylor turned to Vance. "Are you

going to tell her," he asked, "that he is to be there tonight?"

"He'll tell her himself, now!"

"No," corrected Rainey, "he doesn't know yet there's to be a

seance. Hallowell was writing the note when he left."

"Then," instructed Gaylor, "do not let her know until she

arrives -- until it will be too late for her to back out."

Vance nodded and, waiting until from the back room he heard the

voices of Mannie and Winthrop, he opened the front door and the

two men ran down the steps into the street.

While the conspirators were hidden in the vestibule, Mannie had

opened the folding doors, and invited Winthrop to enter the

reception parlor.

"Miss Vera will be down in a minute," he said. "If you want your

hand read," he added, pointing, "you sit over there."

As Winthrop approached the centre table, Mannie backed against

the piano. The presence of the District Attorney at such short

range aroused in him many emotions. Alternately he was torn with

alarm, with admiration, with curiosity. He regarded him

apprehensively, with a nervous and unhappy smile.

About the smile there was something that Winthrop found

familiar, and, with one almost as attractive, he answered it.

"I think we've met before, haven't we?" he asked pleasantly.

Mannie nodded. "Yes, sir," he answered promptly. "At Sam

Hepner's old place, on West Forty-fourth street."

"Why, of course!" exclaimed the District Attorney.

"Don't you -- don't you remember?" stammered Mannie eagerly. He

was deeply concerned lest the distinguished cross-examiner

should think, that from him of his lurid past he could withhold

anything. "I had my coat off -- and you said you'd make it hot

for me."

"Did I?" asked Winthrop with an effort at recollection.

"No, you didn't!" Mannie hastened to reassure him. "I mean, you

didn't make it hot for me."

Winthrop laughed, and seated himself comfortably beside the

centre table. Well I'm glad of that," he said. "So our relations

are still pleasant, then?" he asked.

"Sure!" exclaimed Mannie heartily. "I mean -- yes, sir."

Winthrop mechanically reached for his cigarette case, and then,

recollecting, withdrew his hand.

"And how are the ponies running?' he asked.

The interview was filling Mannie with excitement and delight. He

chuckled with pleasure. His fear of the great man was rapidly

departing. Could this, he asked himself, be the "terror to evil-

doers," the man whose cruel questions drove witnesses to tears,

whose "third degree" sent veterans of the underworld staggering

from his confessional box, limp and gasping?

"Oh, pretty well," said the boy, "seems as if I couldn't keep

away from them. I got a good thing for today -- Pompadour -- in

the fifth. I put all the money on her I could get together," he

announced importantly, and then added frankly, with a laugh,

"two dollars!" The laugh was contagious, and the District

Attorney laughed with him.

"Pompadour," Winthrop objected, "she's one of those winter track

favorites."

"I know, but today," declared Mannie, "she win, sure!" Carried

away by his enthusiasm, and by the sympathy of his audience, he

rushed, unheeding, to his fate. "If you'd like to put a little

on," he said, "I can tell you where you can do it."

The District Attorney stared and laughed. "You mustn't tell me

where you can do it," he said.

Mannie gave a terrified gasp and, for an instant, clapped his

hands over his lips. "That's right," he cried. "Gee, that's

right! I'm such a crank on all kinds of sport that I clean

forgot!"

He gazed at the much-dreaded District Attorney with the awe of

the new-born hero-worshipper. "I guess you are, too, hey?" he

protested admiringly. "Vera was telling me you used to be a

great ball tosser."

In the face of the District Attorney there came a sudden

interest. His eyes lightened.

"How did she -- "

"She used to watch you in Geneva," said Mannie, "playing with

the college lads. I -- I," he added consciously, "was a ball

player myself once. Used to pitch for the Interstate League." He

stopped abruptly.

"Interstate?" said Winthrop encouragingly. "You must have been

good."

The enthusiasm had departed from the face of the boy. "Yes, he

said, "but -- " he smiled shamefacedly, "but I got taking coke,

and they -- " He finished with a dramatic gesture of the hand as

of a man tossing away a cigarette.

"Cocaine?" said the District Attorney.

The boy nodded and, for an instant, the two men eyed each other,

the boy smiling ruefully. The District Attorney shook his head.

"My young friend," he said, "you can never beat that game!"

Mannie stared at him, his eyes filled with surprise.

"Don't you suppose," he said simply, "that I know that better

than you do?" With a boy's pride in his own incorrigibility he

went on boastingly: "Oh, yes," he said, "I used to be awful bad!

Cocaine and all kinds of dope, and cigarettes, and whiskey. I

was nearly all in -- with morphine, it was then -- till she took

hold of me, and stopped me."

"She?" said Winthrop.

"Vera," said Mannie. "She made me stop. I had to stop. She

started taking it herself."

"What!" cried Winthrop.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mannie hastily, "I don't mean what you mean -- I

mean she started taking it to make me stop. She says to me,

Mannie, you're killing yourself, and you got to quit it; and if

you don't, every time you take a grain, I'll take two. And she

did! I'd come home, and she'd see what I'd been doing, and she'd

up with her sleeves, and -- " In horrible pantomime, the boy

lifted the cuff of his shirt, and pressed his right thumb

against the wrist of his other arm. At the memory of it, he gave

a shiver and, with a blow, roughly struck the cuff into place.

"God!" he muttered, "I couldn't stand it. I begged, and begged

her not. I cried. I used to get down, in this room, on my knees.

And each time she'd get whiter, and black under the eyes. And --

and I had to stop. Didn't I?"

Winthrop moved his head.

"And now," cried the boy with a happy laugh, "I'm all right!" He

appealed to the older man eagerly, wistfully. "Don't you think

I'm looking better than I did the last time you saw me?"

Again, without venturing to speak, Winthrop nodded.

Mannie smiled with pride. "Everybody tells me so," he said.

"Well, she did it. That's what she did for me. And, I can tell

you," he said simply, sincerely, "there ain't anything I

wouldn't do for her. I guess that's right, hey?" he added.

The eyes of the cruel cross-examiner, veiled under half-closed

lids, were regarding the boy with so curious an expression that

under their scrutiny Mannie, in embarrassment, moved uneasily.

"I guess that's right," he repeated.

To his surprise, the District Attorney rose from his comfortable

position and, leaning across the table, held out his hand.

Mannie took it awkwardly.

"That's all right," he said.

"Sure, it's all right," said the District Attorney.

From the hall there was the sound of light, quick steps, and

Mannie, happy to escape from a situation he did not understand,

ran to the door.

"She's coming," he said. He opened the door and, as Vera

entered, he slipped past her and closed it behind him.

Vera walked directly to the chair at the top of the centre

table. She was nervous, and she was conscious that that fact was

evident. To avoid shaking hands with her visitor, she carried

her own clasped in front of her, with the fingers interlaced.

She tried to speak in her usual suave, professional tone. "How

do you do?" she said.

But Winthrop would not be denied. With a smile that showed his

pleasure at again seeing her, he advanced eagerly, with his hand

outstretched. "How are you?" he exclaimed. "Aren't you going to

shake hands with me?" he demanded. "With an old friend?"

Vera gave him her hand quickly, and then, seating herself at the

table, picked up the ivory pointer.

"I didn't know you were coming as an old friend," she murmured

embarrassedly. "You said you were coming to consult Vera, the

medium."

"But you said that was the only way I could come," protested

Winthrop. "Don't you remember, you said -- "

Vera interrupted him. She spoke distantly, formally. "What kind

of a reading do you want?" she asked. "A hand reading, or a

crystal reading?"

Winthrop leaned forward in his chair, frankly smiling at her. He

made no attempt to conceal the pleasure the sight of her gave

him. His manner was that of a very old and dear friend, who, for

the first time, had met her after a separation of years.

"Don't want any kind of a reading," he declared. "I want a

talking. You don't seem to understand," he objected, "that I am

making an afternoon call." His good humor was unassailable.

Looking up with a perplexed frown, Vera met his eyes and saw

that he was laughing at her. She threw the ivory pointer down

and, leaning back in her chair, smiled at him.

"I don't believe," she said doubtfully, "that I know much about

afternoon calls. What would I do, if we were on Fifth Avenue?

Would I give you tea?" she asked, "because," she added hastily,

"there isn't any tea."

"In that case, it is not etiquette to offer any," said Winthrop

gravely.

"Then," said Vera, "I'm doing it right, so far?"

They both laughed; Vera because she still was in awe of him, and

Winthrop because he was happy.

"You're doing it charmingly," Winthrop assured her.

"Good!" exclaimed Vera. "Well, now," she inquired, "now we talk,

don't we?"

"Yes," assented Winthrop promptly, "we talk about you."

"No, I -- I don't think we do," declared Vera, in haste. "I

think we talk about -- Geneva." She turned to him with real

interest. "Is the town much changed?" she asked.

As though preparing for a long talk, Winthrop dropped his hat to

the floor and settled himself comfortably. "Well, it is, and it

isn't," he answered. "Haven't you been back lately?" he asked.

Vera looked quickly away from him.

"I have never been back!" she answered. There was a pause and

when she again turned her eyes to his, she was smiling. "But I

always take the Geneva Times," she said, "and I often read that

you've been there. You're a great man in Geneva."

Winthrop nodded gravely.

"Whenever I want to be a great man," he said, "I go to Geneva."

"Why, yes," exclaimed Vera. "Last June you delivered the oration

to the graduating class," she laughed, "on The College Man in

Politics. Such an original subject! And did you point to

yourself?" she asked mockingly, "as the -- the bright example?"

"No," protested Winthrop, "I knew they'd see that."

Much to her relief, Vera found that of Winthrop she was no

longer afraid.

"Oh!" she protested, "didn't you say, twelve years ago, a humble

boy played ball for Hobart College. That boy now stands before

you? Didn't you say that?"

"Something like that,"assented the District Attorney. "Oh!" he

exclaimed, "that young man who showed me in here -- your

confederate or fellow-conspirator or lookout man or whatever he

is -- told me you used to be a regular attendant at those

games."

"I never missed one!" Vera cried. She leaned forward, her eyes

shining, her brows knit with the effort of recollection.

"I used to tell Aunt," she said, "I had to drive in for the

mail. But that was only an excuse. Aunt had an old buggy, and an

old white horse called Roscoe Conkling. I called him Rocks. He

was blind in one eye, and he would walk on the wrong side of the

road; you had to drive him on one rein." The girl was speaking

rapidly, eagerly. She had lost all fear of her visitor. With

satisfaction Winthrop recognized this; and unconsciously he was

now frankly regarding the face of the girl with a smile of

pleasure and admiration.

"And I used to tie him to the fence just opposite first base,"

Vera went on excitedly, "and shout -- for you!"

"Don't tell me," interrupted Winthrop, in burlesque excitement,

"that you were that very pretty little girl, with short dresses

and long legs, who used to sit on the top rail and kick and

cheer."

Vera shook her head sternly.

"I was," she said, "but you never saw me."

"Oh, yes, we did," protested Winthrop. "We used to call you our

mascot."

"No, that was some other little girl," said Vera firmly. "You

never looked at me, and I" -- she laughed, and then frowned at

him reproachfully -- "I thought you were magnificent! I used to

have your pictures in baseball clothes pinned all around my

looking glass, and whenever you made a base hit, I'd shout and

shout -- and you'd never look at me! And one day -- " she

stopped, and as though appalled by the memory, clasped her

hands. "Oh, it was awful!" she exclaimed; "one day a foul ball

hit the fence, and I jumped down and threw it to you, and you

said, Thank you, sis! And I," she cried, "thought I was a young

lady!"

"Oh! I couldn't have said that," protested Winthrop, "maybe I

said sister."

"No," declared Vera energetically shaking her head, "not

sister, sis. And you never did look at me; and I used to drive

past your house every day. We lived only a mile below you."

"Where?" asked Winthrop.

"On the lake road from Syracuse," said Vera. "Don't you remember

the farm a mile below yours -- the one with the red barn right

on the road? Yes, you do," she insisted, "the cows were always

looking over the fence right into the road."

"Of course!" exclaimed Winthrop delightedly. "Was that your

house?"

"Oh, no," protested Vera, "ours was the little cottage on the

other side -- "

"With poplars round it?" demanded Winthrop.

"That's it!" cried Vera triumphantly, "with poplars round it."

"Why, I know that house well. We boys used to call it the

haunted house."

"That's the one," assented Vera. She smiled with satisfaction.

"Well, that's where I lived until Aunt died," she said.

"And then, what?" asked Winthrop.

For a moment the girl did not answer. Her face had grown grave

and she sat motionless, staring beyond her. Suddenly, as though

casting her thoughts from her, she gave a sharp toss of her

head.

"Then," she said, speaking quickly, "I went into the mills, and

was ill there, and I wrote Paul and Mabel to ask if I could join

them, and they said I could. But I was too ill, and I had no

money -- nothing. And then," she raised her eyes to his and

regarded him steadily, "then I stole that cloak to get the money

to join them, and you -- you helped me to get away, and -- and"

Winthrop broke in hastily. He disregarded both her manner and

the nature of what sh