THE COME BACK (Part 2)

CHAPTER X

Evidence

The few days following Gilbert Blair’s death were like a nightmare to his friends. A search of his papers had revealed a probable address of his mother, but a telegram sent there had as yet brought no reply and though a letter was despatched, no answer could be expected to that for a week or more.

Meantime, by general consent, Benjamin Crane took charge of Blair’s affairs. The funeral took place in an undertaker’s establishment and the body was placed in a receiving vault, until Blair’s people could be heard from. His immediate possessions remained in the studio rooms, for the lease had still six months to run, and the police objected to any removal of the dead man’s effects. It was practically impossible to seal them up as Thorpe occupied the same rooms, but a strict surveillance was kept, and Weston doggedly asserted he would yet track down the murderer.

For no one could doubt Blair had been murdered. On the eve of the prize competition, in which he was so deeply interested—on the eve, as he hoped, of being engaged to Carlotta Harper, whom he loved, full of life and energy, why should he kill himself? It was impossible to accept the theory of suicide, and the detectives were hard at work on the case.

McClellan Thorpe was suspected, but as there was no evidence against him, save his indubitable and exclusive opportunity, he had not as yet been arrested.

“His opportunity was not exclusive,” Mr. Crane contended. “Those studio apartments are not burglar proof! Anybody might have got in during the night and administered the poison.”

“No,” Weston objected. “It would be practically impossible for any one to go into those rooms, force or persuade Blair to swallow poison and get away without being heard by Mr. Thorpe or without leaving any trace of his presence.”

“Well, look here, Weston,” Mr. Crane spoke very seriously, “you know me well enough to know I’ve no notion of evading justice for anybody. But knowing McClellan Thorpe as I do, and knowing his peculiar temperament, I wish you’d let him alone—at least, until you have a bit of indisputable evidence.”

“I’ve got it, Mr. Crane.”

“What?”

The two were sitting in Benjamin Crane’s library, where they often met to talk over the case. Julie was present, for she wanted to know every detail of any discovery that might be made.

“I don’t believe it!” she flared out at the detective’s statement.

“Yes, Miss Crane,” Weston said, “I found a pretty suspicious circumstance today. Nothing less than a very small bottle, without cork or label, but smelling unmistakably of prussic acid.”

“Where was it?” demanded Crane.

“Hidden in an old and unused paint-box of McClellan Thorpe’s.”

“Where was the paint-box?”

“’Way back, on a cupboard shelf. Pushed back, behind a pile of old books.”

“Planted evidence,” suggested Crane. “The real criminal put it there to incriminate Mr. Thorpe.”

“Not a chance!” said Weston, smiling. “I’ve had that place watched too closely for that, sir! Nobody could get in to plant evidence, or to do anything else without being seen by my men. No, sir, that bottle in Mr. Thorpe’s paint-box was put there by his own hand, and it will prove his undoing.”

“But it’s absurd!” flashed Julie. “Mr. Thorpe never killed his friend—but if he had done so, he wouldn’t be fool enough to leave such evidence around!”

“He couldn’t help himself, Miss Crane. When he used the bottle that night, he had to secrete it somewhere, and since then he has been too closely watched to dare to take it from its hiding-place and dispose of it.”

“But I don’t see how he could have done it,” Crane objected. “How could he persuade Blair to take a dose of poison?”

“Oh, in lots of ways. Say, they had a highball or that—all he had to do was to drop the tiniest speck from the little vial into the drink. He could easily do that unobserved. Anyway, he did do it. Then, of course, afterward, he had ample chance to clean the glasses and remove every trace of crime, except that he had to conceal the bottle. This he did in the most obvious way. Exactly the way any one would try to secrete such a thing. The bottle had been emptied and washed, but that poison has such an enduring odor that it is practically impossible to eliminate it entirely. But there’s the fact, Mr. Crane, now, unless another suspect can be found, it’s all up with Mr. Thorpe.”

“Then we’ll find another suspect!” exclaimed Julie.

“Go ahead, Miss. I’ll investigate your new man, as soon as you name him. That’s the important part of this affair, there’s no chance of another suspect. No one has been so much as thought of—”

“That doorman?” said Julie.

“Nixy! He had no motive, no opportunity—and there’s not the slightest reason to suspect him.”

“Some outsider, then,” went on Julie, desperately, “some fellow artist, who feared Gilbert would win that prize—”

“Miss Crane, you must know that’s the motive attributed to Mr. Thorpe. You must know that he and Mr. Blair were rivals in that competition and—”

Julie’s eyes flashed fire. “And you mean to say that he killed his friend—his chum—in order to be sure of winning the prize!”

“That’s the motive we’re assuming. But there was doubtless a scrap—a row about the pictures or drawings—in fact— I hate to tell you these things, but we have learned that there was bad blood between the two men, for each thought the other had imitated his own ideas. This brought about more or less dissension, and—well, probably both men lost their temper, and real hatred ensued.”

Weston tried to adapt his language so as to spare Julie’s feelings as much as possible, for the girl was highly wrought up, and he was genuinely sorry for her. He knew of the state of things between her and Thorpe, knew, too, that it explained Benjamin Crane’s determination to free Thorpe from suspicion, if it could be done.

But Crane was staggered by the disclosure of the hidden vial.

“It’s a clue,” he said, but he spoke slowly and thoughtfully.

“Yes, it’s a clue,” agreed Weston, “and it will convict the criminal. The label—if it ever had one—has been washed off. The cork is missing—and, by the way, if that cork could be found it would help a lot! But all the same, I’ve a notion I can trace that bottle to its source.”

“How?” asked Crane. “Is it of a peculiar shape or style?”

“No; just a common, ordinary two-ounce bottle, such as most druggists use all the time. But there’s no name blown in it—that’s important, for many dealers have their names on their glassware, and a blank bottle is conspicuous of itself.”

“Conspicuous by its rarity—but not therefore traceable,” said Mr. Crane.

“Perhaps so—by elimination—”

“Nonsense!” Julie cried; “you can’t trace it, and you know it! You’re just making believe—you’re what do you call it? framing a case! you’re railroading McClellan Thorpe to prison! I won’t have it! Father, surely you can do something! You must!”

Stifling her sobs, Julie ran out of the room.

There was an uncomfortable silence and then Benjamin Crane said:

“You see what a hard position I’m in, Weston.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But of course,” Crane sighed deeply, “justice must be done—only I beg of you, Weston, use every effort to find another suspect—a logical one—now, don’t misunderstand me! I mean, if there can possibly be a doubt of Thorpe’s guilt, and a chance of another man’s guilt—for Heaven’s sake find that other man!”

“Not a chance.”

“But, at least, keep an open mind. And spare no expense. Get a special detective—a big one—there now, don’t bristle! I don’t suppose you think yourself the cleverest in the world, do you? Don’t you admit any superior? If so, get him; if not, then prove your own worth. I repeat, I want no undue favor shown to McClellan Thorpe, but if he is not the guilty man, then I want you to move heaven and earth to find the real criminal. Can’t you conceive, Weston, of a murderer so clever as to have committed the crime, planted the vial as evidence against Thorpe and made his escape leaving no clue?”

“I can conceive of such a thing, sir, as I can conceive of a ghost—but there is no evidence for either conception.”

“Evidence enough for ghosts, Weston! Haven’t you read my book?”

“Oh, I clean forgot that book you wrote, Mr. Crane. No, I haven’t read it, but my folks have, and I dare say you do believe in spooks. But, come, now, you don’t believe a spook killed Mr. Blair, do you, sir?”

“No—and yet, it is within the bounds of possibility—”

“Not as the police count possibility! There’s small chance of any human agency other than Mr. Thorpe, but far less chance of a supernatural agent! I’ll be getting along, Mr. Crane, if you’re going off on that track.”

“Hold on, Weston, I’m in earnest about this special detective. Suppose I engage a private one. Can you and he work in harmony?”

“Oh, yes, I’m not pig-headed. So long as he don’t interfere too much, or get me into any scrapes with his highfalutin tricks—which they all have, go ahead and get him. I’ll do my own duty, as I see it and as it’s dictated to me by Headquarters; but if you want to engage a dozen private detectives, there’s no law against it. And, sir, I’m free to confess I feel mighty sorry for that pretty daughter of yours, and if anybody else can save her man for her, when I can’t—why, let him at it!”

“Good for you, Weston, I hoped you’d be above petty jealousy. Go on, now, and see if you can’t connect up that empty vial with somebody whose name isn’t Thorpe—and, I say, you’re not going to arrest him yet, are you?”

“Not just yet—but—well, I’ll let you know—soon, where we stand.”

His visitor gone, Benjamin Crane put on his hat and went at once to see Madame Parlato. He had acquired the habit of an interview with her when anything bothered him, and his faith in her powers was unshaken.

His request for a séance was granted, for since the book of Benjamin Crane’s had made such a success, the medium was besieged with patrons, yet she always gave Crane the preference over other sitters.

Admitted to the private sanctum, Crane told the Madame he wished to learn anything possible concerning the death of Gilbert Blair.

The medium went into a trance as usual, and after a short interval, announced in her low monotone that the spirit of Peter Crane was present.

“My boy,” said Crane, eagerly, “do you know who killed Blair?”

“Yes, father,” came the reply, through the voice of Madame Parlato; “do not seek further than you already know.”

“You mean it was—”

Benjamin Crane hesitated. He was a cautious man, and often as he had had this sort of interviews with Peter’s spirit, he was always particular to give no information unnecessarily.

“Yes—dad—it was.”

“Well, who? who, Peter?”

“Must I say the name?”

“Yes, boy. But only if you’re sure you know. It would be a grave error otherwise.”

The medium stirred uneasily, and was silent for a time. Then, with a long drawn sigh, she resumed, “Well, father, if I must tell you, it was Thorpe.”

“Oh, Peter, not really!”

“Yes, dad. Don’t look any further—it was Thorpe.”

The medium was silent after that. She came out of her trance state, looking a little bewildered.

“Did you get anything?” she asked, for, as she had frequently told her sitter, she herself knew nothing of what transpired while she was unconscious.

“Yes,” Crane returned, and knowing there would be no further communication that day, he went home.

He found Thorpe there, discussing the matter with Mrs. Crane and Julie.

“I don’t know what to do,” Thorpe said, as Mr. Crane joined the group. “I didn’t kill Blair—at least, I don’t think I did.”

“What does that mean?” Crane asked.

“Only that if I did do it, it was unconsciously.”

“In your sleep?”

“No; but under hypnotism. I’ve not much belief in that sort of thing—but—well, you know about occult matters, might it not be possible?”

Benjamin Crane was disappointed. He had hoped for a vigorous denial on Thorpe’s part, but this halfway confession seemed to him a mere quibble. He found himself believing the man guilty and that he was using this hypnotism suggestion as a last resort to prove innocence.

“Stop it, father!” Julie cried. “You are thinking Mac did do it, having been hypnotized by somebody! Well, he didn’t! and I know he didn’t and I’ll prove it!”

“Good talk, Julie, but does it mean anything!” asked her father, giving her a look of gentle sadness.

“I’ll make it mean something! That thick-witted detective doesn’t know a thing! Now, I don’t believe in the hypnotism theory—”

“Why, Julie,” said her mother, “I’ve heard you say you believed in hypnotism!”

“Oh, yes, I do, but I mean not in this case. Nobody hypnotized McClellan to kill Gilbert. I’m sure of that, and I wish you wouldn’t repeat it, Mac. People will only laugh at you.”

“Well, what are you going to do, my child?” asked her father.

“Oh, I don’t know! I’m desperate— I will find out something!”

“Of course you will, Julie, for I’ll help you.”

It was Thorpe who spoke, and he seemed to have suddenly acquired a new energy.

“I’m going to turn detective myself,” he went on. “We’ll work together, Julie, and— Mr. Crane, if we succeed— I mean succeed in freeing myself from suspicion—”

“And finding the real criminal,” put in Crane with a very serious face.

“Yes, and find the real criminal,” but Thorpe’s face was less bright, “then, sir, will you give us your blessing?”

“Yes, McClellan,” but Crane’s voice had no hearty ring, “yes, when you are a free man in every sense of the word, you may take my little girl for your own.”

Thorpe gave him a searching look. “I can’t help seeing, Mr. Crane,” he said, “that you think—or perhaps I may say, you fear I am guilty. I hope I can prove to you that I am not.”

Crane noticed the wording of his speech. Thorpe hoped to prove to him—but he didn’t say he was innocent.

And Benjamin Crane believed the man guilty. Greatly influenced by what he had heard at the séance with the medium, Crane was still willing to be convinced to the contrary, but Thorpe’s own attitude and words did not carry conviction.

“Well, my children,” Crane said at last, “here’s my proposition. I can’t think your determination to do detective work will produce much fruit. Now, if you like, I’ll engage the best detective I can find and put him on the job. What say, Thorpe?”

It was a test question, and Crane eagerly awaited the answer. If Thorpe were really innocent, he would welcome the clever sleuthing that would be likely to unearth the truth.

But he was disappointed to hear Thorpe say, “Not yet, Mr. Crane. Give us a chance. Let me try—let us try,”—with a glance at Julie—“give us a few days, at least—then, if we gain nothing—then bring on your detective.”

“But— I hate to say it, Mac, though I dare say you know it—you may be arrested any day now.”

Thorpe gave a start, and the sudden pallor that came to his face showed how the idea affected him.

“Oh, not that—hardly that—”

“Yes, it’s imminent.” Crane thought best to tell him this. “They—they say they’ve got the goods on you, Mac.”

“What—what do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Crane couldn’t bring himself to tell of the poison bottle, “well, my boy, they say that you and Blair quarreled.”

“We did.”

“Over the sketches for the prizes?”

“Yes, over those, and over other matters.”

“When was this?”

“We’d been scrapping off and on for some time. Nothing very serious. But—well, when Gilbert implied that I had used his ideas, I—I got mad.”

“And saw red?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what they call it.”

“The night he—he died?”

“Yes.”

“Mac,” Benjamin Crane looked grave, “suppose you tell me just what happened that night.”

“Well—we’d all been to the Club to dinner, you know.”

“Yes.”

“And when we went home, Bob Knight went with us. He was irritating, somehow—said he heard Blair and I had combined on our work—”

“Why was that annoying?”

“Oh, it implied that Gilbert and I took each other’s ideas, or something— I don’t know—anyway, he stirred us up, and when he went off, Gil and I were touchy. We had some words, and Blair tore up his sketches, a-and—tore up some of mine, too.”

“He did! No wonder you were annoyed.”

“Yes; they were the ones I had ready—or, almost ready, to send in.”

“Go on,” said Crane, briefly.

“Well, there’s little more to tell. I went into my bedroom and slammed the door. Yes, I slammed it, for I had lost my temper, and I was mad at Blair.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know anything more to tell. I heard Blair around the studio for a time, and once I heard his footsteps near my door, as if he wanted to speak to me—maybe make up—but he didn’t say anything or knock, or call out—and then, after a time I heard him go into his own bedroom and close the door.”

“And you heard nothing through the night?”

“Nothing unusual. The ordinary sounds in the building, of course.”

“And you stayed in your room—in your bed—till morning?”

“Yes, I did. I sleep very soundly, and I sleep late. The details of the morning, and my finding of Blair—you know. Don’t ask me to recount all that again.”

“No; I shan’t. Are you going on with your work for the competition?”

“Of course!” Thorpe’s face showed surprise at the question. “Why should I not? I rescued the torn sketches from the waste-basket, and I can copy them. I’ve a good chance at it, I think.”

“Now that Blair’s out of the running?”

Thorpe looked up angrily, but as suddenly he became calm. “No, Mr. Crane,” he said, “not because of that. But because Gilbert can’t steal my plans.”

“Unpleasant talk, Mac. I don’t like that.”

“But it’s true. Blair did take my ideas—”

“Consciously?”

“I think so. Why, he incorporated in his design, a particular bit of drawing that I had invented and shown to him only a day or two before.”

“You must see, McClellan, that your saying that puts a bad face on the whole affair?”

“I suppose it does,” and the man again relapsed into moody silence. “Oh, well—it’s all in a lifetime.”

“A lifetime that has just ended—or one still being lived?” Benjamin Crane spoke like an avenging justice, and there was no mistaking his meaning.

But beyond a startled glance, Thorpe made no reply.

CHAPTER XI

Carlotta and the Board

Much as Benjamin Crane desired to believe in Thorpe’s innocence it was difficult for him to do so, after the disclosure of the medium, Madame Parlato. In her powers he had absolute faith, of her honesty and sincerity he was entirely confident, and it was largely the accounts of her séances that made the bulk of his book about his son’s communications with him. The séances were frequent, still, and at each one he gained more material for use in a second book.

The book, the one already published, was in its fourth edition and was still having large sales. It was called “A Prophecy Fulfilled,” and dealt with the old prophecy of the gypsy—that Peter should be lost while on a distant journey, should die a terrible death there, but should mysteriously return to his family.

This, Benjamin Crane held, had been accomplished in full. The long journey, the terrible death, were matters of fact, and Mr. and Mrs. Crane believed that the return of their son was equally a matter of fact.

Wherefore, the book was written in a simple, straightforward style, without excitement or exaggeration, and it gave detailed recitals of the happenings at the séances.

Needless to say that the medium was besieged with would-be clients, but she accepted very few, for the Cranes claimed most of her time. Not that they were continually in her presence, but the exhaustive nature of her trances made it impossible for her to devote many hours a day to their practice. And Benjamin Crane made it quite worth her while, financially, to reserve for him her peculiar talents.

The sessions brought forth little that was new or different, but the parents never tired of what they implicitly believed was absolute direct communication with their son’s spirit through the personality of Madame Parlato.

Criticism, disapproval, even ridicule from their friends and acquaintances moved them not a jot from their faith and trust.

Wiser and better people than we, believe in it—they would argue—and it is now so much a part of our lives, that I think we could scarcely live without it.

And so, they went along, cheered and made happy by the communications and fully reconciled thereby to the death of their cherished son.

Julie, though never quite satisfied of the truth of the whole matter, had become more or less imbued with the atmosphere that she lived in, and aside from her own feelings, was glad that her parents could be happy in their grief, even though it were a delusion.

And the popularity of this book brought him absorbing work and many outside interests to Benjamin Crane. Continually, people came to see him, to discuss the question of Continuity, or Life after Death, and to argue for or against the reappearance of departed spirits.

Many of these he saw and learned to like and his circle of acquaintances was continually enlarging.

Naturally, when he discussed matters with them, the subject of Gilbert Blair’s death was talked of. Crane was a careful man, and rarely told what happened at his séances, save in a general way. For he had learned of the dangers of having his statements misquoted and exaggerated, and as a rule, he was canny enough to let his visitors talk, while he said little.

And from the consensus of opinion thus gathered, he discovered that public sentiment was largely against McClellan Thorpe. This troubled him, for if Thorpe were guilty it was surely Crane’s duty to guard his daughter from a criminal. On the other hand, Julie was so deeply in love with Thorpe, and so positive that he was in no way a wrong-doer, that the father’s heart was torn.

But his most vital reason for believing in Thorpe’s guilt was the message from his son to that effect.

“It rests between our two children,” he said to his wife. “Peter tells us Mac is the guilty man—and Julie tells us he isn‘t. Now, we must learn the truth. I’m going to get a detective, myself— I’ve had a fine one recommended—and I don’t think we need say anything to Julie or Mac about it. They asked for a few days to do some ‘detecting’ on their own account—but it won’t amount to anything, I feel sure. So I’m going to engage Pennington Wise—if I can get him. I’m told he’s a most successful man, though not one of the ‘wizards’ or know-it-all variety.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Crane, as always, agreed; “but don’t tell anybody. Need you?”

“Yes, I’ll tell Weston. It wouldn’t be fair not to. You see, I’m in a peculiar position. I’ve taken the responsibility of investigating Blair’s death, without any real authority, save that of a friend.”

“Of course your reason is that Julie cares for him.”

“Of course. And I do hope he can be cleared, but if not, it would better be proved against him, and let Julie know it, and get over it.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Crane sighed. “Poor child, it would go hard with her.”

“But she must bear it, if it’s the truth. I’ve hopes of Wise’s discovering another criminal.”

“Then what about Peter’s message?”

“I don’t know—but it’s possible Peter may himself be misinformed. You know we’ve discovered that the disembodied spirits are not omniscient.”

In the meantime Carlotta Harper was endeavoring to use her occult powers to solve the mystery of Blair’s death.

Carlotta herself was a mystery. Disavowing any especial clairvoyant ability, she yet achieved marvelous results from the Ouija Board.

She scoffed at it herself, yet whenever her fingertips were on the board it spelled words rapidly and gave messages that were acclaimed as truth by the audience.

One afternoon Shelby was with her, and he, a little timidly, suggested a trial of the Board.

“Why, Kit, I thought you detested it,” said Carly, surprised.

“I do; but you’re a witch at it, and—suppose it should tell us something about Blair—something we don’t know—”

“You think Mac did it, don’t you?” Carly spoke hesitantly, for the two had discussed the subject very little.

“I don’t say so, Carly, yet where else is there to look? If you had seen, as I did, how much at odds the two chaps were that evening I dropped in—”

“The night of the dinner?”

“Yes, in the late afternoon. They were rowing no end! Then I went off, but I called for them on the way to the feast—we always go together—and Blair was in a regular stew. Nervous—couldn’t get his tie right—and all that. And—Carly—what do you think? He asked me if I’d drop you! Think of that! As if I were a sort of man to interfere with a friend’s interests! Why, if he’d told me there was anything between you two, of course I should have stepped down and out at once. Was there, Carly?”

“Nothing definite—no.” The girl spoke wearily, pushing back her thick mass of dark, wavy hair. “No, Kit, nothing promised. If he had lived—oh, I don’t know. You see, I loved Peter. And I sometimes think I never can care at all for any one else.”

“But, dear, Peter’s dead and Blair’s dead—and you can’t live all your life alone: Just give me a ray of hope, Carly. I won’t bother you about it—only tell me that some time—maybe—”

“Let it stay at that, Kit. Some time it may be—and now come on—if you like we’ll try the Ouija.”

The session was interesting. Carly never, in any circumstances, pushed or guided the board in the very least—nor did she ever sit with any one whom she suspected of doing so. But with her friends in whom she had perfect confidence, or with acquaintances who, she knew were eagerly wanting to learn, not anxious to tell, she often tried the uncanny thing.

Lightly they rested their fingertips on the little wooden heart, and after a short wait it began to move.

At Carly’s questions, replies came that there was a spirit present and that it was Peter Boots.

Neither of the inquirers was surprised at this, for they had fully expected it. Moreover, both had watched most closely the other’s muscles and fingers and wrists, and each was positive the messages, whatever their source, were not the result of human deceit.

After some preliminary talk, Carly said, “You put the questions, Kit.”

So Shelby said, “Peter, you know Blair’s gone?”

“Yes,” returned the board.

“Have you seen him—or I mean, is he with you—in spirit?”

“Yes” came the answer.

“Will he talk to us?”

“No.”

“Well—then can you give us a message from him?”

“Yes.”

Yes and No are designated on the Ouija Board as words. The movement of the Board toward these was quick, almost jerky.

But when the message was asked for—when Shelby said, “Will he tell us how he died?” there was a pause and the Board moved aimlessly about.

At last, Carly said, “Peter, was Gilbert killed?”

“Yes,” came the quick reply.

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

Carly shot out the question quickly, and immediately the board moved to T. From that, as the two breathlessly waited, the pointer very slowly spelled Thorpe.

The word did not go smoothly—the board swung round in large loops, but paused positively at each letter, and then started slowly to the next.

“You didn’t push, Kit?” Carly asked, but more from force of habit than any doubt of him.

“Of course not. Nobody could push with you watching, nor was there any reason why I should. Did you?”

“Of course not. Don’t let’s ask each other that. We’re both honest. But you know, Kit, Mr. Crane had a communication from Peter and he said Thorpe did it. But Mr. Crane thinks maybe Peter doesn’t know.”

“Let’s try to get Blair’s spirit.”

They tried—if receptive waiting can be called trying—and at last they succeeded in receiving the information that Gilbert Blair’s spirit was present.

“Will you tell us who killed you?” Carly asked at once, fearing lest he go away.

Slowly the pointer moved away from the letter T. But after a series of swirls it stopped definitely at M.

“Go on,” said Carly, in a whisper.

A long swing of aimless motions and then a stop at A.

The next stop was at C, and then the board would move no more.

Carly sighed, and took her hands off.

“Well, there’s the message, Kit. You know Gilbert always called him Mac—now what do you think of Ouija?”

“I don’t know what to think, Carly. Mayn’t it be only that Thorpe was in both our minds, and that we subconsciously—”

“Oh, well, if you’re going to take that tack, there’s no more to be said. It’s easy enough to say that—but how can the dead send messages if the human beings always say—oh, subconscious pushing!”

“But, are you so anxious to believe in Thorpe’s guilt?”

“Not that—but I want to know. Julie’s devoted to him, and if he’s a—a murderer, Julie must be saved from him. If he isn’t—we must find it out, and give him to Julie free and clear of suspicion.”

“We! Are you responsible for Julie’s affairs?”

“Yes, in so far as I can help. You say, everybody says, that I have occult powers. If so, I must use them to help—if they really do help. But how can I be sure?”

“I don’t know. But I think, perhaps, you’d better leave the whole occult business alone. It’s uncanny if it’s real, and it’s foolishness if it’s faked.”

“I think Mr. Crane is going to get a special detective,” Carly said, “but, oh, my gracious, I forgot I promised not to tell that. So don’t tell anybody else. I don’t suppose they’d mind you knowing.”

“Who’s the man?”

“I think his name is Wise—good name for a detective!”

“Never heard of him. But, let’s hope he clears Mac.”

“Yes, and finds the real murderer. Do you know I can’t realize Gilbert’s gone—even yet.”

“Don’t think about him, Carly. It can’t do any good, and it only makes you sad and morbid. Let me tell you of my hopes and fears, mayn’t I?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“Well, I’m getting up a big—a really big enterprise.”

“What?”

“I hope you won’t disapprove, but it’s in the Moving Picture business.”

“Why should I disapprove?”

“Oh, some people sniff at M. P’s. But this is a really big, fine production.”

“Are you the producer?”

“Yes; don’t tell it outside, yet. You see, I’ve written a big story—a picturesque thriller—and critics who’ve read it, think it’s a wonder. Now, it’s too big to give to anybody— I mean, it would be foolish for me merely to get a royalty—so I’m going to put it on, myself.”

“Good, Kit, I’m glad to hear it. I always thought you had it in you to be some sort of an organizer or producer, in some important way.”

“Yes, I’ve always had that ambition. Well, this is a great yarn! I want to read it to you some time. Marvelous pictures—they’re being made now. And that’s not all of it— I mean to make it into a book—”

“You can’t write a book!”

“If I can’t I’ll get it written—but the plot is such a wonder—and the scenes!”

“Up in Labrador, I’ll bet!”

“Yes, they are, Carly. And corkers! Well, I figure to have the book and the pictures sprung on an unsuspecting public simultaneously—and afterward—maybe, it will be made into a real play!”

“And after that, into a Light Opera—and after that, into Grand Opera?”

Carly’s tone was mocking, but her smile was sweet and approving, and Kit beamed at her.

“I knew you’d be interested! I want you to hear the plot soon—and would you like to go to the studios?”

“Where they’re making the Labrador pictures?”

“Yes; they’re faked, of course. No sense in going up there to take them. I know the stuff so well, I can get it up right here.”

“Oh, Kit, you ought to have the real scenes.”

“No; it isn’t necessary. Snow’s easy enough to manage. But the plot’s the thing! Carly, it’s a peach! And then, it’s all done up with real artistry. No crude, raw scenes. All softened with lights and shades and colors; and everything—even realism, sacrificed to beauty. It will be the success of the season, the talk of the town, and it will make my reputation forever.”

“When will it be put on?”

“Soon, now, I hope. Well, I mean in a month or so. I’d like to say the middle of May, and think perhaps I can. It will run all summer and doubtless longer.”

“And you don’t want me to tell of this?”

“Not quite yet, Carly. I’ll let you know when you may.”

* * * *

And so, when, after Shelby had gone, and Julie and Thorpe came, Carly said nothing of the plans for the great Moving Picture.

Nor did she tell of the Ouija Board experiences she and Shelby had had. In fact, Carly said little, preferring to let her guests talk.

And they did.

“We’re detecting,” Julie began, and Thorpe, his eyes harassed and gloomy, had to smile at Julie’s enthusiasm.

“Can I help?” Carly asked, with a loving glance at her friend.

“I hope so—but not with your old Ouija Board. I hate it!”

“Wait till I suggest it,” Carly smiled, for she saw Julie was in no mood for argument. “What can I do?”

“Only advise. I don’t think you’re a medium, Carly, but I do think you have sort of queer powers. Now a queer thing has happened to me. This morning, on my bureau, there lay a note—here it is.” She handed a folded paper to Carlotta.

It read: “Dear little sister. You must give up old Mac. He did for Gilbert. Peter Boots.”

Carly stared at the note.

“It’s in Peter’s own writing!” she said; “what can it mean?”

“It means fraud!” Julie exclaimed. “I know that’s no note from Peter! It is in his writing—”

“But so exactly his writing!” Carly said, “nobody could have written that but Peter himself. Oh, Julie!”

“Now, stop, Carly! Don’t you say it’s really a materialization of a note from Peter! It can’t be! I’m afraid to show it to mother or Dad, for I know they’ll say it’s really from him—and I won’t believe it.”

“You won’t believe it’s from Peter, because you don’t want to believe what it says—isn’t that it?”

Carly looked at Thorpe, though she spoke to Julie.

“Partly,” Julie admitted; “but anyway, I can’t believe that Peter—my dead brother—put that real, paper note on my dresser!”

“If it had said Mac didn’t kill Gilbert, would you believe it then?” Carly asked.

Julie stared at her, as she took in the question.

“Yes,” she said at last, “in that case, I’d want to believe—but I don’t see how I could—”

“Oh, you could, all right,” Carly said, “if it meant Mac’s innocence was thereby established.”

“I’m out for justice,” Thorpe said; “I hate to hurt Julie’s feelings, but that note doesn’t interest me at all—one way or the other. You see, if it’s a fake—and I can’t help thinking it is, it’s somewhat in my favor, for if faked must it not have been done by the real murderer, trying to put the blame on me? And if it’s real—but, I never discuss that sort of thing at all. I’m not a believer—as the Cranes believe, and yet, feeling toward the Crane family as I do, I refuse to combat their beliefs or principles. So, as I say, I leave the note out of my consideration. And, yet, Carlotta, I do want your opinion as to the genuineness of the handwriting, because you know Peter’s fist so well—and you’re even less likely to be deceived than his family.”

Carly scrutinized the note again.

“It seems to me it must be Peter’s writing,” she said at last. “Those long tails to the filial letters of the words, those are characteristic. And it’s—yes, it’s unmistakably his.”

“All right,” Thorpe sighed. “I just wanted to know, for Mr. Crane will know of it sooner or later, and I’m sure he’ll identify it as Peter’s writing.

“And it surely is,” Julie added, again staring at the paper.

“But, Julie, it’s too absurd!” Second thoughts convinced Carly of this. “How could such a thing happen?”

“I don’t know how it could, but it did,” Julie said, doggedly. “And so, Carly, I feel, as Mac says, there’s no attention to be paid to this note. If—mind I say if—Peter sent it, why then Peter thinks Mac did something that he didn’t do, that’s all. I know Mac is innocent, and so I shall say nothing of this note to any one, and you mustn’t either.”

“I won’t,” Carly smiled to herself as she realized how many secrets she was accumulating, “but you will, Julie. You can’t keep that from your father, even though you mean to.”

“Yes, I can, if to tell of it would cast a straw of evidence against Mac! You see, Carly, we’ve got to find the real criminal, and I’d rather do it myself than get a new detective on the job.”

Carly knew this was because Julie feared the astuteness of the new detective. Which, in turn, meant that Julie, herself, feared Mac’s guilt. Oh, it was a tightly closing net round Mac, as she saw it!

“I wish I could help,” she found herself saying, most unconsciously, so deeply was she thinking. “But, Julie, you two can do nothing. What are you expecting to accomplish?”

“Success,” Thorpe made reply. “Complete success. It may sound absurd, but I think that note is a help to my cause rather than hindrance!”

“I think so, too,” said Carlotta.

CHAPTER XII

Wise and Zizi

“Well, Julie, my little girl, the jig is up.”

Thorpe spoke despairingly, and Julie knew only too well what he meant.

“They’re—they’re going—”

“Yes, they’re going to arrest me. This is the last call I can pay you.”

Julie didn’t break down and cry, nor indeed did she show great emotion of any sort. She set her curved red lips firmly and said, with an air of determination:

“I’m not sure, Mac, that it isn’t better so. I mean now we’ve something definite to work against. Father’s going to get that Mr. Wise, and he’ll soon get you out of—out of—oh, Mac, will they put you in prison? In a cell?”

“Yes, dear, until the trial. You see, that little bottle did it for me.”

“And somebody put that in your old paint-box! Who did it, Mac?”

“Hastings is the only one I can think of. That man never liked me— I don’t know why, but he never did. And he adored Gilbert—”

“You don’t think he killed Gilbert, then?”

“Oh, Lord, no! He was always fond of him. But he wants to get me in bad, and so I think he planted that bottle. It must have been planted, Julie, I never put it there. I never had it in my possession.”

“Who did kill Gilbert?”

“I’ve no idea, but I don’t think it was anybody we know. I’m inclined to the belief that it was some enemy, of long standing. You know Gilbert Blair’s past life was by no means an open book to his friends. He had turned-down pages that we never knew about or inquired into. It would not have been impossible for some one to get into his room in the night—”

“And give him poison? Not likely!”

“But it must have been something of the sort, Julie. Blair never killed himself.”

“No, I suppose not. Oh, Mac, how unfortunate that you and he quarreled so much. Otherwise they wouldn’t have suspected you at all.”

“Yes, they would. It’s opportunity they consider, exclusive opportunity.”

“And that empty bottle! I should think they’d see that’s a plant!”

“They don’t see anything an inch away from their noses! I’m the nearest suspect to hang a charge on, so they choose me.”

Thorpe wasn’t pettish, but he was discouraged and unstrung. He knew that his arrest, which was imminent, was, in part, due to the assertions of the medium and the Ouija Board. These secrets had leaked out somehow, and though the detective, Weston, would have scorned to acknowledge it, he had been more or less biased in his estimates of other evidence by what he had heard of supernatural communications.

But of this Thorpe hesitated to speak to Julie. For it was her father who had brought those things about, and while Thorpe had no use for the whole mediumistic business, he rarely said so to the Crane family.

And the note that purported to be from Peter, he believed a bare-faced fraud. He couldn’t understand it, nor imagine how it had been managed, but he would not believe that it was the work of the dead Peter Crane.

And so, he submitted helplessly to arrest, for there was no way to prove his innocence. He had tried “detective work” on his own account, but it amounted to nothing. The police held that it was an “open and shut” case, and that Thorpe must have been the murderer.

Benjamin Crane, though all unwilling to condemn Thorpe, was, of course, greatly swayed by the supernatural messages, and couldn’t help his belief in them. But, for Julie’s sake, and to give Thorpe every possible chance, he had engaged Pennington Wise, and had invited him to stay at the Crane house while conducting his investigation.

So Wise came, and with him came his queer little assistant, the girl called Zizi.

There was ample room in the big city house, and the two were treated as honored guests.

Wise was alert, quick-witted and tactful, but Zizi was even more so. She made friends with the Cranes at once, and they all admired the odd, fascinating girl. Small of stature, dark of coloring, Zizi was not unlike a gypsy, and the mention of this brought about the tale of the gypsy’s prophecy regarding Peter Boots.

“What an interesting story,” the girl said, after hearing Benjamin Crane tell it. “It is wonderful how you dear people bear your loss so bravely.”

“But it isn’t really a loss,” said Mrs. Crane, “you see, we have our boy with us continually.”

It was only by desperate effort that Zizi kept from laughing, for of all fads or whims, spiritism seemed to her the worst and most foolish. But she was there on business, and part of her business was to gather all the information she could regarding this same spiritism, so she showed only deep interest and apparent sympathy with their beliefs.

“You do believe in these things, don’t you?” Mrs. Crane asked, and, being thus confronted, Zizi had to answer directly.

“It’s hard to say,” she replied, “for, you see, I’ve had so little real experience. Practically none. But I’m eager to learn, and most interested in what you tell me.”

“I’m a frank unbeliever,” declared Pennington Wise. He had considered the matter and concluded it was better to state this fact and thereby rouse the others to defense.

“You wouldn’t be, Mr. Wise,” Benjamin Crane said, “if you’d had the experiences we’re continually enjoying. You’ve read my book?”

“Yes, Mr. Crane, and an able, well written work it is. But you must number some among your friends who find difficulty in accepting it in just the way you do.”

“Certainly, and though I do what I can to convince them, I think none the less of them for their honest unbelief. But with you right here in the house, Mr. Wise, it will, I’m sure, be an easy matter to make a convert of you.”

“We’ll see; at any rate, I’m ready to be converted if you can do it. Now, let’s begin with that note your daughter received from—ah, shall I say from your son?”

“Of course, it was from my son. You may compare the writing with Peter’s own—we’ve lots of his letters, and I think you’ll be convinced it’s no forgery.”

“And it doesn’t seem illogical to you,” Wise went on, as he took the papers Crane handed to him, “that your son should materialize this paper, this note, and leave it for you, when, if he can do such things, he doesn’t write a letter to his mother or to you?”

“From the average mortal’s point of view there is much that seems illogical in spiritism,” Crane said, easily, as if quite accustomed to answering such arguments; “we who believe, never question why or why not. We merely accept.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Crane, “and when we are granted such wonderful boons as we are, it seems ungrateful and ungracious to ask for anything we do not get. When I hear my son’s voice—”

“Do you recognize his voice?” asked Zizi.

“I can hardly say that, my dear, but we have heard Peter talk so often, through the medium, that it almost seems like his voice.”

“And he told you that Mr. Thorpe was responsible for Mr. Blair’s death?” Zizi went on, wanting a plain statement.

“Yes, he told us that.”

“Then how can you have any doubt of it?”

“Spirits do not know everything. It is quite as likely for them to be misinformed as for earthly people to be. It may be that my boy doesn’t know who killed Gilbert Blair, but has some reason to think it was Mr. Thorpe.”

“Do you think it was?”

“I can’t say that,” Mrs. Crane looked very serious, “nor can I deny it. We are all so fond of Mr. Thorpe that we can scarcely bring ourselves to believe ill of him—”

“But if he is a criminal, we want to know it,” her husband interrupted her. “Mr. Thorpe is engaged to my daughter, and if he is an innocent man, I want it made clear to the world. If not, then, of course, the engagement must be broken.”

“He is an innocent man,” Zizi said, quietly.

“Oh, you darling!” cried Julie, running across the room to embrace her. “How do you know?”

“By that letter,” and Zizi pointed to the note from Peter, which she had been scrutinizing and comparing with some old letters of Peter’s.

“You think it isn’t from my brother?”

“I know it isn’t. I’ve made a study of handwriting, and whoever wrote that wrote it in imitation of your brother’s writing. I mean the writer was disguising his own hand and imitating your brother’s.”

“How can you tell? They are very much alike.”

“That’s just it. The salient points are imitated, the long terminal strokes, the peculiarities of the capitals, but the less conspicuous details, such as slant and spacing, are not so carefully copied. It is a forgery, and though well done enough to deceive the average observer, it would not deceive an expert.”

“What a lot you know!” and Julie looked at the other girl in surprised admiration.

“’Course I do. It’s my business to know things. Am I right about this, Penny Wise?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her. “I thought you’d see it. Moreover, Mr. Crane, this note was written by a man, or by a person capable of deep, even venomous hatred. If, as may well be the case, it was written by the murderer of Mr. Blair, and with an intent to throw suspicion on Mr. Thorpe, then we must look for a criminal of great cleverness and of patience and perseverance in the workings of his nefarious plans. I mean a nature of inborn evil, capable of premeditated wrong. This murder of Gilbert Blair was no impulsive or suddenly brought about job. It was carefully planned and carefully carried out. If you will show me some of Mr. Thorpe’s writing I will tell you if he forged this note.”

“No, he did not,” Wise asserted, after a study of a letter of Thorpe’s, which they gave him; “we cannot say this note signed with your son’s name was written by the criminal we’re looking for, but we can be sure it was not written by McClellan Thorpe. You see, Mr. Crane, penmanship is a very exact science. Some one forged your son’s writing, but he or she was utterly unable to omit the personal characteristics that are in every one’s hand.”

“And you can deduce character even from a forged hand?”

“Absolutely. It is those inevitable and unmistakable signs that make the individual writing a true mirror of character.”

“But it is often impossible to determine the sex of a writer,” Zizi informed them. “Frequently, to be sure, penmanship is undoubtedly that of a man or a woman, but sometimes it is not definitely evident. In this case, I think we have the work of a man, but I can’t be sure.”

“Who would do it, anyway?” queried Mrs. Crane.

“Any one interested in concealing the identity of the murderer and desiring to have Mr. Thorpe suspected. A clever person, because, knowing of Miss Crane’s love of her brother and also knowing of your interest in the occult, it would doubtless seem to you a strong bit of evidence.”

“It did,” Benjamin Crane admitted, “at least, until you proved to us that it is not a note from my son at all. But you must remember, Mr. Wise, that we are in no way doubting my son’s communications with us in other ways. If this is not from him, that does not cast doubt on other communications we have had from him. And, as he has repeatedly told us that Mr. Thorpe is responsible for Blair’s death, I can only say that my boy may be mistaken, and I sincerely hope he is.”

“Of course, he is,” Julie cried. “Peter has sent us other messages that turned out to be untrue, but he was mistaken.”

“You believe in the mediums, then?” asked Zizi, flashing her big dark eyes at the girl.

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t at first, and I was unwilling to, but I’ve heard so much and seen so much, and, of course, I can’t help being influenced by Dad and Mother.”

“Of course not,” agreed Zizi. “It’s all so interesting to me. I’m only afraid I’ll become so absorbed in the spirits that I’ll neglect the detective work.”

“It may be they’re interdependent,” Wise observed.

“They are, I’m sure,” said Julie. “You see, Mr. Wise, it’s not only father and the medium that have told us things against Mr. Thorpe, but we have a friend who is an expert on the Ouija Board—”

Zizi rolled her eyes skyward.

“Oh,” she groaned, “I thought you people were real honest-to-goodness Spiritists!”

“We are,” defended Crane.

“Not if you fool with an Ouija Board!”

“But Carly, Miss Harper, can make it tell wonderful things,” Julie went on, “things of which she really knows nothing.”

“But the other person at the Board knows them?”

“Well, maybe; but they can’t get Ouija to tell them without Miss Harper has her fingers on, too.”

“And Ouija is against Mr. Thorpe?”

“Yes; at least it has said he was guilty, but, as you say, an Ouija Board means nothing.”

“It means something, indeed, but not the thing it says.”

“A brilliant remark, Zizi!” Wise smiled at her.

“But I mean just that, Penny. I’m getting a line on this thing, and I think that the criminal or the criminal’s friends or accomplices are utilizing occult forces in their own behalf. I think, Miss Crane, the more messages you get telling you of Mr. Thorpe’s guilt the more you may believe in his innocence!”

“Look out, Ziz, don’t go too fast,” Wise counseled her. “You’ve only begun this thing—there’s a lot yet to be learned.”

“I’ll learn it, and I’m sure I’m headed in the right direction. And I’d like very much to see this Miss Harper. The Ouija witch! Has she told you to suspect Mr. Thorpe?”

“Don’t put it that way,” Julie begged. “Miss Harper is my dearest friend, and whatever she does with the Ouija Board is absolutely honest on her part, absolutely free from deceit.”

“Then she’s a unique case,” declared Zizi. “Never has such a thing been known to science.” Her smile robbed the words of invidious intent, and though Julie stood up for Carlotta’s innocence, she had always wondered whether there was not some involuntary, even unconscious helping along done to the little board.

“Let’s go to see her now,” she suggested, and Wise agreeing, the two girls started off.

* * * *

“This is Miss—?” Julie looked inquiringly at the girl she was about to introduce to Carlotta, remembering she didn’t know her last name.

“Just Zizi,” was the smiling reply, and the slim little dark hand was held out in greeting. “I’m so glad to know you, Miss Harper. For, though I admit I don’t believe in Ouija, I am interested, and Miss Crane tells me you never ‘push’.”

“No, I never do that,” Carlotta smiled, “but don’t think I believe in the thing, for I don’t at all. It amuses me, and it puzzled me, at first, but now I understand it, and it’s beginning to lose interest for me.”

“Understand it?” Zizi looked bewildered. “You mean—”

“I mean I know what makes it work, why it tells the truth, when it does tell the truth, and why it fibs when it does fib.”

Carly Harper’s face was frank and honest; she had no effect of mystery or clairvoyant power, and Zizi was bewildered.

“I am indeed glad to know you!” she exclaimed, “will you impart this knowledge to me, or is it a secret?”

“It’s not a secret, perhaps it isn’t knowledge, it’s, after all, only my own theory, or rather, discovery, based on long and wide experience.”

Zizi was enchanted.

“Oh, goody!” she cried, her black eyes dancing. “I’m crazy to know just what you mean! Will you give me a session with the board?”

“Will you promise not to push?”

“Of course, and, anyway, you’d know it if I did.”

So Carly got the board, and the two sat at it, while Julie looked on.

The usual routine followed, and at last the professed spirit of Peter Crane was “present.”

On being asked if Thorpe killed Gilbert Blair, the Ouija Board promptly replied “No.”

“Oh, Peter, the other day you said he did!” Carlotta exclaimed, but again the Board flew to the corner where “No” was printed.

Julie, watching closely, was sure neither of the girls in any way cheated or helped things along. She was an acute observer, and she was certain both the manipulators were strictly sincere.

“Well, then,” Zizi said, her thin, dark fingers merely touching the little wooden heart, “who did?”

There was no reply. Motionless the board remained, and no persuasion would induce it to move.

Other subjects were brought up, questions were asked to which only Carlotta knew the answer, or to which only Zizi did, and they were answered, if not always definitely, at least in a general way. But when they returned to the question about Blair there was no response.

“Don’t you know?” Carlotta demanded of Peter’s “spirit,” which obligingly announced its presence when requested.

But the board remained stationary, and they finally gave it up.

“All of which goes to prove my theory the true one,” Carlotta declared, and then Zizi begged her to disclose her discoveries.

“Why, you see, it’s this way,” Carlotta began, “you get out of the Ouija Board exactly what you bring to it, no more, no less.”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“That nobody gets any information from the board unless it is already in his mind. When we ask questions, to which one of us knows the answer, that answer comes. Mind you, I don’t mean that one of us pushes the board in the right direction, at least not consciously, but it is inevitable that the mind leaps ahead, and when a word is started we know, usually, what letter is coming next, and we receptively await it. You see, unless you hold your hands still purposely, the board is bound to move. Naturally it goes to the words you have in mind, and unless you purposely check it, the message is bound to come. If it is something I know and you don’t, the board starts off, and as the words form, you don’t stop them nor do I, yet we don’t really force them, it’s more as if we thought on the board. This is proved, to my mind, by the fact that if either party knows the answer, it always comes; if neither knows it, you can’t get it. Usually the message is something that can’t be verified anyway, and often the message is untrue. But people notice and remember the few times the truth is told, and quickly forget the other times. In no case are they messages from the dead. It is not Peter’s spirit talking to us at all. It is merely our minds, subconsciously or not, that impel involuntary muscular action in the slightest degree, and our eagerness to get a certain word or phrase, brings it about. Tradition and habit ascribe the messages to the dead, and the universal desire to get such communications is responsible for the belief that they are such. Now, here’s proof. Whenever I have asked the Board who killed Gilbert it has responded with the name of the person whom my companion thought guilty. I have no idea who is the criminal, neither, I take it, has Zizi; consequently, as we are both open-minded and waiting for the answer, we get nothing.”

“Right,” and Zizi nodded her head. “People fool themselves into believing they get information from Ouija. But, if they were honest, they would have to admit that never has it told a truth that was not known to at least one person present. Of course, I except coincidences, which must happen occasionally.”

“But,” objected Julie, “then why will it work so much better when Carly has her hands on?”

“Just because I’m impassive,” Carlotta said, “and sit quietly while the other one gets the message she wants. Without effort the message desired comes, merely because nobody stops it.”

“Then,” said Julie, “none of the help we get from Ouija means anything at all?”

“No, and it isn’t help,” said Zizi.

CHAPTER XIII

“Labrador Luck”

Kit Shelby’s play was a wonderful success. Though a motion picture, it was one of the finest ever produced, and no expense had been spared to make it the sensation of the season. It was called “Labrador Luck.”

The Crane family attended the opening night, as, indeed, all Shelby’s friends did, and the verdict was unanimous that never had such a beautiful and finished play been screened. The scenes of ice-bound Labrador were picturesque and fascinating, while the plot was ingenious and thrills plentiful. The audience applauded continuously, for so real was the acting that it seemed as if the performers were actually there.

Benjamin Crane had helped Shelby finance the production, and he realized at once that he would get his money back with interest.

“It’s a gold mine, boy!” he said to Shelby, as they were all at the Crane home afterward, “and it must be made into a spoken drama. There’s scope for a great play in that plot.”

“Marvelous plot,” commented Pennington Wise. “All your own, Mr. Shelby?”

“Yes,” Kit replied, with frank pride; “it did turn out well, didn’t it?”

“And you’re going to make a book of it, too, aren’t you?” asked Julie.

“Yes, a book, and a serial story and, oh, I’m going to do lots of things with it!”

“Grand opera, maybe!” chaffed Julie.

“Why not?” said Shelby, seriously. “Slighter plots than that have been put into grand opera. It may yet come about.”

Without undue conceit Shelby was quite conscious of his great success, and as he walked home with Carlotta from the Crane house, he begged her to consent to his repeated proposals of marriage.

“This thing will make me rich, dear,” he said, “and while that sounds mercenary, it does make me glad to have a fortune to offer you.”

“But I don’t love you, Kit,” and Carlotta smiled carelessly at him.

“You will, Carly. You’ll have to, ’cause I love you so. Oh, sweetheart, I love you just desperately— I must have you, my little girl, I must!”

“Now, Kit, you wouldn’t want a wife who didn’t care for you as a woman ought to care for the man she marries. Truly, my heart is still Peter’s. I sometimes think I’ll never marry, his memory is so vivid and so dear to me.”

“Weren’t you beginning to care for Blair?”

“N-no; not that way. Of course I was fond of Gilbert, and I’m fond of you, but there’s always the thought of Peter between us.”

“But, Carly, there’s no one you care more for than for me, is there?”

“No, I’m sure of that.”

“Then say yes, darling. Even though you won’t marry me quite yet, let’s be engaged, and truly you’ll soon learn to love me. I’ll make you!”

But Carlotta wouldn’t consent, and Shelby had to be content with her promise to think about it.

“Kit,” she said, suddenly, “are those queer detectives going to find out who killed Gilbert?”

“Oh, I suppose they’ll fasten it on Mac. Poor chap, to think of his being in jail while we’re having all this excitement over my play. But I don’t see any other direction for Wise to look. What a funny little thing that Zizi is.”

“Yes, but I like her a lot. And she’s nobody’s fool! Her black eyes take in everything, whether she remarks on it or not. You should have seen her watch you tonight.”

“When?”

“At the Cranes’, when you were talking about the play.”

“She’s dramatic herself. She ought to be in the Moving Pictures!”

“Yes, she’d be a film queen at once.”

* * * *

Zizi must have had something of the same idea in her own mind, for the next day she went to see Shelby at his office and asked him if he could give her a chance at film work.

“But you’re a detective,” Shelby said, amusedly, “what would Mr. Wise do without you?”

“He’d get along all right,” Zizi said earnestly. “He’s willing I should have a try at a screen career, if you’ll take me on.”

“I’m not sure I could use you,” Shelby returned, “at least not at present. If I do another picture I’ll try you out in it.”

“Oh, you are going to do another, aren’t you?”

“Probably, but not until I’ve exhausted all the different possibilities of this one.”

Zizi showed her disappointment at the failure of her plan, but, after some further talk on general subjects, she went back to the Cranes’.

“Well, Ziz,” Wise said to her, as they discussed the case alone, “we’re not making our usual rapid headway this time. Rather baffling, isn’t it?”

“Everything seems to point to Thorpe, except that I can’t think he had motive enough. That foolish jealousy of the plans and suspicion of Blair’s stealing his ideas isn’t enough to make him commit murder.”

“I don’t think he did do it, but I can’t agree with you that it wasn’t a big enough motive. You don’t know how the artistic temperament resents anything like that. Nor how it imagines and exaggerates the least hint of it. I think his motive is the strongest point against Thorpe. Who else had any motive at all?”

“That’s what we have to find out. And we’re going to do it. And, I say, Penny, I want to go to see that medium person the Cranes are so fond of.”

“Think she’ll help you?”

“Yes, though not by her spiritism. But I suspect she’s one big fraud, and I want to be sure.”

“Come along, then. No time like the present. Mr. Crane can arrange a session for us.”

To Madame Parlato’s they went, and soon had the pleasure of seeing that lady in one of her trances.

The room was dimly lighted but not in total darkness. After a silence a faint, low-pitched voice said, “I am here.”

“Are you Peter Crane?” asked Zizi, who chose to be spokesman.

“Yes.”

“Will you talk to us?”

“Yes, for a short time only.”

“Very well, then tell us who killed Gilbert Blair.”

“His friend, McClellan Thorpe. Good-by.”

“Wait a minute. I own up to being skeptical, is it too much to ask for some proof of your identity, Peter Crane? Will you, can you give some material proof?”

“It is not easy.”

“I’m sorry for that, but, oh, I do so want to be convinced. And I can’t, unless I have something tangible to take away with me. Do give me something.”

There was a silence, and then, apparently from nowhere, a handkerchief fluttered through the air and fell at Zizi’s feet.

Amazed, the girl picked it up, and though she could not see it distinctly, she discovered it was a large one, evidently a man’s.

Suddenly the medium sat up straight, came out of her trance, and putting on the lights, said, eagerly, “Did you get any message?”

“I should say I did!” Zizi returned, “and a material proof, too. Look!”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Madame Parlato, as she looked at the white square of linen. “Initialed, too.”

“Yes, P. C.,” and Zizi scrutinized the embroidery.

Pennington Wise expressed a polite admiration for the medium who could bring about such marvelous results, and the séance over, the two departed, Zizi carrying the handkerchief in her bag.

“One of a set of Peter’s,” Wise said, confidently.

“Of course. Julie or Mrs. Crane will recognize it. Funny, how she thought a crude performance like that would convince us!”

“Mighty well done though.”

“Pooh, in a darkened room one can do anything.”

“Well, where did she get the handkerchief?”

“Dunno, yet. Maybe the Cranes left it there by chance.”

“Oh, no, that won’t do. Guess again.”

“I think I could if I tried. But we’ll see what the family say about it.”

Both Mrs. Crane and Julie declared the handkerchief to be one of Peter’s own, and, moreover, that it was one of a set Carlotta had embroidered for him just before he went to Labrador. And he had taken the whole dozen with him, of that they were both sure. It had been Carly’s parting gift, and Peter had been delighted with it.

“It’s too wonderful!” Julie said, amazed. “Now, how do you explain it, Zizi? We know this to be Peter’s own handkerchief. We know he took it to Labrador with him. How did it get back here? How get into Madame Parlato’s possession? And how appear to you, out of nothingness?”

“Yes,” said Benjamin Crane, smiling happily, “answer those questions satisfactorily, or else admit that it is real materialization!”

Wise looked a little nonplused. Positive though he was of the medium’s trickery, he could not tell Mr. Crane exactly how it had come about. Materialization was easy enough for a charlatan, but, as had been said, where could she get the handkerchief to do the trick with?

Convinced of the Cranes’ honesty, of course, Wise couldn’t doubt that Peter had taken all the handkerchiefs with him. His luggage had never been sent home, therefore how did the handkerchief get to New York, and more especially how did it get to Madame Parlato?

“I can’t explain it yet,” Wise said, frankly, “but I’ll find out all about it. To you, Mr. Crane, it seems additional proof of your son’s communication through that medium. To me it is additional and very strong proof of her fraud. Now, we’ll leave it at that for the present, but I promise to explain it to you soon.”

“All right, Mr. Wise, you’ll not be offended, I trust, if I say I don’t believe you can make good your word. But I’m not surprised at your attitude. Some minds are almost incapable of belief in the occult, and will accept the most absurd and far-fetched explanations rather than the simple and plausible one of spirit communication. I can’t understand such a mental attitude, but I’ve met so many like you that I’m obliged to recognize its existence.”

“Oh, Mr. Wise,” Mrs. Crane said, “it does seem so strange that a clear-headed, deep-thinking man like yourself prefers to believe that Madame Parlato could get Peter’s handkerchief and could produce it so mysteriously for you rather than the rational belief that Peter sent it himself.”

Zizi looked at the speaker with kindly eyes.

“Dear Mrs. Crane,” she said, “what will hurt me most when we expose that medium’s fraud is the fact of your disappointment.”

“Don’t worry about that,” smiled Benjamin Crane, “you haven’t exposed her yet! Meantime, I shall incorporate this experience of the handkerchief in my next book.”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Zizi, involuntarily. “You’ll make yourself a laughing-stock—”

She paused, unwilling to hurt his feelings.

But so assured of his beliefs was Benjamin Crane that he shook his head and said:

“No fear of that, child. I’ll take all risks. Have you any idea how my book has been received? It’s just gone into another big edition, and my publishers are clamoring for my second book, which is nearly finished. But to return to the case of McClellan Thorpe. Did Peter tell you—”

“Yes,” Wise said, “according to Madame Parlato, the spirit of your son said that Thorpe is the criminal, and it was as proof of identity that Zizi received the handkerchief.”

“Fine,” said Crane, nodding his satisfaction, “I think I’ll use that séance for the finale of my book, and get it in press at once.”

“Do, dear,” said his wife, “as far as the handkerchief is concerned. But don’t put in the book that Mac killed Gilbert.”

“Oh, no, certainly not. In the first place, we’re all agreed that though Peter believes that, it is a mistake on his part; that is, it may be a mistake. Don’t let it influence you too much, Mr. Wise.”

Penny Wise laughed outright. He couldn’t help it.

“No, sir,” he promised, “I won’t!”

“But have you any other suspect?”

“I’d rather not answer that question quite yet, Mr. Crane.”

“All right, take your own time. I’ve confidence you’ll do all you can, but my hopes of your success are dwindling.”

“Don’t feel that way, on the contrary, I’m beginning to see at least a way to look for another suspect.”

“Look hard, then. For I want to get Mac cleared as soon as it can be brought about.”

“We’ll hope to do that. I’m going over to the Studios now, and I’ve a notion I’ll discover something.”

Accompanied by Zizi, Wise went to the home that Blair and Thorpe had occupied, and which was now in charge of the police.

The detective set himself to the task of looking over old letters and papers in hope of finding out some secret of the dead man’s past.

Zizi flitted about the rooms, looking for nothing in particular, and everything in general.

“I’ve sized up his medicines,” she said, coming from Blair’s bedroom into the studio where Wise sat at the desk.

“His cough syrup hasn’t been touched lately. The dried up stickiness of the cork shows that. And one or two other bottles are in the same condition. But in the waste basket in his bedroom I found this.”

She held up an empty bottle that was labeled soda mints.

“There’s a new full bottle in the medicine chest,” she went on, “and as this was in the basket, mayn’t it be that he took the last ones, and—”

“And they were poisoned!”

“One of them was. See, somebody had put a poisoned one in among the others.”

“That leads back to Thorpe, who else could do that?”

“And we don’t know that anybody did, only it might have been.”

“Can you smell any prussic acid in the vial?”

“No,” and Zizi sniffed at it, “I seem to think I do, but I daresay it’s my vivid imagination. Do you suppose a chemist could discern any?”

“Probably not, but we might make a try at it. Pretty slim clue, anyway, Ziz.”

“I know it, but I have a hunch it’s the real thing. You see, Blair was in the habit of taking these things—”

“How do you know?”

“Carlotta Harper told me. I’ve quizzed her a lot about Mr. Blair’s personal habits, and he always carried soda mints in his pocket, and took one now and then. So, as there was no soda mint bottle found in his pockets, and this was in the basket, it’s a logical deduction that he finished this bottle that night that he died. And they all think the poison was given to him through some simple trick, so why not this?”

“It may be. It very likely is. But where does it get us?”

“Dunno yet. But, say it was done that way, it needn’t have been done here. Maybe the murderer put a poisoned mint in the bottle when they were somewhere together.”

“How could he?”

“Oh, lots of ways. Say Blair had his coat off, playing golf or billiards, or—”

“He’d carry such a bottle in his waistcoat pocket, I think.”

“Well, it’s all surmise. The thing to do is to begin from the other end. Who had a motive?”

“That’s what I’m trying to trace. Nothing doing as yet. Hello, here’s that old letter from Joshua, the guide. Look at it! It is in a small, cramped hand, and you know the one purporting to be from him later was in a big, sprawly hand. Somebody faked that letter!”

“Well, there’s something to work on, then.”

“But maybe Thorpe did it.”

“Not he. Why should he? He had nothing to do with that Labrador trip.”

“What was the letter about, the other Joshua letter?”

“Advising him not to try to bring Peter Crane’s body down to New York, or to postpone the matter, or something like that.”

“Queer business, that. Why should anybody want to fake a letter like that?”

“I don’t believe anybody did. More likely some one else wrote for the guide. They’re an ignorant lot, and writing is an unwelcome task to them.”

They were still looking at the guide’s letter when Shelby came in.

“I heard you were here,” he said, “and thought it would be a good time to come around. I want to see if there’s anything in Blair’s papers that would help to turn suspicion away from Mac Thorpe. I don’t believe that man did it, and I wish we could free him.”

“That’s what we’re after,” and Wise made room for Shelby to sit beside him at Blair’s desk.

But though they made systematic search of all letters they found none other than friendly. There were some from his mother and sister, pathetic ones, telling of their ill health, for both were invalids.

They had not come East on learning of Blair’s death, for they could not well stand the trip, and, too, there was no real reason for their coming. After the police investigation was over Blair’s effects were to be sent to them, but for the present everything remained as it was found at his death.

“Let me help you, if I can,” Shelby went on to Wise. “You know Blair and I were chums. Poor Gilbert, and Peter Boots, too, both gone, and both by such tragic means. I don’t know which death was the worse.“

Zizi showed him the small bottle she had found, and asked his opinion of her theory about it.

“What an ingenious notion,” Shelby exclaimed; “yes, it might be the truth, of course, but a dozen other ways might have been used either.”

“Such as what?” asked Wise, “it’s always a help to talk these things over.”

“Well, granting that some one administered poison to Blair, secretly, mightn’t he have put it in anything that Blair was about to eat or drink?”

“Not this poison,” objected Wise. “It acts too quickly. Whatever plan was adopted, it was some scheme by which Blair would take the poison unknowingly, but naturally. As Zizi says, if it had been put in some one of his bottles of medicine, he must take it, sooner or later.”

“Yes; well, then say it was put in a cigarette, no that’s foolish; why, hang it all, Wise, don’t you see there’s no plausible theory except that some one put it in a drink Blair took just before going to bed, or even after he was in bed.”

“Where’s the glass, then?”

“That’s just the point. What’s the answer, except that Thorpe washed it and put it away? Of course, Blair would take a drink Thorpe offered him.”

“Also, he might have taken a soda mint just as he went to bed or after,” said Zizi.

“Yes,” agreed Shelby, thoughtfully. “He might have done so, but could one introduce poison into one of those things? They’re quite hard, you know.”

“Yes, it could be done,” Wise declared. “I’ve heard of such a thing before. The little pellet could be soaked in the poison—”

“That would make it taste, and he wouldn’t swallow it,” Shelby said.

“True. Well, I think, with a hypodermic needle, the poison could be got into the mint.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. However, I don’t know much about such things. You’re doubtless experienced.”

“Yes, I’ve had a lot of poison cases. And, if we give up all thought of the soda mint, it does come back to a drink of some sort mixed by Thorpe.”

“Or Blair might have mixed his own drink, and Thorpe added the poison, unnoticed.”

“But I want to get away from Thorpe,” Zizi said, her eyes anxious and worried.

“So do we all,” returned Shelby gravely. “But where can we look?”

“Where, indeed?” echoed Penny Wise.

CHAPTER XIV

A Prophecy Fulfilled

Among the passengers disembarking from a steamer at a Brooklyn pier was a tall, gaunt man, who walked with a slight limp.

He was alone, and though he nodded pleasantly to one or two of his fellow passengers, he walked by himself, and all details of landing being over, he took a taxicab to a hotel restaurant, glad to eat a luncheon more to his taste than the ship’s fare had been.

He bought several New York papers, and soon became so absorbed in their contents that his carefully selected food might have been dust and ashes for all he knew.

Staring at an advertisement, he called a waiter.

“Send out and get me that book,” he said, “as quick as you can.”

“Yes, sir,” returned the man, “it’s right here, sir, on the news-stand. Get it in a minute, sir.”

And in about a minute Peter Boots sat, almost unable to believe his own eyes, as he scanned the chapter headings of his father’s book, detailing the death and the subsequent experiences of him who sat and stared at the pages.

He looked at the frontispiece, a portrait of himself, but bearing little resemblance to his present appearance. For, where the pictured face showed a firm, well-molded chin, the living man wore a brown beard, trimmed Vandyke fashion, and where the expression on the portrait showed a merry, carefree smile, the real face was graven with deep lines that told of severe experiences of some sort.

But the real face grinned a little at the picture, and broke into a wider smile at some sentences read at random as the pages were hastily turned, and then as further developments appeared, the blue eyes showed a look of puzzled wonder, quickly followed by horror and despair.

Peter closed the book and laid it aside, and finished his luncheon in a daze.

One thing stood forth in his mind. He must take time to think—think deeply, carefully, before he did anything. He must get away by himself and meet this strange, new emergency that had come to him.

What to do, how to conduct himself, these were questions of gravest import, and not to be lightly settled.

He thought quickly, and concluded that for a secure hiding-place a man could do no better than choose a big city hotel.

Finishing his meal he went to the desk and asked for a room, registering as John Harrison, which was the name by which he had been known on the ship that had brought him to port.

Once behind the locked door of his room he threw himself into an armchair and devoured the book he had bought.

Rapidly he flew through it; then went over it again, more slowly, until Peter Boots was familiar with every chapter of the book that his father had written in his memory.

Memory! And he wasn’t dead!

The book, he saw, had gone through a large number of editions, wherefore, many people had read the tale of his tragic fate in the Labrador wild, and of his recrudescence and communications with his parents, and now, here he was reading it himself.

It is not easy to realize how strange it must seem to read not only one’s own death notices but the accounts of one’s return to earth in spirit form, and to be informed of the astonishing things one said and did through the kind offices of a professional medium!

A medium! Madame Parlato! And she “got in touch” with him! She succeeded in getting messages from him—and materializations!

Peter’s chicory blue eyes nearly popped out of his head when he read of the “materialization” of his tobacco pouch.

“Jolly glad I know where it is,” he thought; “I’ve missed the thing, but how did it waft itself to a professional medium! Bah! the stuff makes me sick!

“But Dad wrote it! Dad—my father! And mother’s in the game! Got to read the book all over again.”

And again he delved into the volume, seeming unable to take in the appalling fact of what had been done.

“They believe it!” he said at last, reaching the final page for the third time; “they believe it from the bottom of their blessed souls!

“Who is that medium person? Where’d she get the dope to fool the old folks? Let me at her! I’ll give her what for! Messages to mother from her departed son! ‘Do not grieve for me,’ ‘I am happy over here,’ Oh, for the love o’ Mike! what am I going to do first?”

Followed a long time of thought. At first, chaotic, wondering, uncertain, then focussing and crystallizing into two definite ideas.

One, the astonishing but undeniable fact of his father’s belief and sincerity, the other, what would happen if that belief and sincerity were suddenly stultified.

“Good Lord!” he summed up, “when I appear on the scene that medium will get the jolt of her sweet young life— I assume she’s young still, and Dad—

“H’m, where will he get off?”

That gave him pause. For Benjamin Crane to have written such a book as this, for it to have achieved such a phenomenal success and popularity, for it to have been the means, as it doubtless was, of converting thousands to a belief in Spiritism, then, for the whole thing to be overturned by the reappearance in the flesh of the man supposed dead, would mean a cataclysm unparalleled in literary history.

And his father? The dear old man, happy in his communications from his dead son, how would he be pleased to learn that they were not from his dead son at all, but the faked drivel of a fraudulent medium?

It was a moil, indeed.

Peter Crane had come home incognito, because he doubted the wisdom of a sudden shock to his parents. Unable to send or get news, and making his voyage home at the first possible opportunity, he had intended to learn how matters stood before making his appearance.

He had intended telephoning Blair and Shelby, and if they said all was well at home he would go there at once. But if there had been illness or death he would use care and tact in making his presence known.

For Peter Boots had had no word of, or from his people for half a year—all the long Labrador winter he had lived in ignorance of their welfare and had suffered to the limit, both mentally and physically.

And he had thought they would probably assume his death—as, by reason of this astonishing book he now knew they had done—and, what was he to do about it?

Impulse would have sent him flying home—home to his mother, Dad and Julie, and—and dear little Carly.

But—when he thought of the possibility of his reappearance being the means of making his father’s name a by-word of ridicule, of heaping on the old man’s fame obloquy and derision, of shocking his mother, perhaps fatally, or at least into a nervous prostration, he was unable to shape a course.

Could he tell Carly first? He glanced at a telephone book at his elbow.

No, that would never do. To hear his voice on the telephone would throw her into a convulsion. He didn’t believe she stood for that spirit foolishness, but if, by any chance, she had been won over, his voice would surely give her some sort of a shock.

The boys, then. Yes, that was the only thing. He must see them, but he must telephone first and learn their whereabouts.

He could, he concluded, call in a disguised voice, and get a line on things anyhow.

So, still in a haze of doubt and uncertainty, he looked up the number and called Shelby.

As he rather expected, Shelby was not at his home, but the person who answered could give no directions save to say that Mr. Shelby would probably be home by six o’clock, and would he leave a message?

“No,” returned Peter shortly, and hung up.

Getting next the number of the Leonardo Studios, he asked for Gilbert Blair.

“W-what—who?” came a stammering response.

“Mr. Blair—Mr. Gilbert Blair,” repeated Peter.

“Why—why, he’s dead—Mr. Blair’s dead.”

“No! When did he die?”

“Coupla months ago. Murdered.”

“What!”

“Yep, murdered.”

Peter hung up the receiver from sheer inability to do anything else.

Of course it couldn’t be true. Blair couldn’t have been murdered, and he must have misunderstood that last word. But his arm seemed paralyzed when he tried again to take hold of the telephone.

He sank back in his chair and tried to think.

His subconscious mind told him that he had not misunderstood—that Gilbert was murdered. He knew he had heard the word correctly, and people do not make such statements unless they are true.

His thoughts gradually untangled themselves and he began to grapple with the most important problems.

It was clear that he must learn what had happened in his absence. He wanted to get hold of Shelby and ask about Blair. He wanted to go right over to Blair’s place—but if—if it had occurred two months ago there was small use going there now.

Also, he must preserve his incognito for the present, at least. His return would be blazoned in the papers as soon as it was known, and the effect on his father’s reputation would be most disastrous.

He must learn more facts—the facts he had already discovered were so amazing, what else might not be in store for him?

Concentrating on the subject of Blair’s death he concluded his best course would be to get a file of newspapers covering the past two months and read about it.

In a big newspaper office he accomplished this, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading up the case.

Of late the subject was not a principal one in the papers.

McClellan Thorpe was in prison, awaiting his trial, and the police, while still on the job, were not over aggressive.

Pennington Wise was not mentioned, so Peter had no means of knowing that that astute person was connected with the matter.

But the news of Thorpe’s arrest struck Peter a new blow. While not as chummy with Thorpe as with Shelby and Blair, Peter had always liked him and found it difficult to believe him guilty of Blair’s death.

Back to his hotel went the man registered as John Harrison, and, going to the restaurant for dinner, he ate and enjoyed a hearty meal.

After all, strange and weird as was the news he had heard, his parents were alive and well—and, strangest of all, they were not grieving at his death.

He was relieved at this, and yet, he was, in an inexplicable way, disappointed. It is a blow in the face to learn that your loved ones are quite reconciled to your death because, forsooth, they get fool messages from you through the services of a fool medium!

Peter’s ire rose, and he was all for going to his father’s house at once, and then, back came the thought, how could he put that dear old man to the blush for having written that preposterous book?

From the papers, too, Peter had learned of the furor the book had made, of the great notoriety and popularity that had come to Benjamin Crane from its publication, of the enormous sales it had had, and was still having, and of the satisfaction and happiness the whole thing had brought to both Mr. and Mrs. Crane.

So, stifling his longing to go home and to see his people, Peter decided to sleep over it before taking any definite steps.

He had small fear of recognition. Nobody in New York believed him alive, or had any thought of looking for him. His present appearance was so different from the portrait in the book that, after he had changed his looks still further by a different brushing of his hair, he felt there was no trace of likeness left save perhaps his blue eyes. And only one who knew him well would notice his eyes, and he had no expectation of running up against one who knew him well.

So, after dinner, he sat for a time in the hotel lobby, not wishing to mingle with his fellow men, yet not wishing to seem peculiar by reason of his evading notice.

Worn with the succession of shocks that had come to him, and weary of meeting the big problems and situations, he thought of diversion.

“Any good plays on?” he asked the news-stand girl, and his winning smile brought a chatty response.

“Plays—yes. Nothing corking, though. But say, have you seen the big movie?”

“No; what is it?”

“‘Labrador Luck,’ oh, say, it’s a peach! Go to it!”

“Where?” and Peter stopped himself just in time from exclaiming, “Labrador anything would interest me!”

“Over in N’York. Hop into the sub and you’re there.”

Peter hopped into the sub and shortly he was there.

“Labrador Luck,” he read from the big posters. “Monster production of the Tophole Producing Company. Thrilling scenes, thrilling plot, thrilling drama.”

There was more detail as to the names of the Film Queen who was starred, and the Film King who supported her, but without stopping to read them Peter bought a ticket and went in.

The picture was under way, and as he sank into his seat he saw on the screen the familiar scenes of the Labrador wild.

Not quite true to nature were they, this Peter recognized at once, but he knew they were taken in a studio, not in Labrador itself, and he had only admiration for the cleverness with which they were done.

With a little sigh of pleasure he gave himself up to a positive enjoyment of the landscape, and, as the story went on, he was conscious of a vaguely familiar strain running through it.

Suddenly a scene was flashed on, and an episode occurred which was one of his own invention.

“Why,” he smiled, “that’s my very idea! Now how’d they get that? Oh, I know, of course, such things often occur to various minds without collusion, but it’s sort of queer. If he follows up that lead, it will be awful queer!”

The lead was followed up, and, a bit bewildered, Peter sat gazing while the whole story was unrolled.

Greatly changed it was, greatly elaborated; the main plot side-tracked by a counter-plot; the number of characters multiplied by a score; yet, the mystery interest, the suspense element, the very backbone of the piece was the plot he and Blair had worked out while up in the Labrador wild.

“Labrador Luck!” he mused. “Fine name for it, too. The ‘Luck’ being that old heirloom—just as I planned it. Wonder how it all came about?”

Then he realized how long he’d been away from Blair. How Blair, doubtless, supposed him dead, and, most naturally, the boy had gone on with the story, and here was the splendid result.

He sat through the thing enthralled, and when the finale came, so exactly as he had planned that smashing great scene, he could have yelled his applause. But he didn’t, he simply sat still in glad anticipation of seeing it all over again.

But he was disappointed. It was not a continuous performance—the long play was a whole evening’s entertainment, and opening and closing hours were like those of a regular theater.

So Peter determined to come the next night to see it again, and to see the first part that he had missed.

“Great old play,” he thought, delightedly. “Wonder if Blair put it on before he died, or if it’s posthumous.”

He picked up a stray program as he left the place—he had had none before—and put it in his pocket to look over at home.

“At least, I’m not suffering from lack of interests or diversion,” he said, “but, by Jingo, I’ve just thought of it! What about money!

“I’ve enough to hang out at that hotel about a week and that’s all. I’ll have to tell Dad I’m here, or get a job or rob a bank. And what can I do to turn an honest penny? And I can’t go to work under an assumed name! Oh, hang it all, I’ve got to come to life! Much as I love Dad and much as I want to save him from all ridicule and disaster about that abominable book, I’ve simply got to live my own life!

“But I won’t decide till my cash gets lower than it is now. I’ll go a bit further in my investigations and then we’ll see about it.”

Comfortably seated in his room he drew out the program to look over.

To his unbounded amazement he learned from the title page that the author of the play and also the producer, or, at least, the president of the producing company was—Christopher Shelby!

“Kit! Good old top!” he cried aloud.

“Oh, I must see him,” he thought, “I just must see him! So Kit wrote the thing—well, I suppose he and Blair did it together— I recognize Kit’s hand more especially in the producing element—and then, old Gilbert, bless him, was killed, and Kit went ahead alone— I can’t think Mac Thorpe did for Gil—oh, I must see somebody or I’ll go crazy!”

And because he was afraid to trust himself to keep away from the telephone any longer, Peter Boots went to bed.

The night brought counsel.

Clarifying his thoughts, Peter tried first to see where his duty lay.

To his parents, first of all, he decided, for he was a devoted son, and all his life he had loved and revered both father and mother more than most boys do. Julie, too, but, so far he had no reason to think she had any special claim on him.

Well, then, what did his duty to his parents dictate?

Common sense said that they would far rather have their son with them alive than to rest secure in the success of the book his father had written.

But the book itself was, to his mind, quite outside the pale of common sense, and could not be judged by any such standards.

Certain pages, special paragraphs in that book, stood out in his mind, and he knew that never had there been such a fiasco as would ensue if the long lost and deeply mourned hero of it should return! His return in the spirit was so gloatingly related, so triumphantly averred, that his return in the flesh would be a terrific anti-climax.

He remembered the gypsy’s prophecy—how it had come true!

But the return, foretold by the second gypsy, was now verified in the flesh and put to naught all the fake returns narrated in the book.

Much stress was laid, in his father’s story, on the spiritual return being what the gypsy meant. Now, Peter had proved that that prophecy meant, if it meant anything at all, his return in the flesh.

Anyway, here he was, very much alive, and very uncertain what to do with his live self.

Should he go away, out West, or to some distant place and start life anew, under an assumed name, and leave his father to his delusion? Was that his duty?

He was not necessary to his parents, either as a help to their support or as a comfort to their hearts.

He did not do them the injustice to think that they had never mourned for him, or that they had not missed him in the home. All this was fully and beautifully set forth in the book.

But they had been compensated by the comfort and enjoyment afforded them by their séances, and by the messages they continually received from him!

And he could see no way, try as he would, that he could inform them of his return without causing them dismay and distress.

For if they knew him to be alive he must take again his old place in the home—and then what would his father be?

A laughing-stock, a crushed and crestfallen victim of the most despicable sort of fraud!

It would never do. He couldn’t bring positive trouble into his father’s life on the off chance of removing a sorrow, which, though real, was softened and solaced by the very fraud that he would expose.

No; the more he thought the more he saw his duty was to eliminate himself for all time from his home and friends.

And Carly?

He tried not to think about her, for his duty must be his paramount consideration. He would wait a day or so, and then disappear again, and forever.

CHAPTER XV

An Interview

“Well, Mr. Douglas, what can I do for you?”

Benjamin Crane spoke cordially, and smiled genially at the young man who had called on him in his home.

“You can turn me down, sir, if you like, or, if you’ll be so kind, you can give me a few details of these strange experiences of yours in occult matters.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“I am, but also I want to be something more than that. And in this case I want to write up these things for a special article, and a personal interview would help a lot.”

“Well, my boy, you impress me pleasantly, and, as I like nothing better than to talk on my favorite subject, I’ll give you a fifteen-minute chat. More than that I cannot spare time for.”

“Then let’s confine our talk to the phase that interests me most. I can get your beliefs and experiences from your book, you know. And your personality,” Douglas gave him a humorously appraising glance, “I am gathering as we go along. First, will you tell me your attitude, mental and spiritual, regarding the loss of your son? I mean, though I fear I put it crudely, are you entirely reconciled to his death because of the comfort you receive from his—er—communications and all that?”

“A difficult question to answer,” Crane paused a moment, “but I think I may say yes. I bow to the will of a Higher Power in the death of my son, and I am grateful to that same Higher Power for the comfort that is mine in the communion I have with my boy.”

“Then you do not really grieve over his loss?”

“Not now—no. At first, of course, both his mother and I were crushed, but when he came to us, in the spirit, we took heart, and now we are perfectly satisfied—more than satisfied to accept our life conditions just as they are.”

“You have frequent communication with the spirit of your departed son?”

“Almost daily.”

“With the same medium always?”

“Nowadays, yes. I tried various ones, but I rely on Madame Parlato. She has had the greatest success, and now can readily get into communication with my son at almost any time.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Crane, if I am indiscreet, but have you never felt that she might be—not entirely—honest?”

Benjamin Crane smiled benignly. “Don’t hesitate to put your doubt into words. I am quite ready to answer that question. I have no doubts of any sort concerning the medium’s honesty, sincerity and genuineness. I have no doubt that the communications she obtains are really from my son Peter. That his spirit speaks to me through her. This has been proved to me in many ways, but a far greater proof is the conviction in my soul of the reality of it all. My wife believes as implicitly as I do, and no amount of scoffing from outsiders can in any way shake our faith.”

“You have had material proofs?”

“Yes; here is a letter from my son himself. Here is a tobacco pouch that I know was his. Here is his handkerchief.”

With a calm pride Benjamin Crane took these articles from a table drawer and showed them.

Douglas was deeply impressed, examined the articles and watched Crane as he returned them to the drawer.

“You see,” said Crane, “it is not only difficult but impossible to account for those things except by supernatural explanation, so why refuse the logical truth?”

“That’s so. And, I understand now, why you are so happy in your beliefs, for it all gives your life a continual and absorbing interest. You are writing another book, are you not?”

“Yes; it contains the detailed account of my séances, and will, I trust, prove an additional source of information and education on the great subject of survival.”

“And your daughter? Does she, too, subscribe to all your theories?”

“Almost entirely. She is not so absorbed in the subject as Mrs. Crane and myself, but she has become persuaded of many truths.”

“And now, my time is nearly up, may I ask you a word regarding the Blair case. Do you think McClellan Thorpe is the guilty man?”

“No! a thousand times no! I am trying by every means in my power to prove that he isn’t. I hope to succeed, too. But we mustn’t go into that subject, as I have an important appointment to keep. Come to see me again, Mr. Douglas, if you like. I’m not unaccustomed to such calls, and I’ll be glad to see you again. By appointment, though, for I’m a busy man.”

Tom Douglas went back, over to Brooklyn, and, going to a hotel, asked for one John Harrison.

In a short time Peter Boots was eagerly listening to the report of the messenger he had sent to his father.

“I learned a lot, Mr. Harrison,” the visitor began. “I think I can give you quite a bit of the local color you need for your novel.”

“Not so much local color as mental attitude,” Peter returned. “You see, in writing a psychological novel the author has to be careful of shades of feeling in his delineation of the characters. And as this Mr. Crane seemed to be just the type I want to study, I’m glad to have you tell me all the things he said, as nearly as you can recollect his own language.”

“Yes, I know. And I was mighty interested on my own account, too.”

“He was willing you should write an article about him?”

“Oh, yes, and asked me to come again.”

“Go on, tell me all he said—how he looked and acted and everything that happened.”

And so the young reporter and free-lance writer told Peter Boots all about his father, under the impression that he was talking to one who had never seen Benjamin Crane.

“He’s a wonderful man, Mr. Harrison,” the other said, enthusiastically. “He must be fifty-five at least, maybe more, but he’s so alert and quick-witted, and so full of his subject, that he seems a much younger man.”

“And he seems happy?”

“Happy! I should say so! Perfectly reconciled to his son’s death, because of these communications he gets from him! I say, Mr. Harrison, I can’t stand for it! It gets me to see how that man is gulled, and he such a clear-headed, sane sort! Had proofs, too—all sorts of things. Do you believe it, Mr. Harrison? Do you believe that the spirit of Mr. Crane’s dead son talks to him through a medium?”

“I do not,” said Peter Crane, endeavoring not to speak too emphatically. “I didn’t want you to get that interview in the interests of Spiritism at all, but to tell me of the condition, mentally and physically, of Mr. Crane.”

“Yes, I know. Well, the old guy is O.K. physically, fit as a fiddle. And sound mentally, you bet, except that he’s nutty on the supernatural. Why, he showed me the tobacco pouch—you know he tells about that in his book—”

Peter nodded.

“Showed me, too, a handkerchief of his dead son’s—”

“That’s not so remarkable.”

“Yes, it is; ’cause it’s one of a set that the chap took away with him, embroidered by his best girl, I believe.”

Peter started. One of those handkerchiefs Carly gave him! Where in the world could that fool medium have got hold of that?

“Also a note from son, in his own handwriting,” Douglas went on.

“Did you see it?”

“Yep. Commonplace looking note, advising his sister to drop acquaintance with Thorpe—he’s the man they arrested in the Blair case.”

“Where did the note come from?”

“Materialized—out of thin air.”

“At a séance?”

“No; the brother kindly left it on sister’s bureau, I believe.”

Peter Crane was bewildered indeed. What sort of performances were going on, anyhow. And who was at the bottom of all this?

Clearly, he must look into things a little more before he did his final disappearance!

“Well, Mr. Douglas, you’ve helped me a whole lot. Now, as I say, I want mental impressions. Tell me everything you can think of about the atmosphere of the whole house, the—did you see Mrs. Crane?”

“No, only the old man. There seemed to be quite a lot of people about, coming and going. We had our interview in Mr. Crane’s study, or library—”

“I know, the small room at the back of the house—”

“Been there?” Douglas looked up quickly.

“Read of it in the book,” said Peter, quietly, annoyed at himself for the slip.

“Yes. Well, there’s a table in the middle of the room, and in the drawer of that table Mr. Crane keeps all the things’ materialized by the medium. I think he expects to get a big collection.”

“Oh, Lord!” groaned Peter, “what a mess!”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Douglas assumed that the whole subject of Spiritism was thus referred to.

“Suppose anything happened to shake Mr. Crane’s faith?”

“I don’t think anything could do that. He’s absolutely gullible. He’d swallow anything. I say, how do you explain it? Why is it that big-brained, well-balanced men fall for this rot?”

“They can’t be really well-balanced—and then, too, it’s largely the eagerness to believe, the desire for the comfort it brings them that makes them think they do believe. And a clever medium can do much.”

“Sure. But those materializations! Where’d she get the goods?”

“Give it up. Tell me more about Mr. Crane.”

So Douglas patiently recounted and repeated all the words of Peter’s father and told of his appearance and manner, under the impression that he was helping an author with data for a psychological story.

Peter had found Douglas by merely making inquiry for a bright young reporter, and had made an agreement, satisfactory to both, for him to try to get the interview with Benjamin Crane, and they would both profit by it.

He was delighted that Crane had asked the young man to call again, and when they parted it was with the understanding that there should be another interview arranged.

Peter Boots had much food for thought.

He sat thinking for hours after the food had been given to him.

What was the explanation? What could be the explanation?

How could communications from a dead man be received when the man was not dead?

How he longed to go home, disclose himself, and run to earth that fearful fraud! How gladly he would do so, except that it would ruin his father’s reputation. What would the public think of a man who had been so taken in by fraud, and had blazoned it to the world.

To be sure it was no reflection on Benjamin Crane’s sincerity, yet he would be the butt of derision for the whole country, and his discredited head would be bowed for the rest of his life.

Peter couldn’t bring himself to do that, especially now that he had discovered that his loss was not a source of hopeless grief to his parents.

“I’m not wanted in this world,” he told himself, sadly, “I’m a superfluous man. I’ve got to dispose of myself somehow,” and he gave a very realizing sigh.

And the thought of Carly—that tried to obtrude itself, he put resolutely from him.

“She’s probably forgotten me,” he assured himself, “and anyway I must do the right thing by Mother and Dad first. If I decide that I can’t demolish their air castle, so carefully built up, I must light out—that’s all.”

Trying hard to be cheerful, but feeling very blue and desolate he ate a solitary dinner and went again to the theater to see “Labrador Luck.”

Douglas’ graphic description of his home and his father had given him a great longing to go there, to see the dear old place, the dear old man—and his mother, and Julie.

He felt he must go. Then, he knew he couldn’t go, without breaking his father’s heart and life.

“I broke his heart when I didn’t go home,” he thought whimsically, “now, I mustn’t break it again by going home!”

He sat through the moving picture performance again, and marveled anew at the beauty of the production. It was far above the rank and file of moving pictures, it was adjudged by all critics the very greatest production ever put upon the screen.

Shelby’s name had become famous, his work was applauded everywhere, and Peter yearned to see him and renew their friendship.

But he knew he mustn’t think of those things. First of all he had to decide whether or not he was to come back to life, and if not—and he had a conviction that that would be his decision—he must not dally with tempting thoughts and hopes of any sort.

But it was hard! Blair dead, Shelby famous, and he, Peter, unable to talk things over with any relative, chum or friend.

He must talk to somebody, and on his way out of the theater he spoke to the box office man.

“Wonderful show,” he said, smiling at him. “Who’s this Shelby?”

“He’s the big push of today,” was the enthusiastic reply. “He’s a marvel of efficiency and generalship. And a big author, too.”

“He wrote the play as well as produced it, I see.”

“Yes. Oh, he can do anything.”

“Married man?”

“No; but I’ve heard he’s engaged to a girl—a Miss Harper, I believe.”

Peter choked. The last straw! But he might have known—he, himself, supposed dead, Blair dead, what more natural than that Carly should turn to old Kit?

With a mere nod to the man who had unwittingly dealt him this final blow, Peter walked out into the night.

And he walked and walked. Up Broadway to the Circle, on up and into Riverside Drive, and along the Hudson as far as he could go.

Thinking deeply, planning desperately, only to be confronted with the awful picture of his father’s consternation at the shattering of his beliefs and the collapse of his celebrity.

At times he would tell himself he was absurdly apprehensive, that any parents would rather have their lost son restored than to have the applause and notoriety of public fame. And, then, he would realize that while that might be generally true, yet this was a peculiar case. His father was a proud, sensitive nature. Perhaps—Peter shuddered—perhaps he wouldn’t love a son who by his return made him the most laughed at man in the whole world!

Peter longed to go to some one for advice. Shelby, now—his big efficient mind would know at once what was best to do.

But he couldn’t disclose himself to Kit and not to any one else. Kit couldn’t keep that a secret, even if he wanted to do so.

And— Kit was engaged to Carly! He never wanted to see either of them again!

Poor, lonely, troubled Peter. Only one plain, sure truth abided. He must do his duty, and he felt pretty sure he knew what that duty was. It was to stay out of the life he had lost.

There was no other possible course.

He turned and retraced his steps southward, and finally went across town, drawn as by a magnet to his own home.

Home! What a mockery the word was!

It was two o’clock in the morning now; he had been walking or sitting on a Drive bench for hours.

He was not conscious of fatigue, he only wanted to see his old home and then go away forever. He didn’t plan his future. He was sure he could make a living easily enough, he felt he could build up a new life for himself over a new name. But oh, how he longed for the old life!

He stood in front of the house and stared at it.

He walked round and round the block it was on, pausing each time he passed the front door, and walking on, if there chanced to be a passer-by.

At last, he concluded to give up the painful pleasure of gazing at the closed windows and go back to Brooklyn.

His gaze traveled over the windows at the various rooms—how well he knew what they all were—and at last he found himself looking at the front door. How often he had let himself in with his latchkey.

Involuntarily his hand went to his pocket, where that latchkey even now was—and hardly knowing what he was doing, he had the key in his hand and was mounting the steps of his old home.

Still as one in a daze, and with no intention of making his presence known, but with an uncontrollable desire to see for the last time those dear rooms, he silently fitted the key into place.

Noiselessly he turned it and pushed the door open.

The house was still, there were no lights on, save a low glimmer in the front hall.

He remembered that had always been left on.

But the street lights faintly illumined the living-room, and he went in. With a wave of desperate homesickness he threw himself on the big davenport and buried his face into a pile of cushions.

He couldn’t go away—he couldn’t.

But—he must!

And so, he forced himself to put aside his emotion, he bravely fought down his nostalgia, and promising himself one look into his father’s study he vowed to go directly after.

He stepped into the little room where Douglas had been received. He couldn’t resist the temptation to look about it, and, cautiously he snapped on the desk light.

There was the table with the drawer in it.

Carefully, Peter opened the drawer and saw for himself the tobacco pouch, the handkerchief, and the letter, signed “Peter.”

He stared at it, amazed at the similarity to his own penmanship.

“I’d like to stay, if only to ferret out the mystery of this rascally fake!” he thought “But—oh, hang it! this rascally fake is the very breath of life to Dad and Mother. No, Peter Boots, it can’t be done! You’re out of it all and out of it all you must stay. Clear out of here now, before you get in any deeper.”

He fingered the old tobacco pouch.

“Heavens and earth!” he exclaimed to himself, as a sudden thought struck him. “That’s so!”

Again he took up the letter, looking closely at the formation of the words, studying the tenor of the message, and then, with a sigh, laid all back in the drawer and gently closed it.

“That way madness lies,” he told himself, and turned to leave the room and the house.

As he reached for the light switch, a small hand laid on his own detained him.

Startled, he looked up and saw a witch-like, eerie face smiling at him.

“Must you go?” whispered a mocking voice, and Peter Boots, for once in his life was absolutely stricken dumb.

Who or what was this sprite, this Brownie? What was she doing in his father’s house? Were materialized spirits really inhabiting the place?

“Hush!” Zizi warned him, “don’t speak above a whisper. Are you a burglar?”

Peter shook his head, unable to repress a smile, and his smile made the same impression on Zizi that it had always made on everybody—that of absolute pleasure.

“Who are you?” she asked, scarce breathing the words.

“John Harrison,” he returned, still smiling. “I’ll go now, please.”

“Without further explanation?”

“Yes, please.”

“All right, I’ll let you out. I know all about you. You sent a chap here to interview Mr. Crane—and you’re getting follow-up literature.”

“Right! Good night.”

And with a swiftness and silence born of the dire necessity of the moment, Peter went to the front door, out of it and down the street in record time.

He turned the first corner, and walked rapidly many blocks, before turning to see if he were followed.

He was not, and he went on his way to Brooklyn, his life tragedy still ahead of him, but relieved by the touch of comedy added by that mysterious and wonderfully attractive girl.

CHAPTER XVI

Zizi’s Opportunity

The Blair case had come to a standstill. Although the police were still making investigations, they were fairly well satisfied that Thorpe was the guilty man and since he was jailed and awaiting trial, they rested on their laurels.

Pennington Wise was by no means sure of Thorpe’s guilt, and Zizi was certain of his innocence, but though these two were working hard, as yet they had found no other definite suspect.

“But you must, Zizi,” wailed Julie. “You know as well as I do that Mac never killed Gilbert. Now, find out who did!”

Wise confessed himself baffled, but asked for a little more time before admitting himself vanquished.

“You see, Ziz,” he said to his astute young helper, “there are so many interesting side issues, that we get off the main track. I own up I’m quite as much absorbed in this Spiritism racket as I am in the murder case.”

“That’s the trouble, Penny,” Zizi returned, gravely. “You’re scattering your energies. And it won’t do. You’ve got to concentrate on the Blair murder. And you’ve got to get at it from a different angle. Suppose you take a run out West and see that mother and sister. They may give you a line on things.”

“I’ve been thinking I’d do that. There must be something in Blair’s past that can be unearthed and may prove enlightening. I could do it in a week, and it might be time well spent.”

“Of course it would. And, truly, there’s no way to look, here. I’ve thought and thought but we’ve no hint or clue pointing to any one but Thorpe—and, it wasn’t Thorpe.”

Then Zizi told him of the strange man she had seen in the Crane library the night before.

“And you let him get away! Why, Zizi?”

“He was no burglar. I saw that. There was no use in alarming the house. He was—”

“Well?”

“Oh, I knew at once who he was. He was the John Harrison who sent that Douglas person here to interview Mr. Crane.”

“Well, is he to be allowed to walk in and out as he chooses! How did he get in?”

“I don’t know, but I hope he’ll come again. I like him. Why, Penny, he’s a gentleman.”

“But who is he? What’s he up to?”

“He didn’t confide in me, but I know. He’s the medium’s agent. He comes here and gets data and information and tells her and she works it off on the Cranes. I saw through that at once. He must have a key and he just walks in and helps himself, you see.”

“Absurd!”

“Maybe; but that’s what he does, all the same.”

“And he told you his name!”

“Yes; but that’s nothing. He’ll have another name and another home before night. These mediums resort to the strangest tricks to get their stuff! Why, Penny, he was prowling in that drawer where the tobacco pouch is, and I think he meant to take it away so they could ‘materialize’ it over again. I’m going to watch for him nights. He’ll come again.”

But Zizi was mistaken. John Harrison did not come again, though the girl was alert to welcome him.

Pennington Wise went West, to see the relatives of Blair, for it had frequently been his experience that such inquiries into a man’s early life brought about useful knowledge.

This left Zizi in a position of responsibility, to keep watch of developments and to learn what she could from them.

She was not so sure as Julie of Thorpe’s innocence, but she meant to find another suspect if one could be found, and she redoubled her efforts.

Zizi had become a welcome guest in the Thorpe household, and they all admired and loved her. A most adaptable little piece, she fitted into the family as if she belonged there, and she and Julie were warm friends.

She said nothing of the midnight intruder, being determined in her own mind, that he was an emissary from the medium, Madame Parlato, whom Zizi regarded as an absolute fake. To prove this was a desire of Zizi’s mind as well as to solve the mystery of the Blair murder.

But her fondness for the Cranes was such, that she was not sure she should expose the medium’s trickery, even if she discovered it herself. So she went on with her secret investigations, and at present they included an inquiry into the matter of that reporter’s visit and John Harrison’s appearance on the scene.

Zizi had, of course, read Benjamin Crane’s book, and in it had seen the picture of Peter, but the portrait was so different in effect from the bearded man whom she saw but indistinctly by the dim light in the library that she never connected the two in her thoughts.

But she thoroughly believed that the man in the library had come there for the purpose of acquiring either information or materials for further manifestations of the medium. She was sure that the tobacco pouch and the handkerchief which had been “materialized” had been obtained in this way and, she argued, the best way to find out, was to remain silent as to John Harrison’s call.

When told by Mr. Crane of the visit of Douglas, the reporter, Zizi had suspected something beneath the surface—it did not seem plausible to her, that the case was just as it was stated.

And somehow, in the back of her astute little brain, she had a notion that the Blair murder and the supernatural manifestations were in some way connected, at least, indirectly.

So she was merely receptive, and put herself in the way of learning all she could of the medium’s affairs without showing her own hand. She obtained a detailed account of the séances from the elder Cranes, and each time she became not only more convinced of the medium’s fraud, but sure that the faker, more and more secure in her clients’ credulity, was growing both daring and careless.

This, Zizi concluded, was her opportunity, and she hoped to profit by her knowledge of the visit of John Harrison.

* * * *

And meantime, the so-called John Harrison, whom Zizi had sized up so mistakenly, was puzzling his head over the identity of the girl who had seen him.

He was not alarmed by fear of discovery, for he could change his name and address at will, but he was piqued by the saucy announcement that she knew all about him, and amazed at her knowledge that he had sent Douglas to see Benjamin Crane.

Moreover, the sight of that familiar old tobacco pouch of his own had stirred him, and some logical deductions that followed in its train caused him to reconsider his decision to disappear at once.

“But I got to have some money,” he reasoned, “and I think I know how to get it!”

As a matter of fact, he did. He had in his mind a plot for a moving picture, which he had long cherished and thought over, but which he had never put on paper. The success of Shelby’s great picture put it in his mind to try to sell his own. He was tempted to take it to the Shelby corporation but knowing it wiser, he went to a rival company.

As his plot was new, original and decidedly meritorious, he had no trouble in finding a market. He learned that he could sell merely his plot, that the “continuity” work would be done by their own people; and delighted to receive a most satisfactory lump sum, John Harrison gave his name as Louis Bartram, and removed to another hotel, where he registered under his new name.

For Peter Crane had resolved to do a little investigating on his own hook, and he realized that since the girl at his home knew his present cognomen it must be changed.

Louis Bartram, therefore, sent for Douglas, and took that mystified young man into his confidence to a degree.

“It’s this way, Douglas,” he said, “I give you my word I’m straight and all right, but I’m unraveling a mystery, and I’m incog for the present.”

Now nobody could look into Peter Crane’s blue eyes and doubt his veracity, and Douglas believed exactly what was told him.

“Can I help?” he said, simply, and Louis Bartram told him he could.

Wherefore, Bartram expeditiously acquired such information as he needed, and the first item was the name and address of the medium who was responsible for the séances detailed in Benjamin Crane’s famous book.

And then to the house of Madame Parlato, Louis Bartram went, having made an appointment through the useful Douglas.

The madame’s quick glance of inquiry was satisfied and her ever-ready suspicions lulled by her first glance into Peter’s eyes. It was impossible to distrust that frank gaze, and though Peter was an unbeliever in her and all her works, yet his cause was honest and sincere and he met her on her own ground.

“You want a séance?” the occult lady inquired.

“No, Madame Parlato,” Peter returned, quietly, “I want to bribe you to undertake a commission for me.”

“Wh—what!” she cried, turning white and quite losing her poise at his astonishing remark.

“Now, let’s cut out all that,” Peter went on, practically, “let’s assume that we’ve thrashed it all out, and agreed that you’re one of the cleverest of your sort and can fool the gullible ones very neatly. But, let’s also assume that when one who knows comes along that you will meet him halfway, and at least, listen to his proposition.”

“But, this—this is outrageous—”

“Not at all. You see, I know of the faking you have done—and are doing—in the Crane matter.”

“Oh—ah—” Madame cautiously awaited further speech from her attractive but unusual caller.

“Yes—and,” here Peter made a bold stroke, “I know who is giving you things to ‘materialize,’ and why, and I want to know how much you are being paid, in order that I may offer you more to follow my directions.”

“I do not acknowledge that you are right—” she began, but Peter interrupted:

“You needn’t; your expression, your countenance tells me all I want of acknowledgment. Now, listen to reason. I only want one séance, conducted according to my orders, and I’ll pay you what you demand. Your other patron needn’t know anything about my hand in the matter.”

“I refuse your requests, sir. I resent your accusations, and unless you leave here at once, I shall call—”

“Oh, no, you won’t call the police, or any one else. You would greatly object to an investigation of your place here, and you and I know why. You’ll do much better, madame, to listen to my proposition, and accept it. You see— I know!”

The mysterious tone Peter used seemed to carry conviction, and with a little shudder, Madame Parlato gave in.

“What do you want?” she asked, tremulously; “what do you intend to do?”

“I intend to do a great many things,” Peter replied, gravely, “but I want very little. Only that you shall conduct a séance, at the time I set and entirely in accordance with my orders.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I shall feel it my duty to expose you as a fraud and a charlatan.”

The woman winced at these words, but meeting Peter’s steely gaze and realizing his power over her, she said:

“First, tell me who you are.”

“I am Louis Bartram,” he said, “you know that already. For the rest, I am an investigator of psychic conditions and a student of the occult, along certain definite lines. You will find it to your best advantage, Madame, to be perfectly frank and truthful with me. Any other course you will find most disastrous.”

“Are you—are you of the—”

“Of the police? No, this is not an official investigation. And, moreover, it all depends on yourself whether the results of our work together are ever made public or not. Now, answer my questions. How did you come to give these séances to the Cranes?”

“Mr. Crane came and asked me to.”

“Where had he heard of you?”

“I was recommended to him by some friends of his.”

“Did you ever know his son, Peter?”

“No; I never heard of him until Mr. Crane came here.”

“And then you immediately got into spiritual communication with the dead man?”

“Yes; that is my business.”

She spoke a little defiantly, and Peter smiled. “I know. I accept that. Now, I’m a friend of the Cranes, because of having read that book. A man who is so absolutely positive of his beliefs is too good and dear a man to be disturbed in his enjoyment of them.”

“Oh, Mr. Bartram, I’m glad you see it that way, too! Truly, I’ve come to love the Cranes, and if—if I help along a little, it is largely for the comfort and happiness it gives them.”

“I know— I see; and I realize what an awful thing it would be if the world were to learn that all the matter in his book is really false—”

“Oh, it would kill him! If you knew Mr. Crane, if you knew how his very life is bound up in this matter, you would be even more assured what a disaster it would be to have him in any way discredited!”

Peter’s heart fell at this, for he had a half hope that he could yet bring himself to demolish his father’s air castle.

“Well, then,” he said, slowly, “I’ll not discredit him, nor you, for, of course, one involves the other. But this, on condition that you obey my commands implicitly in this matter of a séance. If you fail me in one particular, if you disobey one tiny detail, or, if you so much as hint a word to your—your other employer—I mean the one who has bribed you to certain frauds—then, I shall show you up, even if it does distress Mr. and Mrs. Crane.”

Madame Parlato thought in silence for a moment. Then she said, astutely, “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Bartram, but I am quite certain you are something more than you wish to tell. I mean a bigger factor in the Crane affair than you admit. I ask no questions, I agree to your terms, and I will do exactly as you direct, relying on your promise that if I do so, you will not tell of any—any insincerity you may notice.”

“Wait a moment—that promise may lead to complications. If the result of my proposed procedure is to reveal your—er—insincerity—I cannot be responsible for the consequences. Those you will have to bear. But I will admit that my interests are those of Benjamin Crane, and I shall do all in my power to preserve his secrets and, thereby, yours.”

“I think, then, you may go ahead and tell me your plans that you wish me to carry out.”•

“I’ve revised them,’” Peter said, thoughtfully, “they may, as I now see it, call for more than one séance. But here‘s for a starter. When do you expect Mr. Crane again?”

“Tomorrow.”

“All right. Merely give him a further materialization. And let the object be this,”—he laid a small paper parcel before her, which he had taken from his pocket—“yes—and this,” and he produced a second parcel.

She opened the papers, and found the first to be a handkerchief, the duplicate of the one already “materialized” and bearing the monogram Carly had so painstakingly embroidered.

The other parcel contained a silver quarter of a dollar, one side of which had been smoothed off and engraved with the entwined letters P. C.

“These belonged to the son?” Madame exclaimed, excitedly. “Where did you get them?”

“From the son,” replied Louis Bartram; “but remember you are under oath of secrecy. You are merely to produce these things as materializations at your next session with Mr. Crane, and also—I want to be present—unseen. Can it be managed?”

“Of course, that’s easy enough.”

Further arrangements were made, terms were agreed on, and Louis Bartram went away from the house of the medium in New York and returned to his hotel in Brooklyn.

And as he came down the steps of the Parlato residence, a small, dark girl, who was walking by, quickly scuttled around a corner, and out of his line of vision.

“I knew it!” Zizi said to herself, exultantly, “he’s in cahoots with the spook woman! He’s been there to give her things to materialize and soon I’ll hear of them! He came to the house and stole something which she will use to fool poor old Mr. Crane. You’ll see!”

Zizi talked enthusiastically to herself, resolving to learn more of this attractive young man’s identity.

“Clever, wasn’t he?” she asked of herself, “to send that reporter around first—probably he stole a key to the house—oh, it’s a whole big organization, I suppose, and they cover their tracks so completely they’re not even suspected.”

Acting on an impulse, she turned and went back to the house of the medium. By strategy, she succeeded in getting an interview, although she had no appointment.

“I have come to warn you,” she said, without preamble, looking into the woman’s eyes, “I am a detective, and I am onto your game. I know that man who just left here, he is your tool, your accomplice. Also, I know that he stole some things from the Crane house that you intend to use in your so-called materializations. Now, I warn you that if you do that, I shall see to it that your deceit is shown up, your fraud exposed!”

“My Lord,” cried the puzzled Madame, “who are you? Why do you think that man is my accomplice? It is not so! I never laid eyes on him until this morning!”

“That is not true,” Zizi said, sure of her ground, and wondering why the medium looked so unfeignedly puzzled. “He works for you—”

“He does not! He is a client. Now you leave, or I’ll have you put out.”

“I am going to leave,” and Zizi rose, “but you remember what I said. If you show up any more materialized belongings of Mr. Crane’s dead son, I’ll have you exposed and arrested!”

It is doubtful which of the two was more perplexed by this conversation.

Zizi, with her quick reading of human nature, saw that Madame Parlato was truly surprised at the girl’s accusation of an accomplice, therefore, she decided, he could not be an accomplice, after all. And if not, what was he, and what was he doing at the medium’s house?

That he was a client, she did not believe, for had she not seen him, rummaging in the Crane library and in that table drawer? It was all most mysterious and Zizi determined to stick to this new mystery in hopes it would shed some light on the old ones.

Meanwhile Madame Parlato was absolutely bewildered. Who was this strange girl who had come flying in with an incredible tale about the new client being an accomplice of her own?

Nor did that question trouble her so much as the consideration of what she should do next? She had arranged to have Mr. Crane at a séance the next evening, and to have Mr. Louis Bartram concealed in an adjoining room, where he could see and hear without being discovered.

Now, if she failed to use the objects he had directed her to use she feared his ire and vengeance, while if she did use them, this awful child, who called herself a detective, threatened exposure!

To be sure, she told herself, that little scrap of humanity couldn’t be a detective, the thought was impossible. Yet the child’s words and tones had carried conviction. Indeed, she was no child, though small enough to be one. She was either a detective, the Madame finally decided, or, she was a fake medium herself, and had some unknown ax to grind.

In any case, the way of the transgressor was hard, and the occult lady thought a long time before she came to a decision.

But the conclusion she reached was to obey the orders of Louis Bartram. He was a far more formidable antagonist, there must be more real danger in disobeying him than that chit of a girl.

So Madame laid her plans, prepared her properties, and, with fear in her heart, arranged for the forthcoming séance.

And Zizi, worried and uncertain, in Wise’s absence, as to just what she should do, laid her plans to be present also at Benjamin Crane’s next session with the medium.

And Peter Boots, communing with himself, and rapidly getting more and more excited at his discoveries and the developments of his theories, impatiently awaited the hour when he should see his father and perhaps his mother.

CHAPTER XVII

The Heart Helper

Never during her association with Wise, had Zizi wanted him so much as she did at present. The situation, she felt, was too big for her to handle, and the contradictory conclusions forced upon her bewildered her.

Public interest in the Blair murder had waned, or at least it was waiting for the trial of McClellan Thorpe, and while the police were ready to listen to any new evidence or theories, none seemed to be forthcoming.

Julie was in despair, feeling that the great Pennington Wise was making no headway in his endeavors to free Thorpe, and Benjamin Crane too was beginning to doubt Wise’s ability.

Zizi, therefore, felt the brunt of upholding her colleague’s reputation for cleverness and success, and now that things were getting so complicated, and Penny Wise so far away, the girl felt her responsibility almost greater than she could bear.

But, she concluded, after deep thought, the first and most important thing to be done was to locate that John Harrison.

From Benjamin Crane she obtained the address of young Douglas, the reporter, and went to see him.

Douglas was greatly pleased with the appearance and manner of his visitor, for Zizi was at her sparkling best, and that was very good indeed.

“You see, Mr. Douglas,” she confided with a captivating smile, “I’m a Heart Helper.”

“A what?”

“Yes. I help people’s hearts—people who are sad or in trouble. Now, I’m working in the interests of a dear friend, a lovely girl, whose sweetheart is being most unjustly treated, and only I can set things straight. Think of that!”

The great dark eyes flashed an appealing glance at him, and Zizi’s red mouth took a sorrowful droop at the corners.

Instinctively he yearned to bring back the smile and he said, promptly, “Can I help you? Is that why you come to me?”

“Exactly,” and Zizi beamed at him, quite completing his undoing.

“And what I want,” she went on quickly, lest she lose her suddenly-acquired power over him, “is only the address of Mr. John Harrison.”

Douglas’s face fell, and he plainly showed his embarrassment and chagrin.

“That I can’t tell you,” he began—but paused at the look of despair that came to Zizi’s expressive face.

“Oh, please,” she begged. “It’s so necessary—so important. I won’t make any wrong use of the information. Please tell me.”

“But I can’t, Miss Zizi. You see, Mr.—Harrison isn’t where he was. He—he isn’t anywhere.”

Clearly, Douglas thought, he was making a mess of things. But what could he say?

“Are you making game of me?” Zizi’s tone was wistful, and with her head cocked to one side like an alert bird, she waited breathlessly for his answer.

“No, not a bit of it!”

“But—you say—he isn’t anywhere! What do you mean?”

Still under the spell of her smile, her fascinating manner, and her sweet, piquant little face, Douglas hesitated—and was lost.

“Well, you see, he—he was somebody else. I mean he isn’t—that is, he isn’t himself.”

“Are you sure you are?” Zizi laughed outright, so infectiously, that Douglas joined in.

“No, I’m not!” he admitted. “Now, if you’re not, either, we’re all in the same boat.”

But Zizi was not to be put off with foolery.

“Mr. Douglas,” she said, seriously, “truly, I’m on an important errand, and one involving grave consequences. You can help greatly by giving me that man’s address, and help not only the girl of whom I spoke, but help the cause of right and justice, even, perhaps, in a matter of life and death. Don’t refuse—”

“But if I don’t refuse, I must at least inquire. And, suppose I tell you that Mr. Harrison does not want his address known?”

“I assumed that. But, suppose I tell you that it may help to clear up one of the greatest mysteries of the day if you will just give me a hint where I can find that man. And, even though he has forbidden you to tell, I think I can assure you that he won’t mind my knowing the secret, and if he does mind I’ll persuade him to exonerate you.”

Zizi had meant to take quite a different tack—use hints of legal authority or suggest his duty to humanity, but intuition told her that this man was best persuaded by coaxing—and Zizi could coax!

She succeeded only partly. After she convinced Douglas of the wisdom of such a course he told her that John Harrison had been at the Hotel Consul in Brooklyn, but had left there, and had left no further address.

Moreover, he declared he had no knowledge whatever of the whereabouts of John Harrison at the present time.

“No!” and Zizi flashed a quizzical smile, “because he has changed his name! I know that from your emphatic declaration! But I’ll find him. Good-by.”

Zizi betook herself forthwith to the Hotel Consul.

A polite clerk informed her that Mr. Harrison had checked out, leaving no address.

Determinedly she interviewed the cab drivers ranked in front of the hotel, and by a lucky chance found the one who had driven Mr. Harrison away. A proper bribe brought the knowledge that he had been driven to the Wilfer, a much smaller hotel nearby.

To the Hotel Wilfer Zizi went, and learned there was no John Harrison there, but a very few inquiries proved to her astute intellect that the Louis Bartram, who was the only guest registered at that time on that afternoon, was in all probability the man she sought. At any rate there was no harm in trying.

She asked for an interview, and was connected with Mr. Bartram’s rooms by telephone.

“I want to see you again,” she said, in response to his Hello—“Let me come up, Mr. Midnight Visitor, please.”

Partly the pleading voice, partly the fact that Peter was eager for new developments in his devious course, and partly a sudden recollection of the girl he had seen in his father’s library, brought about a cordial invitation to “come along.”

And Zizi exultantly went, hoping against hope that she was on her way to learn something of real importance.

For so many hopeful openings had proved blind alleys, so many bright prospects of success had dimmed on nearer view, that Zizi had begun to lose heart, and this seemed to her perhaps a last chance.

Peter received her in his sitting room, and as the big dark eyes looked deep into the chicory blue ones, and both smiled, it was impossible to be formal.

“Why are you a burglar, Mr. Bartram,” Zizi said, as she seated herself sociably in the depths of a big armchair. “You don’t look the part a bit.”

“What is your calling?” he countered; “for unless it is that of a witch or Brownie, I’m sure you don’t look it.”

“I am all of those things,” she announced, calmly, crossing her dainty feet and gazing guilelessly at him. “I’m a witch, a Brownie, a sprite, an elf, a kobold, a pixie—”

“That’s enough. They’re all tarred with the same brush. And why am I favored with this angel visit?”

“So you may answer my question, which you so rudely ignored. Why are you a burglar?”

“But I’m not. Can your ingenuity suggest no explanation of a man’s presence in another man’s house at midnight save a burglarious motive? I took no jewels nor plate away with me.”

“So you didn’t. But, I admit motives seem scarce. You were not intending a social call, were you? You didn’t come to read the meter or repair the plumbing? You were not seeking a lodging for the night?”

“None of those, Miss Brownie. But, why am I obliged to tell?”

“Because I ask it,” and Zizi’s pretty powers of coaxing were put to the utmost test.

“I admit that constitutes an obligation, but, I am not going to meet it,” and the big man settled back comfortably in his chair and smiled benignly but a trifle exasperatingly.

“Then—” and the little brown face became serious, the merry light went out of the dark eyes, and Zizi said, coldly, “Then I will tell you. You are a burglar—you did take valuables from Mr. Crane’s house—at least they were valuable to you, though perhaps of small intrinsic worth.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that you are the accomplice of that woman who calls herself a medium—that woman who is a fraud, a fake, a miserable charlatan! You came to the house to get some more belongings of Mr. Crane’s dead son’s—in order to take them to the Parlato woman and let her trade further on an old man’s credulity! That’s what you were there for!”

Zizi’s nerves were at high tension. She thoroughly believed every word she said, and she felt that perhaps the best way to make this man own up was to put the case thus straightforwardly.

Peter Boots looked at her, his expression changing from amazement to amusement and then to sympathy.

“No,” he said gently, “I didn’t do that. I swear I didn’t.”

“Then why were you there?”

Uncertain what to say, Peter just sat and looked at her.

And somehow—by some subtle intelligence or telepathic flash—all of a sudden—Zizi knew!

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes like stars, “oh—you’re Peter Boots!”

Slowly, Peter nodded his head.

“Yes,” he said, “I am. Now, what are we going to do about it?”

“Do about it? Why, everything! Oh—wait a minute—let me take it in—let me think what it will mean—”

“To father? Yes, I know.”

These two, so lately strangers, were immediately at one. Zizi, with her instantaneous understanding and quick appreciation saw the whole situation at once, and realized fully its tragedy.

“It can’t be, you know,” she cried out; “it mustn’t be! Think of the—”

“I know,” returned Peter, “I’ve thought.”

Instead of being appalled at the knowledge that his secret was out, Peter felt a positive relief, a sudden let-down of his strained nerves, and a queer sensation of confidence in this strange girl’s powers to set things right.

Peter’s intuitions were quick and true; Zizi was not only charming, but gave an effect of capability and efficiency that were as balm and comfort to poor, harassed Peter.

He was willing to nail his colors to her mast; to give his affairs and perplexities into her hands; to abide by her decisions.

And Zizi accepted the tremendous responsibility gravely.

“But it is all too wonderful,” she said. “What happened? Where have you been?”

“Two broken legs—compound fractures—frozen feet—gangrene—ugh!—fierce—cut it out!”

“The gangrene!” cried Zizi, horrified.

“Yes, but I didn’t mean that. I meant can the description of my sufferings! They’d put the early Christian martyrs to the blush. They would indeed! But let’s take up the tale from the present moment.”

“Oh, wait a minute—do! Who rescued you? Why haven’t you—”

“Lumbermen—camp, miles from any sort of a lemon. Couldn’t get into communication. Fiercest winter ever known—everything cut off from everything else. Came home the minute I could—and—oh, thunder! how I want to know things! Tell me heaps, do! And who are you, anyway?”

“Heavens, what a tale! Yes, I’ll tell you everything, but what shall I fly at first? And—oh, I can’t stand the responsibility of your secret! I can’t! Why are you keeping it secret? On account of your father?”

“Yes, that’s the sole reason. How can I come forward—the son who is supposed dead—who is supposed to come back as a spook—the son who has had a book written about him—”

“Oh, what a situation! And your father so wrapped up in the whole business—so positive in his beliefs—”

“And that rascally medium!”

“And those wicked materializations!”

“And the fool Ouija Board!”

“And that letter from you to Julie—oh, I say!”

“And I say! But, tell me, what can I do? Do you see it as I do? That I must go away again, disappear forever—or—”

“Or break your father’s heart— I mean—oh, I don’t know what I mean! Mr. Peter, I think I’ll lose my mind!”

“I’ve almost lost mine, puzzling over the thing. But I’ve put the kibosh on that Parlato!”

“Oh, that’s why you were there! I got things all wrong, didn’t I? And you came to your own home—”

“Only because of a terrible attack of homesickness. You see, I still have my latch key, and if you hadn’t seen me, I should have merely had a good look around, and then silently steal away, without, however, stealing anything else!”

Zizi smiled at her accusation of his burglarious intent, and then sat musing.

“I can’t grapple with it,” she said, at last. “It’s too big. I shall telegraph for Mr. Wise. He must come back at once and help us.”

“Now, look here, Miss Zizi, I’m not lying down on this job myself. I’m not asking you to carry my burdens or fight my battles. I am very much able to hoe my own row—only I fear it’s going to be a hard one. I’m going to depend on you for help, if I may, but I’ll take the helm; Peter Boots leads, he doesn’t follow.”

Zizi gazed at him, her eyes moist with emotional admiration. This man, this splendid, fine man—to efface himself to save his father’s reputation—it was too bad! She couldn’t stand it.

“Now, wait,” she began; “wouldn’t your father—your mother—rather have you back with them in the flesh—than to have their pride spared?”

“Answer that yourself,” he returned. “I admit that if that question were put to them, they would doubtless say yes. But that’s not the thing. The point is, they’re reconciled to my loss, happy in the experiences they’re having—delusions though they are—and contented, even exultant, in things as they are. Why disturb that happiness, for my selfish reasons? Why not leave them to their Fools’ Paradise—for that’s what it is—and not take the chance of what might easily be a distressing disillusion?”

“It would indeed be that,” Zizi spoke gravely; “I know it would. But what will you do?”

“Go ’way off somewhere—start fresh—make a new name and fame for myself and forget—”

“Sacrifice your own identity to your father’s reputation?”

“Exactly that—and, simply, it is my duty.”

“And Carlotta Harper?”

Peter jumped.

“Tell me about Carly,” he said, speaking thickly. “Is she engaged to Shelby?”

“No, she isn’t!”

“I heard she was.”

“Probably he hinted it, and the report started. He’s eternally after her, but, to my certain knowledge she hasn’t yet said yes.”

“Oh, my God! Dear little Carly! What can I do?”

“She would go with you—into a new life—”

“No; don’t be absurd! This secret must be kept inviolably. Nor could I marry her under an assumed name, even if she were willing. Also, she may have forgotten me.”

“No, she has not. Oh, Mr. Peter, you must come home.”

“I can’t. But tell me more—tell me of mother, of Julie—why, I sent a reporter to the house just to get a line on home life—on present conditions—oh, little girl, you don’t know what I suffered; it’s all so foolish—so absurd—the spook stuff, I mean—yet, as I’ve learned, it’s the very breath of life to my Dad.”

“It is; but, look at the thing from another angle. Couldn’t you help unravel the Blair mystery. Here’s Mr. Thorpe held for a crime I don’t think he committed; here’s Julie crying her eyes out because of it—”

“Julie! She and Thorpe!”

“Yes, didn’t you know that?”

“No; are they engaged?”

“In a way. If Thorpe should be freed Mr. Crane will give his consent. If Thorpe is convicted—”

“He shan’t be convicted! He never killed Blair! I’ll find out who killed Blair, and then I’ll go away after that. I’ll help Julie—why, Thorpe wouldn’t kill Gilbert, why should he?”

“You’ve read the case?”

“Yes, and thought how little evidence there was against Thorpe. But, I’m ashamed to say, my own affairs rather blotted the matter out. But if Julie’s concerned, that’s another matter. I’ll free Thorpe—and I can do it, too!”

“Then it’s most certainly your duty, for many reasons. Look here, Mr. Peter, don’t let your ideas of duty get over-sentimental regarding your father.”

“Oh, I don’t!” Peter waxed impatient. “But I’ve mulled over the thing to the very end, and I know, I know father would be happier left to his delusions. Yes, and mother, too. You see, I’ve read the book, and knowing Dad as I do, I read between the lines, and I see how it would be like stabbing his heart and draining his life blood to stultify that book. No, Zizi, don’t tempt me—indeed, you can’t.”

“Well, then, come back to the murder case. Have you any suspect other than Thorpe?”

“Why, sometimes, I think I have. But it’s a serious thing to accuse, without evidence. Now, I think I can get evidence, but mainly from Madame Parlato. You see, she has been bribed by a powerful influence—she is absolutely under orders from some one, and it is because of that she is so frightened for fear of exposure. I think in the ordinary séance with my father, where my spirit—ugh!—appears and talks guff and rubbish, the medium is more fool than knave. But when the spirit gives information concerning the murderer—and wrong information—it’s criminal work itself, and ought to be shown up.”

“Showing up the medium would expose the falsity of your father’s book, even without your reappearance.”

“I’ve thought of that, but there’s duty there, too. If I can free Mac Thorpe from unjust accusations, and incidentally, I’m thinking of Julie—it’s in all ways my duty to do so—even if—”

“Even if it makes your father a butt for ridicule.”

“Yes, even that. All things are matters of comparison. Thorpe’s life, or even Thorpe’s name mustn’t be sacrificed to father’s feelings. I may sacrifice my own future, even my own life if I choose, but not that of another.”

“Are you sure Mr. Thorpe is innocent?”

“As sure as shooting! But you must tell me all the details of your investigations. I’ve studied the newspaper reports, but I want your accounts, too. When can you get Wise back here? Send for him at once, will you? He can’t get anything on Blair out there. Blair’s life was blameless. I know it as I know my own. Why, Zizi, you don’t realize— I’ve lived with my family and my friends for a whole long lot of years. I’m no newcomer, except regarding the last six months. You can’t tell me of Blair’s character, or Thorpe’s either. Now, what I want to puzzle out is whether I can do my part in producing the real murderer, without revealing my presence here and without even showing my hand in the matter.”

“You might appear as your own spook.”

“I’ve thought of that, and it offers wide possibilities. But it isn’t fair to mother and Dad. Let the medium fool them, if she will, it’s not for their own son to fool them, too! No, I can’t do that.”

“You might appear to the—the criminal.”

“And give him the scare of his life! Yes, I might do that. But I’m not yet sure he is the criminal—I’m basing my suspicion on generalities, not any specific evidence.”

“Tell me his name.”

“Not yet. Let’s plan a little first. You see, I’ve arranged a fake séance with Madame Parlato. If I rearrange it a bit, it may serve our purpose. I’ll postpone it until Mr. Wise can get back, and then we’ll see what we shall see!”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Confession

Peter Boots arranged and rearranged his plans for the séance many times.

Though still living under the name of Louis Bartram, he had cast aside fear of having his real identity discovered, pretty sure, now, that it must come sooner or later.

His present concern was with the discovery of Blair’s murderer, and thereby the freeing of his sister’s fiancé. These accomplished he would consider the case of his own restored identity, if it were not by that time a foregone conclusion.

Pennington Wise came back from the West, and was let into the secret.

His amazement was beyond all bounds when Zizi took him over to the Brooklyn hotel and he met Peter Crane.

“This thing has never been equaled in my experience,” he declared. “And no one but Zizi could have found you out, unless you chose to make yourself known. Now, we must move warily—your quarry may get away.”

“You know whom I suspect?” asked Peter in astonishment.

“Of course I do, and I’ve had the same suspect from the beginning. But I couldn’t get a shred of evidence—haven’t any yet— I say, Mr. Crane, suppose you confide in me fully. You’ll have no cause to regret it.”

So Peter Boots and Pennington Wise and Zizi had a long confab, in which all cards were laid on the table, and all details of the plan settled.

Wise agreed that it would be a fearful blow to Benjamin Crane’s pride, but he held that the author of the book about Peter would receive no blame and the fame of the affair would be world-wide, which would make up for the blow to the author’s vanity.

Peter was not convinced of this, but agreed to go ahead as Wise suggested. Indeed, he had no choice, for it now rested on his statements whether an innocent man was tried for crime or not.

The medium was completely suborned. She was instructed that if she obeyed orders implicitly and succeeded in fulfilling the desires of her new employers, she would be paid a large sum of money, and enabled to leave the country secretly and safety.

For, after all, she was doing no more than the great army of “mediums” all over the world, and if she achieved good at last, they wished no harm to come to her.

“Moreover,” as Peter said, “she was a great comfort to my parents in my absence, and when they know of my presence, they’ll have no further use for Madame!”

The séance was staged in the Crane home.

It was a simple matter for Madame Parlato to persuade Benjamin Crane to allow her to hold a session there, promising him a probable materialization of his son, if allowed to attempt it in the scenes familiar to Peter Boots.

It was pathetic to see the hope and joy on the faces of Peter’s father and mother as they were offered this experience. Gladly they accepted the proposition, and when the medium further advised them to invite a few friends, they willingly did so.

It was not announced that materialization was expected—Madame Parlato preferred it should not be, she said; so the friends were merely asked to a séance.

After all, Zizi, who had charge of the invitations informed them, interest must be falling off, for no one was coming except Miss Harper, who would also bring Mr. Shelby.

However, with the Crane household, that made quite a group, and as Detective Weston had heard about it, and asked to be present he also had a seat, in the rear of the room.

There was no air of secrecy, the waiting audience were receptive, hopeful or skeptical as their natures prompted.

Shelby and Carlotta whispered to each other that they were glad to see a specimen of the genius that had hoaxed so able a mind as Benjamin Crane’s. Julie was out of sorts and sad, for she disliked the whole subject, and pitied her father and mother for their absorption in it.

At last Madame Parlato appeared.

She was an impressive looking woman, tall, slender, and with the traditional long green eyes and red hair. Her face was very white, but she was calm and well-poised, and seemed to feel a great sense of responsibility.

She had not been informed of Peter’s identity, but she knew him to be acquainted with the man whom she still considered dead, and she knew that Mr. Bartram was to impersonate Peter Crane.

She asked the eight people present to sit in a circle and join hands, allowing herself to make one of them.

Weston flatly refused to do this, saying he preferred to sit alone at the back of the room. He did so, and took his place near the door of the small library of Mr. Crane’s, the session being held in the large living room.

The medium requested that the lights be shut entirely off, saying that sufficient illumination would come in from the street to prevent total darkness.

This proved to be true, and the dim light was just enough for them to distinguish one another’s forms but not faces.

“Poppycock,” whispered Shelby to Carlotta, as he held her hand.

Zizi, who sat on Shelby’s other side, heard it and answered, “Absolutely.”

Then the usual things happened. The medium went into a trance state, and the regular proceedings took place.

She gave messages to Mr. Crane, purporting to be from his dead son. She gave messages to Julie and to Peter’s mother, all vapid and meaningless and mentally scoffed at by all present, except the two elderly listeners.

At last the medium said, “I am weary—weary—I would sleep. The spirit of Peter Crane himself would speak to you.”

“Will you?” eagerly asked Benjamin Crane, “will you speak yourself, Peter?”

“Yes, father,” came a reply, and everybody started.

Surely that was Peter’s own voice! Not loud, almost a whisper, but with the unmistakable cadence and tone of Peter, himself.

“That’s Peter!” cried Julie, excitedly, “oh, father, is it?”

“Hush, dear,” her father said, himself greatly agitated. “One must be very calm and quiet on these occasions. Peter Boots, will you talk with us?”

“Gladly, Dad,” came the voice again—seeming to emanate from behind Detective Western’s chair—as indeed it did.

“Then tell us of yourself, my boy.”

Mrs. Crane said no word, but sat, her hand in that of her husband, full of faith in the genuineness of it all, and ready to listen and believe.

“I am very happy here, father,” Peter’s voice declared—and Zizi bit her lip to keep from smiling at the hackneyed phrase uttered by mortal tongue!

“You sound so real, Peter,” Julie said, bluntly. “Is it always like this?”

For Julie had never attended a séance before.

“No, sister,” the voice said, speaking more clearly with every word; “this is an unusual occasion. Perhaps—perhaps the medium can bring about materialization tonight.”

“Oh, don’t,” Julie cried out, “I’m scared!”

“Don’t be frightened, Julie,” Peter said, his voice faint again, “I won’t hurt you.”

The well-remembered gentleness reassured Julie, and she held tight to her parents’ hands and listened.

“I have a message for each of you,” the voice went on; “or you may each ask me a question, as you prefer.”

“I’ll ask,” Julie exclaimed; “Peter, dear Peter Boots, tell me that Mac never killed Gilbert. I know it, yet I want you to say so. They told me you didn’t know, and that you were misinformed and all that. You do know, don’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, Julie, I know. And Mac didn’t kill Gilbert at all. But I know who did. Shall I tell?”

“Yes,” cried out several in chorus.

And then, from out the dark shadows behind Weston’s chair, there slowly appeared a dark, cloaked form. A black-draped, hooded figure, that moved slowly toward them. A tall, big figure that seemed to loom out of the darkness, and then the hood fell back a little, a white ghostly face appeared dimly and a slowly raised hand pointed to Kit Shelby.

“Thou art the man!” came in low, accusing tones, and they were unmistakably Peter’s.

Julie shrieked, and the accused man gave a strange, guttural sound, expressive of abject fear, and as the tall figure drew nearer, he rose to flee from its avenging shape.

Shelby didn’t go far, for his progress was stopped by the burly form of Detective Weston, who advised him to sit down.

“Confess!” went on the figure that seemed to be Peter, and with wild eyes, fairly starting from their sockets at the sight, Shelby cried out, “I did, oh, Peter, I did!” and then he fell in a convulsion of fright and terror.

And then, Peter Boots himself switched on the lights, threw off his long cloak, and turned to take his mother in his arms.

“My boy, my boy!” she said, knowing intuitively and instantaneously that it was her son, alive and found.

Benjamin Crane was a picture of utter perplexity. Unable to accept the obvious, he tried for a moment to believe in a marvelous “materialization,“ but Peter came to him, smiling and holding out an eager hand.

“Welcome me home, Dad,” he said, a quiver in his strong voice. “I know what a shock it is, but brace up and meet it— I’m here, and very much alive. In fact, I never have been dead at all.”

“Peter—Peter,” his father muttered, and fearing ill effects, Zizi came quickly to his side.

“Yes, Mr. Crane,” she said in her brisk little way. “Peter Boots, home again. Never mind the spook stuff now. Cut it out—forget it—let him tell us of his adventures.”

And now Carly came toward Peter.

One glance passed between them, and she was in his arms, a smiling, sweet Carly, who kissed him right before everybody, and said triumphantly, “I knew you’d come back!”

“Of course,” said Peter, happily holding her to him. “I had to, the gypsies prophesied it, you know. They didn’t mean come back as a silly old spirit, they meant come back in the flesh, and here I am. Kit, old man, I’m sorry.”

And there was infinite sorrow and pity in the face that Peter turned on Shelby, who was still trembling and mouthing in a vain effort to speak.

“Get his confession,” said Wise, lest when the shock wore off Shelby might dare deny it all.

But he couldn’t speak, and out of very pity, Peter said, “I’ll tell the details, and Shelby can nod assent.”

“Go ahead,” said Weston, his eye on his prisoner.

“I’ll not tell of my experiences now, only to say there is no blame to be attached to Shelby or to Blair or to the guide for my accident. I fell in the snow, and somehow so managed to double my half-frozen legs under me that the silly things both broke. I floundered in the drifts but couldn’t get up, nor could I make the boys hear my shouts, for the wind was against me. Well, I was picked up—after many hours—by some lumbermen and my tale of woe thereafter would fill a set of books. But never mind that now, I got home just as soon as I possibly could, having been absolutely unable to get a letter here any sooner than I could come myself. I came back to find that Dad, supposing me dead, had written a book—oh, my eye! Dad, how you did butter me! Well, then I was up a stump to know whether to make my joyous presence known and spill the beans entirely or whether to sneak off, disappear forever and leave Dad to his laurel and bay.”

“Peter! how could you dream of such a thing!” Benjamin Crane was himself now. “I’d a million times rather have you back than to have written all the books in the world!”

“But, father, think what people will say! I understand your book is read and discussed from pole to pole—”

“And it may be hooted at from pole to pole for all I care! Oh, Peter! Peter Boots! Good old chap!”

Peter’s blue eyes beamed. The thing that had worried him most had turned out all right. Moreover, Carly seemed still kindly disposed toward him.

Remained only the dreadful business of Shelby and that must be put through.

“Then,” Peter resumed, “I came home, and found old Gilbert Blair was dead. Murdered. And Mac Thorpe arrested for the crime.

“I know Thorpe, and I know he never did it. And I wondered. Then I read in father’s book about that old tobacco pouch of mine being ‘materialized.’ So I knew there was trickery afoot. For I had handed that pouch to Kit only a short time before I fell down. And he hadn’t handed it back. So, that accounted for its presence in the possession of the medium, though it didn’t necessarily incriminate Shelby. He might have lost it or had it stolen from him.

“But, next I went to the Picture Show of ‘Labrador Luck.’ That, or at least the plot, the backbone of it, was Blair’s and mine. Together we doped it out, sitting by our camp fire up there in the wilds, old Kit dozing near by. He talked with us about it now and then, but his plans were different from ours. All for a monster, spectacular production which he has achieved, while Blair and I planned a little light comedy affair. But the plot, the great theme of the thing, was Blair’s—and I denounce Kit Shelby as the murderer of Gilbert Blair for the purpose of using that plot alone and in his own way! Another motive lay in the fact of his admiration for Carlotta Harper, whom, he thought, Blair was about to marry.

“And, if these do not seem to you, Mr. Weston and Mr. Wise, sufficient motive for murder, I will inform you that Blair had discovered Shelby’s visits to the medium, Parlato, and had learned that it was he who was responsible for the tobacco pouch, the handkerchief and that forged letter. Blair discovered or suspected all this, and went to the medium and forced her to admit he was correct.

“Wherefore, Shelby had to be exposed and ruined, or—had to close Blair’s lips forever. He chose the latter course. The method was by a poisoned soda mint, as has been suspected, and this I know, because Shelby and I talked over methods of murder, when we were discussing detective stories, and he detailed to me the very plan that I am sure he used himself, that of putting one poisoned pellet in a bottle of plain ones, and letting the result happen when it might. His argument was, that the murderer would be far from the scene at the time death took place. These statements I submit, and if Christopher Shelby can deny or refute them, none will be more glad than I.”

Shelly maintained a sullen silence, refusing to look at Peter at all.

But Weston adjured him to reply to the accusations with either confession or denial, and he muttered: “Of course it’s all true. I got in deeper and deeper and there was no way out but to do for Blair. I began giving the medium things just for fun—the whole matter seemed to me such rubbish, and I never dreamed Mr. Crane would take it so seriously. Then when he did, and when Blair found out I had primed the medium, and when I wanted his play and he wouldn’t let me have it, and when I wanted his girl—and when he declared he would expose the medium business—I fell for the temptation. That’s all.”

He lapsed again into utter dejection and Weston led him away before he should collapse utterly.

“Now, Julie, you can have your Mac,” Peter went on, smiling at his sister. “It’s too late tonight—”

“Not a bit of it,” declared Penny Wise, “come along, Miss Crane, I’ll take you to him, and let you tell him yourself, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he came back with you.”

The two went off joyfully, leaving Peter to be lionized and petted by his adoring people.

Madame Parlato had long since disappeared, being allowed to get away unmolested because of the help she had been.

Then Peter and his parents had a talk, while Carlotta just sat and looked at the group, knowing her turn would come. Zizi, too, like a little dea ex machina, sat, gloating over the outcome of it all.

Benjamin Crane utterly refused to listen to a word of regret at his discredited book—he only laughed happily and declared it was a joke on himself, and he didn’t care what the result might be or what loss he might suffer in reputation or in pocketbook.

Mrs. Crane said little but she held tight to the hand of her boy, and lost herself in an oblivion of happiness.

And then, turning to Carlotta, Peter said, “And you thought I’d never come back?”

“Peter,” Carly said, “I’m an expert Ouija Boarder. I have the reputation of making the Board say whatever I want it to. But my own theory is, that the little pointer always goes straight to the message that the performer wants. And whenever I tried it alone, and asked it if you’d come back to me—it said you would.”

Peter smiled at her, a little quizzically.

“I don’t know, Carly, whether you’re making that up or whether you mean it, but it doesn’t matter, I did come back—and I came back to you—and for you. Which, being interpreted, means, that when you’re ready to go home, I’ll walk along with you. I’ll have time to see the family here tomorrow.”

Whereupon Carly smiled happily, and they two “walked along.”