CHAPTER XV
THE FORTUNE TELLER

Manners did not go to his hotel when he left Lyda. He walked for miles. He was happy. He was proud. He was wretched. He was ashamed. He believed in Lyda Pavoya. He doubted her. There would not have been room for the volcano of his feelings between four walls.

That moment when he had held her in his arms had been the most wonderful if not the greatest in his life. But it had been only a moment. Her surrender for a few seconds had seemed to him then the most exquisite thing in the world: the childlike longing for a man's chivalrous protection, in the heart of a woman who had known little chivalry! In an instant she had drawn herself gently away, and he had not held her. He had wished Lyda to know that, if he did not understand everything, at least he understood why she had crept into his arms for that brief breathing space, and that he would take no advantage of her yielding.

He had armoured himself with an almost exaggerated friendliness afterward; and for a while they had talked not at all of themselves, but of Juliet and Pat. They tried to form some theory which might account for the disappearance of the pearls from the locked safe whose combination was known to only two persons; the replacing of the parcel there, sealed with fresh seals. They had striven to implicate Markoff in the affair, but all their deductions stumbled against the same blank wall in the end. It seemed impossible that Markoff could even have entered the house, much less have got into the study or opened the safe. Lyda did not know how Pat had obtained the money to help her out with the payment to Markoff. It had not seemed strange to her that he should have it. Looking back, it seemed strange now. Yet it was incredible that he should have juggled with the packet, and risked losing his wife's respect by palming off false pearls on her, in order to get money for another woman.

Incredible! And yet, Lyda said, like one in a dream, that he was the only person who could have done the thing—except herself!

"I know I didn't do it, and—yes, I know he didn't do it!" she cried to Jack. So, again and again they came through darkness to that blank wall! And at last, deadly tired in body and brain, Lyda sent Manners away.

He was all exaltation at first. The glamour and perfume of her ran through his veins. She was noble, magnificent. It was great of this glowing creature to trust him so generously, to tell him her life story, putting herself in his power in a way, for the sake of Claremanagh's happiness. It was fine of her to say he might repeat all to Juliet, who—Lyda must know—detested and distrusted her with the obstinacy of a spoiled, jealous child: to say that, if necessary, a detective might be trusted with her secrets.

But as the chill of the night iced his veins, Jack's mood changed. Juliet's point of view suddenly showed itself sharply to his eyes. It was as if she had come from round the corner of the last street he had passed, to walk with him. Had Lyda told him the story for Claremanagh's sake and Juliet's? Why not for her own—in the daring wish to make a "friend at court?" Would that not be more like her—more like the woman she was supposed to be?

She knew that he had seen her go into the Phayre house; that he must have guessed she was hidden in the study; that he was Juliet's cousin and would naturally be inclined to work for Juliet's interest. Would it not be a bold and clever stroke to win him to her side?

If it were some other man, not himself, whose prejudices had been thus broken down in an hour by a woman's eyes and voice, wouldn't he pity the poor idiot who believed that he alone fathomed the depths of her smile?

Lyda practically admitted that she had fooled many men. Some of them had doubtless known far more about women than he knew. Why, she must have been laughing at him all through! He had been a child in her hands!

Lies that were half truths could be welded into a fabric hard to break down. No doubt there were true details in that life history of Pavoya. But how many true ones? And was it "fine" of her to "consent" that he should tell Juliet, and if necessary a detective? Wasn't that just what she'd worked up to, and wanted? Wasn't she purposely turning suspicion toward Pat when she said, as if dazed, that only he or she could have changed the pearls?

Jack heard himself again, warmly promising that they two should work together, that they'd drag up the mystery by the roots, and that Juliet should beg her pardon.

A spider's dainty web of opal-gauze, glittering with dew, must look a fairy palace to a big, blundering bluebottle!

Did such a man as Markoff from Petrograd even exist?

Dawn flowed like a pale river through the canyons of the New York streets when Manners' walk ended at his own hotel.

He felt as if he had been through a battle—a battle that he hadn't won. But a cold splash, and then dead sleep for an hour, braced him physically. He woke with a start, as if somebody had knocked; yet no one was at the door. The thought of food disgusted him; hot, strong black coffee, however, was refreshing.

It was early still, yet he was sure that Juliet would be awake, and called her up, learning at once that she had no news. Yes, he had things to tell, he answered her eager question. "Not news exactly, but important." Before going to her, however, he intended to see the detective they'd talked about: a man named Henry Sanders—used to be in the police—sharp chap; had the nickname of "Hawkeye Harry"; retired, but got bored with doing nothing, and started as a private detective; had made a big success in the last few years; absolutely to be trusted: silent as the grave and sharp as a razor.

Jack added that he knew the man personally, and as he didn't wish to wait for office hours, would ring Sanders up at his own house. He would call there and tell the man something of the case to save Juliet useless questions and answers. Then, he hoped, they could both come round to see her.

As it turned out, however, Manners went alone to the Phayre house. He had not seen Sanders. The detective (to whom Jack had vainly tried to 'phone the night before) had not yet returned from the country where he had spent the last few days. He had luckily left word that he would be at his office by ten o'clock; and having sent a request for an immediate appointment there, Jack was ready for a talk with his cousin.

It was hard to put Lyda Pavoya's case impersonally and impartially to Juliet. As he framed the story in his own words, he saw Lyda again as he had seen her last night, heard her sweet, vibrating voice with its delicious accent. The glamour of the woman took possession of him once more. He tried to be judicial, but he could be so only in manner. Telling the tale, he was impressed with the way detail after detail fitted itself into probability; and as Juliet's face showed how the door of her mind shut against Lyda, his own opened. He had left Lyda, and had become her judge. Juliet's silent antagonism made him again Lyda Pavoya's defender.

"I don't believe one word!" Juliet flamed out, when he had finished.

Manners found himself quite unreasonably angry: he, who had walked the streets raging against his own weakness for Pavoya!

"You wanted me to get her story," he said. "Well, I've got it, and all you have to say is that it's a pack of lies. I can do no more."

Juliet felt stricken. "Do you mean you take it all as gospel truth yourself?" she challenged.

"It seems to me to hang together perfectly."

"It would! She's clever as—a serpent."

Jack frowned. "You don't seem pleased to have your own husband turned into a hero instead of a villain."

Colour flew to Juliet's pale cheeks. "I don't need Lyda Pavoya to do that for me!"

"Then," said Manners, coolly, "you make this distinction. You believe the good part about Pat, and not the good part about her."

Juliet broke into tears. "Oh, Jack," she reproached him. "I might have known! You've gone over absolutely to the enemy!"

Jack was conscience-stricken, for in a way it was true. He tried to console the girl as he had consoled her yesterday, and in the old days when she was a child. There was no "enemy," he said, or at all events the enemy wasn't Mademoiselle Pavoya. It was essential that they should at least seem to work in harmony. Juliet must trust him. She must pull herself together, and be ready soon to see the detective.

The Duchess was quieter when he had argued for a while, and patted her shoulder, and called her "darling child." She dried her tears, and promised to "be good"—but when Jack had gone to keep his appointment at Sanders' office, her heart was lead. "He's Pavoya's man now!" she said to herself.

Having Lyda's permission to speak, and knowing Sanders to be trustworthy, Manners kept nothing back. He began with a brief outline of the history of the pearls, and Pat's business transaction with Mayen. This brought him to the arrival of the messenger with the packet, and its delivery in his own presence. There, for the first time, Sanders stopped him and asked questions: what had been Defasquelle's manner, what the Duke's? And Jack believed that his answers impressed the detective favourably toward the Frenchman. It proved the messenger's bona fides that he had insisted upon the opening of the box in his presence. Besides, after the theft, it appeared certain that the new seals had been made with the Duke's ring; and before that could have happened, Manners had seen Defasquelle leave the house.

Sanders would, of course, wish to meet Defasquelle, but would prefer to talk with the Duchess first of all. Whether Mademoiselle Pavoya's version of her visit to the Phayre house and her acquaintance with the Duke were true, remained to be seen. Sanders had never heard of Markoff, but would take immediate steps through the aid of his "best boys" to find out all about the man—if he existed! As for the Duke, the detective didn't mind admitting to Jack as a friend—not in an official capacity—that he didn't yet believe there had been foul play. He wasn't sure that, in Claremanagh's place (assuming his injured innocence) he wouldn't have gone away to punish his wife.

"These spoiled heiresses are the limit when they get going!" he said. "And this Duke chap's Irish. I'm Irish myself. We fellows can't sit still when even the prettiest woman forgets the Marquis of Queensberry's rules in a scrap! It gets our goat!"

Jack was not sure whether Juliet would prefer an outside opinion that Pat had been kidnapped, or had left her of his own free will. But the girl's pale beauty bowled Sanders over at first sight. His prejudice against the "spoiled heiress" melted like ice in morning sunlight, and his Irish heart—as well as his trained discretion—kept back any word which he thought might wound her. The assumption (meant to be comforting) that with Markoff lay the clue to the mystery, was, however, salt on an unhealed scar for Juliet. She took it instantly for granted that Sanders agreed with Jack in believing Lyda Pavoya had told the truth.

"They're going the wrong way to work!" she thought, bitterly, when the two men had gone, promising a report the moment there should be news of any sort. "The wrong way! ... If they find out where Pat is, it will be just blundering—by accident!"

In thwarted wretchedness, the girl realized that it would be worse than useless to make such protests to Sanders. He was the detective, not she—though he had complimented her upon her "smartness" in the matter of the ring and the magnifying-glass. He would only pity and despise her for jealousy and prejudice if she gave him the advice she burned to give. And Jack—Jack was hopeless! He was lost to her.

She felt as miserably alone as if Jack had not promised to be her "knight," and as if he had not brought to her one of the best private detectives in the land. She longed to strike out on her own account, to be first in the field, and be able to say to these men: "See, while you were wandering all round Robin Hood's barn, I've found the place where the secret was buried, and dug it up!"

It was mostly about Pat that Juliet thought, and his disappearance. Upon the pearls she wasted little anxiety, though she hated to think that Pavoya should have them. She had cried out to Pat that she believed not one word of the dancer's story: and she had meant it at the time; but brooding alone over the history of Pavoya's years, and the link between her and Pat, Juliet found herself almost arbitrarily accepting certain details here and there. Yes, that must have been the way those two first met! Pat had told her that he had heard the call of romance in Russia—his great-great-grandfather's romance—and had left Oxford to spend the long vacation among those scenes. How like Pat at nineteen to create a romance of his own on the same spot!

Her heart yearned to Pat with the thought that he had helped Pavoya because of charity, not love. In that case he had told the truth—or as much truth as his wife could expect of a man where women were concerned. But certainly, Juliet assured herself, Pavoya had loved Pat and moved heaven and earth to compromise him. That was really why she'd asked him to lend her the pearls. No doubt she'd begged for the real ones, and he'd lent her the copy. She'd kept the wretched beads, not because of some melodramatic blackmail "stunt," but because she wished to wear them as if they were real, and get herself talked about with Pat. Then, he'd married, and having sent to France for the true pearls for his wife, he couldn't leave the false ones knocking about for Pavoya to play with. He'd practically ordered the woman to return them; and in revenge, when an amazing chance came her way, Pavoya had somehow stolen the genuine rope, changing the contents of the packet!

It all seemed clearer and clearer to Juliet, and she wondered that a man with such good brains as Jack's could be so easily deceived. In pride of her own superior talent as a detective, the girl would have had moments of triumphant joy had it not been for her wearing anxiety about Pat.

Days passed. Pat did not return or write to Juliet or the bank. And no news of importance was obtained for her by Sanders or Jack. Markoff the detective was unable to trace by name, though he had got upon the track of a Russian who had lately arrived in New York with some good introductions. His description answered that given of Konrad Markoff by Mademoiselle Pavoya. Boris Halbin (who had figured at various New York clubs, and was now supposed to have sailed for France) was a person of inconspicuous appearance. So, too, was Markoff. Many Russians over forty are "darkish, stoutish, big faced, blunt featured, with beards turning grey!"

Juliet bravely kept up the fiction with her friends that she and Pat were on the best of terms. He was away on business for the bank. He would soon return. That story about the pearls being false was too silly for words! The reason she'd stopped wearing them was because she had broken the string, and didn't want the responsibility of choosing the person to mend it till Pat came back. The girl would have given thousands of dollars for the privilege of "sporting her oak," and refusing to see the many people whose devotion she attributed to curiosity. But for the sake of the future, and her own pride's sake, she would not do that. She went out a good deal, kept all her engagements, and made new ones. Her nerves, however, revenged themselves upon her mercilessly. Once she had hardly realized that she possessed such things as nerves. Now they made themselves felt each moment of the day, and through hours of the long, restless nights.

Against his will, Sanders had consented to an advertisement appearing in the "personal" column of several papers. Juliet had pleaded that no one would know for whom it was meant, and—she should die if she couldn't put it in! Consequently, curious eyes in many cities of the United States were reading every day this appeal:—"Play Boy: 'American Beauty' believes in you and wants you. Write or come back if you would not break her heart."

Who could guess that the Duchess of Claremanagh's pet name for the Duke was "Play Boy," and that he had sent her "American Beauty" roses every day since they were engaged, because it was the name he had found sweetest, most appropriate for her?

Yet, someone must have guessed: because in the Inner Circle (a week after the sensational pearl "Whisper") the secret was given away. No names were mentioned: yet none who knew the Claremanaghs could have avoided reading between the lines.

It was while Juliet sat with the paper in her hands, shamed, bewildered, almost stunned, that a sealed envelope was brought on a tray to her boudoir. Mechanically she opened it. Within was a visiting card, with something written upon it in pencil.

For an instant the girl's bruised brain could not find the Comtesse de Saintville in the index of her memory. Then, suddenly, she saw the woman, playing opposite her at some bridge table. Yes, of course, Lyda Pavoya's friend.

"Forgive my calling uninvited. I hope you can see me. I have something to say which may be important to you," the woman, whom Juliet vaguely disliked, had scribbled in French under her name.

Juliet thought for a minute, with the card in her hand. It seemed "pushing" of this person to come, and probably if she—Juliet—consented to see her, she would regret the weakness. Still, the one really important thing on earth was news of Pat. Madame de Saintville might know something! She might have quarrelled with Pavoya, and be ready to "give her away." "Bring the lady up here," the Duchess instructed Huji.

Presently the visitor was shown in; and Juliet, rising to receive her, towered like a tall young goddess over a small, smart creature, painted to look as pretty as she thought she ought to be.

"She'll begin to speak of Pavoya," Juliet thought. But she was mistaken.

"I have come on a very queer errand," were the Countess's first words, spoken with much throaty rolling of "rs". "Perhaps you will be angry. I made up my mind only to-day that it was my duty to call."

Her eyes darted to the Inner Circle which Juliet had just thrown aside, and quickly returned to a flower with which she herself was playing. But Juliet read that side-glance to mean—"After reading that paper to-day, I decided."

"When people tell one it's a duty to say or do something in particular, it's generally disagreeable," Juliet said, drily.

"Ah, this is an exception! It is not disagreeable at all—I hope. It is only—unusual," replied the Comtesse de Saintville. "But I will not keep you in suspense. Have you ever heard of a palmist and fortune teller named Madame Veno?"

"Possibly. I'm not sure," answered Juliet, surprised.

"She is not—or rather she has not been—fashionable, I think," explained the other. "I have not lived long enough in New York to know these things. I happened to hear of her through a friend of mine (yours also, is it not?)—Mrs. Billee Lowndes. It was there I met you once. Mrs. Lowndes knew I was interested in the psychic things: crystal gazing, palmistry. She spoke of Madame Veno, who is supposed to be only a manicurist. Her real profession is a secret. It has to be! It seems that 'Madame Veno' is a name several women have used, like—one would say, a 'trade name,' because they have hired the same rooms, or offices, and 'Madame Veno, Manicurist' is on a doorplate. That is odd, is it not? But the first Madame Veno died—or something. The present one is—ah, Duchess, she is merveilleuse. She has told me things about myself—but things only le bon Dieu ou le diable had in their knowledge! Naturally, I have been to her more than once. Last time she looked through her crystal. I do not know if that is forbidden by your law? En tout cas, she does it. The picture she saw must have been strange. It seemed to frighten her. When I asked some questions, she said the vision was not for me. It was for another. Why it came, she could not tell unless that person was in my thoughts. Then, Duchess, she spoke your name. The picture was for you."

"Really!" exclaimed Juliet. She pretended to be amused; but the woman's tone was meant to impress, and did impress, the girl in spite of herself. "What did the picture represent?"

"Madame Veno did not mention, except that it concerned the Duke. She felt it would be wrong to speak if not to you alone. She wished me to give you a message: to say, if you would come to her place, she would look again in the crystal, and tell you what she saw. I did not like to call on you. I am not long enough of your acquaintance. But to-day——"

"Don't be afraid to speak out what's in your thoughts," Juliet said with a painful smile. "You have read the Inner Circle. You think the disgusting 'Whisperer' is right! That the advertisement which people have been talking about is mine. Of course that's all nonsense! Please tell everybody you meet, who's interested in my affairs! But probably you meant to be kind. Anyhow, I think fortune tellers are great fun! I shall go to this one—some day soon: when I have time. You'll give me the address?"

"Par coincidence, Madame Veno is in the same building with that journal des blagues," replied the Countess. "It goes without saying that they have no connection, one with the other. It is a mere accident. Mrs. Lowndes has told me that the first woman of that trade name, 'Madame Veno,' was really a manicurist: so it was necessary to have an office, and not be in a private house in some quiet street."

"I see," said Juliet. "I must thank you for coming. As Madame knows my name, she must know a good deal about me, so her 'pictures' won't be as exciting as if I went to her a stranger. But they may be amusing."

Her tone, though perfectly courteous, was meant to end the interview. Madame de Saintville rose. Juliet did the same, and rang. The moment she was alone, she ran to her bedroom and commanded Simone, who was there, to give her a hat and coat.

She had said she would go "some day" to Madame Veno. But she was going now—at once—at once!

CHAPTER XVI
THE GREY ROOM

Pat Claremanagh floated in a grey sea, under a grey sky. It seemed to him that the grey sea and sky were part of some existence after death. He vaguely remembered that he had died. If it were not for the constant, heavy pain in his head, he thought that he could recall the whole incident.

Yes, that was the word—"incident". It hardly mattered now, and wasn't worth while racking his brain over. That tin hat of his was too tight—much too tight. But he was too weak to lift his hands and take it off. Strange, though, that he should be wearing it when he was dead!

He must have been killed in the war. Yet, how long ago the war seemed! He had thought that a great many things had happened to him after the war. No doubt they were part of this dream—this long, floating dream—after death. But they were not grey like the leaden sea and the sky that hung so low over his head. They were beautiful, colourful things. Just straining to remember brought rainbow flashes across his brain. Out of these lights a girl's face looked at him.

"Juliet!" he heard himself mutter, in a thick, tongue-tied voice.

Instantly another face appeared, and blotted out that of the girl. This one was solid and very real. It bent over him in the greyness: a man's face, somehow familiar, as if he had known it long ago—long ago disliked it: a fleshy bulk surrounded with hair. He loathed it for itself, and hated it for shutting out the vision of Juliet, so he closed his eyes.

For a moment consciousness died down like a fading flame. Only a vast, vague greyness was left, and the tight pain of the tin hat. But when a few moments or a few years had passed, a voice spoke. It beat upon his dulled intelligence like the strokes of a clock in the dark, telling an hour. Pat was suddenly keyed up to listening, because it was a woman's voice, and far down within himself he was aware that a woman's voice—a certain woman's voice—was what he yearned to hear.

Strange! He was wide awake, and knowledge came to him that he was not dead, after all, though he might be close to death. But he did not open his eyes, because he could not bear to see the living mass of flesh and hair again. He lay quite still. And he listened.

"You are always hanging over him like that whenever I turn my back!" said the woman.

"Why not? I do no harm," answered a man's voice, with a rather soft, monotonous foreign accent.

Pat knew that the voice belonged to the face. It also had association with long past things which were somehow important. A scene began forming in his tired mind, like bits of an old picture being matched together. A room with tables, and men drinking and smoking; a cleared space; a kind of stage; a girl dancing—slim, lovely, light as a fawn; long red hair waving back and forth—Lyda!—that was her name. Lyda—something. He was at one of the tables, very young, only a boy. And the hairy man sat with him, talking, praising the girl. Markoff!

He stopped, remembering, and listened again.

"You'd do harm if you dared to," the woman said. "You'd like to kill him."

"I tink it will be better for us all if he die," said the man. "Much better! Much safer. But no violence. Let him go—fade away. I tought it would soon be finished wiz him. Zen he open his eyes and look at me. You hear him speak—some word."

"Yes, I heard him," the woman answered. "It's the first time he's made a sound—since, except a sort of groaning. I'm jolly glad. We don't want him to drop off the hooks. Not much!"

"You are ver' foolish, Madam. He can give your 'usband and ze ozzers away. It is only me who 'ave nozzing to fear. He do not see me zere. Yet I am witness agains' any ones who treat me wrong."

"Pooh!" said the woman. "You're always harping on your power to hurt us. It's nil. The hunt's out for you, Mr. Markoff or Halbin, or whatever you like to be. If we're keeping you for our own sakes because you haven't paid up, anyhow it's your game to lie low. You daren't show your nose outside this door. But for heaven's sake, let's stop arguing. I'm for nothing in that part of the business."

"You 'ave all got some plan you try to work behin' my back," growled the man. "I tell you enough times, ze money will come!"

"When it comes, you'll get the pearls: if it comes in time. That's the rub!"

The word "pearls" was like a key. It unlocked the door of Pat's memory, and impressions flowed in. But they were confused, without beginning or end; and he lay motionless, hoping for more clues. He was conscious that the woman leaned over him. She brought with her a heavy oriental perfume, and he felt a waft of warm breath on his face.

"Are you awake?" she asked, speaking slowly. "Do you know what happened to hurt you—eh?"

Pat did not show by the quiver of an eyelid that he had heard.

"Wen 'e come back to himself, bineby, 'e will remember everything per'aps, an' zen w'ere will you all be?" the man wanted to know.

"He never will remember, unless there's someone to give him the tip. People don't remember with concussion," the woman said.

So that was what he had—concussion of the brain! Pat wondered how he had got it. One of the impressions filtering back was of hitting a man, and hearing him squeal. What had followed was a blank, like everything since. Maybe some other man had hit him—from behind.

The woman moved away, and cautiously Pat opened his eyes. The greyness was still there, but it was more definite, more commonplace, as if belonging to earth and things of everyday life. He thought that he must be lying on his back in a bed, looking straight up at a low grey ceiling. There were grey walls, too, but he could not turn his head to see more, as his neck was stiff and painful. The light was so dim that he imagined it must be drawing toward dusk in a room with small windows partly covered with curtains.

More talking went on at a distance, between the man and woman. Sometimes it sounded so far off that Pat wondered if there was an adjoining room with an open door. Presently, when all had been silent for so long that he had almost dozed off, there was a sudden explosion of voices. The listener fancied that there were two new ones, both voices of men, and one he recognized, though irritatingly he could not attach the right name label.

He kept his eyes closed, because he was sure that the latecomers would look at him, and his caution was rewarded. Someone turned on a light. The two new voices mumbled in sick-bed whispers across his pillow. He caught a word here and there: again "the pearls," "Markoff," and "the Duchess." The last gave him an odd thrill. Juliet! She had been angry. How was she feeling now? Was she seeking for him? Or did she give him credit for running off with the pearls—or Lyda? or—both together?

The thought that this might be so—probably was so—made him long to spring up and fight his way to his wife, somehow. And perhaps he could not have resisted attempting to move had not a sudden noise snapped the thread of his thought.

A quarrel had broken out over something between the men. All three voices rose sharply. The woman intervened, and was rebuked. Then came a squall of rage, instantly stifled. The woman screamed, and drew in her breath with a gasp. All was still again.

"Hark!" whispered someone.

The light went out.

In place of the greyness, blackness fell.

Pat could hear the pounding of his own heart, and another sound almost hidden by the noise in his breast.

He thought that stairs were squeaking under a stealthy foot.

CHAPTER XVII
THE CRYSTAL

"Have you an appointment, Madam?" asked the elderly woman who opened the door of Madame Veno's flat for Juliet.

She was a person of almost oppressively respectable appearance, with grey hair parted in the middle, gold-rimmed pince nez resting on a thin nose, and a neat body clad in black silk. If Madame Veno needed a chaperon, her door opener was ideal!

Juliet had run upstairs so fast that she was breathing hard. Passing the office of the Inner Circle had disgusted her. She felt contaminated, almost ill; but the sight of this woman was like a dash of cool water on a hot forehead.

"I have no appointment," she answered. "But—I came because of a message. I'm the Duchess of Claremanagh."

"Please to walk in, Madam," said the woman, without any evidence of being impressed. "I will give you a private room to wait in."

They stood in a hall, white-panelled, carpeted with red. The spruce black silk figure threw open a door, and Juliet entered a tiny room, hardly more than a closet. The only furnishing consisted of a luxurious easy chair, a table on which were magazines and a box of cigarettes, and on the wall a mirror. This mirror was opposite the chair; and behind the chair was a second door. Any one opening that door would see a reflected image of the sitter in the chair.

As Juliet sank into chintz-covered depths the murmur of voices reached her. She thought, in fact, that she heard sounds from two rooms, one on each side of the tiny cubicle in which she had been put to wait.

"This little hole is for special visitors," she told herself. "Probably that woman was ordered to bring me here if I came. Madame Veno's room must be on the right of this, and it's her voice I hear on that side, talking to a client. On the left, I suppose, it's the ordinary waiting room, full of people—jabbering to each other about Madame Veno and the wonderful things they've heard about her from their friends! Or else it's a room where they keep up the practice by manicuring clients' nails. But I'm sure she means to sneak me in ahead of them."

Juliet was right. In less than ten minutes there was the click of a latch, and the door opposite the mirror opened. In the long glass her eyes met the smiling ones of a pale, dark woman with a clever, somewhat common face. There was nothing mystic about her appearance, but on the other hand there was nothing meretricious, no attempt at Eastern allurements. Juliet had already guessed from the ordinary furnishing of the flat that Madame Veno's metier was clean, straightforward frankness, as opposed to the cult of dim rooms, purple curtains, and incense. Now this impression was confirmed. The one false note was a heavy perfume such as some women adore and are unable to resist.

"I'm glad to see you, Duchess," said the woman. "I hoped you would call, and I'm going to slip you in before the others who are waiting their turn. They won't know, so no harm's done! Will you come into my room?"

She spoke cheerfully, briskly, rather more like an Englishwoman than an American, and Juliet wondered if she were an English Jewess.

The door led into an alcove of a fair-sized room decorated in green. It was as little as possible like the mysterious sanctum of an ordinary "fortune teller" or crystal gazer. Juliet had seen two or three of these in several countries. They had always been Egyptian, or at least reminiscent of Leon Bakst. This might have been any woman's boudoir: but when Madame Veno had drawn the thin green curtains, the place seemed to fill with an emerald dusk, like the dusk of dreams, or the green dimness under sea.

"I suppose you think I'm not very 'psychic'," the mistress of the room remarked, placing a chair for her visitor at a table covered with a square of green velvet. "People do think that! Then, when they've consulted me, they're surprised sometimes. They get better results than from those who go in for what I call 'scenery'. You know what I mean?"

"Yes," said Juliet, "I suppose I do know."

"All I want to put me in the right frame of mind is green," explained Madame Veno, "this kind of green twilight."

She switched away the velvet covering from the table. Underneath was a cushion, and a crystal which reflected the prevailing colour. Then she sat down opposite the Duchess.

"The Countess told you what happened when I was looking into the crystal for her?" she asked.

"Madame de Saintville said that you saw something which concerned me. But how did you know it concerned me?"

"Your face came into the crystal. I'd seen your photograph, and recognized you. Besides, I felt—I felt that you were in great trouble."

"What else did you see in the crystal?"

"Let me look again, now you are here, and see if the same thing comes." As she spoke, Madame Veno bent forward and gazed closely into the transparent ball on a black base.

Some moments passed in dead silence. Juliet watched the woman's features, which became fixed and masklike. Suddenly Madame Veno started slightly and began to speak.

"I see—a handsome young man—very charming. It is your husband, Duchess. He is lying ill in a poor room. It seems to be a kind of cellar. He tosses about. He is delirious. He calls for you. I know that, because at the same time I see the picture I hear his voice. The name is 'Juliet!' I think he has had an accident. But I can't see what it was, I only know that he has hurt his head. I feel the pain myself. And I feel what he is thinking about: you—and something else. Ah, a rope of pearls! Now I get a whisper! It comes to me from his thoughts. He went in search of something that was lost—a thing of great value. Yes, the pearls!"

"Did he get them?" Juliet asked, mechanically. She had little if any faith in the woman, but a faint thrill ran through her. She could not help being slightly impressed by the seeress's change of manner, and the hypnotized look in her eyes.

"He got them—and then they were taken away. But they are in the house where he is. It is not a good house. It is a house of thieves. Ah, I must find out where it is, or I can do you no good. Or else—if I cannot find the house I must will the man who has got the pearls to communicate with me. I see him plainly."

"Why shouldn't he communicate with me?" asked Juliet.

"Will power doesn't act like that," exclaimed Madame Veno. "I could create a cord between another intelligence and my own, not between two outside intelligences. Ah, the picture has faded from the crystal! But it will come again. And for the moment we've seen enough. I have the man's face clearly before my eyes. I will concentrate upon him as I have never concentrated before! I feel sure of the power to draw him to me."

"How?" Juliet enquired.

"I can't tell yet. He may be impelled to consult me about his future, to have his 'luck' foretold. That's the line I will work on, in exerting influence. I shall remember his face from the crystal. I can't make a mistake! Once I get him here I shan't hesitate to use hypnotism. If that succeeds, I'll 'phone you to come round at once."

"With a detective," said Juliet.

Madame Veno's face changed, flushing slightly over its sallowness. "Oh, no, Duchess!" she exclaimed, emphatically. "That wouldn't do at all. Women in my profession can't encourage detectives to come spying into their methods. So far I've never had any trouble. But I've had to be very careful. Detectives are the Enemy! I shall be very sorry indeed to be disobliging, but I'm afraid I must let this business drop unless you give me your word not to bring a detective into it. Indeed, I think I must ask you not to bring in any third party. If you promise this, I don't think I'm conceited in saying I can positively make you an important promise in return. By my will power I will do for you what no detective on this earth could do. I'll draw into your circle the man who has got your husband lying helpless in his house—and who has got your pearls. Do you believe I am able to do this, or do you not?"

"I—can't say I quite believe," Juliet confessed. She might have been more definite, yet not have gone beyond the truth. She might have said, "What I think is, that you're a trickster. If there's anything in this at all beyond mere nonsense, you know where my husband is, and you're playing a deep game for money." But something warned the girl not to say this. She was afraid to say it—afraid to make the seeress afraid!

If Pat had been kidnapped, and this woman were a catspaw of those who wanted a ransom, Juliet was willing to pay. If only Pat were true—if only he hadn't left her of his own free will for love of Lyda, she would give every penny she had in the world to get him back, and not grudge it!

She reflected hastily that, if Madame Veno took her for a fool, it would be better to let it go at that rather than risk losing a chance—possibly the only chance—of saving Pat. As for telling Jack and Sanders secretly, this course must be decided later. There was surely no more harm in deceiving such a woman than in tricking a dangerous animal, so far as moral principles were concerned. The one question was, could Madame Veno safely be deceived, or would she find a way of forcing a promise to be kept?

That question was answered at once.

"I don't blame you," said Madame, with a good-natured smile. "These great forces of Nature are beyond belief to those who haven't tested them. But I know by experience what I can do. I know also what I can't do. I can do nothing if the people whose interests I serve work against me consciously or unconsciously. Now, I read your mind as I read the crystal. I see you're thinking whether or not to make a mental reservation about that promise! Well, I don't want to control you, Duchess, though I could do so. But if you bring any one into this, the whole effort will be vain. I might get the man we want here. I might hypnotize him to the point of speaking out. I might 'phone you. And yet, if you weren't alone, or if someone were spying outside, my power over him would break like—that!" she snapped her fingers together, her black eyes holding Juliet's. "Now," she went on when she'd got her effect, "I'm going to give you a proof of good faith. My fee for a consultation—just an ordinary one, not a special like this—is twenty-five dollars. No, don't take out your purse, Duchess! I won't accept a cent unless I bring off the stunt. The rest—is up to you."

"Very well," said Juliet on a sudden resolution. "Let it be so. I'll promise what you ask, and—I'll keep my promise. If you send for me, I'll come alone. And I'll tell nobody. But—I'm not a child. I must protect myself in some way. When I start for your place next time, I shall leave a letter for my cousin, Captain Manners, to be delivered by hand if I'm not back in two hours after leaving home. In the letter I shall tell him everything. But it won't be sent if all goes right. So if you play fair you've nothing to dread."

"Unless the letter should be sent to your cousin by mistake."

"My maid is a very intelligent woman," said Juliet. "She doesn't make mistakes."

"Oh, you'll leave the letter with your maid!" echoed Madame Veno.

"Yes. Do you agree to the arrangement?"

"I do," returned Madame.

Juliet rose to go. She was feeling intensely excited, if not really hopeful. Even if there were a plot, it seemed as if this might be the best way of setting to work, and she saw herself beating Sanders as a detective. So far he had made only trifling discoveries: fingerprints on the safe which told nothing, since they were Pat's and Lyda Pavoya's; there were no clues which might solve the mystery of Pat's disappearance, or lead to finding the lost pearls.

As for Jack, he was Lyda's man now! He believed the story which explained the fingerprints. She, Juliet, might soon show these two men that alone she had accomplished more than either in solving the double mystery.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE BARGAIN

Two days passed; and small as was Juliet's faith in Madame Veno, she did not stir from the house lest the woman should telephone in her absence.

The strain of constant suspense was like a screw tightening her nerves to breaking point. Her irritation grew against Jack, who persisted in warning her that she would repent her suspicions of Lyda Pavoya. To his mind apparently the dancer's story accounted for everything. Lyda had volunteered a statement that she had touched the safe after Claremanagh opened it, and she had offered to give Sanders her own fingerprints in order that they might be identified with those taken on the door of the safe, the only ones found there with the exception of the Duke's. Even this fact—that there should be no other marks visible—didn't prejudice Jack against the Siren. According to him—and (he said) to Sanders—the real thief or thieves had used rubber gloves.

As for Sanders, he tried to calm the Duchess's impatience by assuring her that everything possible was being done. He even had a theory. But, of what comfort was that to her, as he refused to tell her what it was until—or if—he could obtain positive proof? It hardly interested Juliet that he should have cabled Monsieur Mayen and learned in reply that there was no scratch on the duplicate ring given Mayen by Pat. She hadn't for a moment supposed there would be! Of course it merely made matters worse that Mayen should be left-handed, and that a specimen seal he sent by cabled request should have an entirely different appearance from those on the covering of the packet. Also, it seemed stupid rather than intelligent that Defasquelle should be watched. The detective admitted that the Frenchman seemed above suspicion. He had begged the Duke to open the packet in his presence, which alone proved his innocence, as Sanders couldn't help seeing. Besides, the French police had replied to a wired demand for Defasquelle's dossier, by saying that he was a person of unblemished character. He appeared to deserve the trust reposed in him by Monsieur Mayen; had saved up a little money and was engaged to a pretty girl with a good dot, the daughter of a hotel keeper in Marseilles. Not only that, Defasquelle was remaining in New York for the purpose of giving what aid he could. Altogether, Juliet considered that Sanders' activities were disappointing, and Jack's no better.

She refused to meet Lyda and talk with her in person as Jack advised her to do, and between her sense of being deserted and her desperate anxiety for the truth about Pat, she found more and more that her thoughts clung to the broken reed of hope held out by Madame Veno.

At last, when she was making up her mind to see the woman again without waiting longer, the message came.

Juliet was in the act of answering a letter from Nancy Van Esten, begging her to be at the dress rehearsal for the "great show" which was to benefit the Armenians. There was an undertone of friendly insistence which Juliet understood very well. Nancy knew what people were saying about Pat and Pavoya and the pearls. If she—Juliet—refused to attend this rehearsal to which all her most intimate "pals" were going, everyone would draw certain conclusions. She hated to go, but had written to say that she'd "drop in about five o'clock"—the rehearsal had to be in the afternoon, as the roof garden theatre was wanted in the evening for the last night of a revue—when the telephone bell rang almost in her ear. She picked up the receiver from the writing table, and her heart leaped at the sound of Madame Veno's voice.

"Is that you yourself, Duchess? Yes? Well, he's here! Can you come around at once?"

"Yes," said Juliet, and putting down the receiver had begun to get ready, when she remembered the letter which ought to be left for Jack. There was no time, after all, to write details. She ought to have had the note ready for emergencies, but it hadn't occurred to her till now. Hurriedly she jotted down the address of Madame Veno and a request to Jack to send there. Then, when she had scrawled "Captain Manners, Tarascon Hotel," and sealed the envelope, the Duchess rang for her maid.

"I'm going out, Simone," she said. "It's now four-thirty. If I'm not back by six-thirty it will mean that—that I must miss an appointment with Captain Manners; so at that time take this to his hotel yourself. He tells me that he's always at home between six-thirty and seven-thirty, so he's sure to be there. But if not, you can ring up Mr. Sanders at his private address, which I'll jot down for you, and ask him to call for Captain Manners' letter which concerns his business as well. I expect to come in much sooner, however—in which case you will simply hand this envelope back to me. You quite understand?"

"I quite understand, Madame la Duchesse," echoed Simone, pinning on her mistress's hat, and handing her a pair of gloves.

So well did she understand that, the moment Juliet was out of the house (the car having been ordered), she examined the back of the said envelope. In her hurry Juliet had not sealed it firmly. The flap was still wet, and came loose with almost ridiculous ease.

Simone had been somewhat surprised by the Duchess's instructions (her reason for wishing to acquaint herself with the contents of the letter) but she was still more surprised by the letter itself.

The Duchess was going to Madame Veno's, evidently to keep an engagement already made, and it would seem that she considered herself in some danger. Could Madame Veno mean to give away Mademoiselle Amaranthe's connection with the Inner Circle?

Simone told herself that this was an absurd and far-fetched suspicion, because it was not probable that Madame Veno knew anything about her activities. Besides, why should the woman—even if she knew them—betray valuable secrets of the paper and its best correspondents? It was but an idea born of an uncomfortable conscience—another name for fear.

Juliet was admitted to Madame Veno's flat by the respectable creature in black silk who had impressed her so favourably two days before. Again she was taken into the cubicle of a private waiting-room, and there Madame came at once, from her own room.

"He's still here!" she announced, having closed the door. "Everything is wonderful—but different from what I expected."

"Who is the man?" Juliet abruptly asked.

"I don't know. I haven't been able yet to make him tell me that. He seemed so obstinate that I thought I'd better extract more important details first, in case in his struggles not to obey I should lose mind-control of him—which does happen now and then in such experiments."

"You mean to tell me that this man—whoever he is—actually came to you from heaven knows where because you willed him to come, and that you hypnotized him to find out about my husband?"

"I mean just that," answered Madame Veno, triumphantly. "I've done this sort of thing before. It's the secret of my success over other psychics. I've found out that your husband was kidnapped, just as I thought. As for the pearls, so far as I can understand, he had them on him. Anyhow, they're in these people's possession. But you'd better come into my room and talk to the man."

"Is he still hypnotized?" Juliet wanted to know, irritated by her feeling that she was being deceived, yet eager and curious.

"No, not now. I've released him from the influence. He was going pale about the lips, which shows a weak heart, and I was scared. I can't take big risks of that sort! But when I explained what I'd got out of him, and when I'd even made him put on paper a short statement of his own handwriting, he saw that he might as well be frank——"

"If the statement was signed, you must have got his name. And if not, what use is it?"

"He thinks he's signed it, for I covered up the place where the name should be as if accidentally, and snatched the paper away as though I was afraid he'd grab it from me. It was when I was willing him so hard to sign that he began to look queer. So I had to give it up."

"I see," said Juliet. "Well, take me into the next room, and let me try what I can get out of him!"

"You can get everything out of him, Duchess, and you can get back your husband and your pearls. That is, if you're willing to pay the price this man asks. Even in his sleep he was firm about that, and he hasn't told where the Duke is."

Juliet did not believe that the man knew where the Duke was. It was so much more likely that the whole business was a trick to extract money and—give nothing of value in return! Still, she was more eager to see the occupant of Madame Veno's room than she had ever been to see any one—except Pat, in the blessed old days.

The green curtains were drawn, and though twilight was falling out of doors the only lamp was a small green-shaded one on the table of the crystal. The man who stood facing the two women as they entered was in shadow, all except his hands, which showed white and large, crossed on folded arms.

It was an instant before Juliet realized that something more than shadow obscured the features. Then her piercing eyes made out that a layer of black crape was drawn across them as far up as the forehead, as far down as the mouth. Beneath this mask a beard protruded like a fringe, but Juliet told herself it might be false.

"Oh, you have masked yourself!" exclaimed Madame Veno. "He wasn't masked when I left him, Duchess!"

Juliet made no comment, though if the man and woman were in collusion it was probable that Madame lied.

"There's no objection to my being masked, I suppose?" said the man. "I have a right to protect myself."

"Does he speak rather like an Englishman, or do I imagine it?" Juliet wondered.

"I don't object," she said aloud. "I don't care who you are if you can give me news of my husband, and if—if you can bring him back to me."

"I can give you news now," the man replied. "And you can have him back to-morrow night if you choose."

"What are your conditions?" Juliet asked.

"One million dollars for the Duke and the pearls."

"Oh!" said the Duchess. "And what for the Duke without the pearls?"

"We don't treat separately."

"Indeed! And what if I refuse to treat at all?"

"In that case, you'll never see your husband again on this side the grave."

"You mean you'll murder him if I don't pay ransom!"

"Not at all. This is the Duke's own affair. He's in it with us. That is"—the man spoke quickly, when anger flamed on Juliet's face and he must have feared that she would cease bargaining for a man capable of "holding up" his wife—"that is, he's in it to this extent: he's taken an oath not to give us away. He was hurt in an accident—an affair neither he nor you would like to have come out—and I and a friend of mine saved his life. When we'd done that, as we're poor men we didn't see why we shouldn't get something for ourselves. We're amateurs at these things, my mate and I, and we were at odds how to approach you, Madam, without risking trouble. Then I had a 'hunch' to consult this lady. Dreamed about her, felt I must come!" Madame Veno gave Juliet a look. "Now I find she was mesmerizing me or something of the sort. But she's given me good advice, and she's brought you and me together, so maybe all's well that ends well."

"Where's my husband?" asked Juliet.

"Where I live. And you could have me followed all around New York without finding out where that is. I'm up to every dodge of that kind, I can tell you! But what my friend and I—the Duke standing by us because of what we've done for him—what we propose, is this: you get hold of a million dollars without telling any one what the money's for. We'll know if you play us false. We have our spies. It must be all in notes. Then, if this lady—Madame Veno—is willing to see the thing through, you'll bring to her flat the whole sum, only with the notes cut in two. That plan is to prove my good faith. An hour after the Duke shall arrive—with the pearls, in an auto—at your own house. And the remaining halves of the notes shall be handed to the chauffeur by you in person before your husband leaves the car. Does that scheme look good to you?"

Juliet paused for an instant, but not to consider the money question, for she would have given not one million but all the millions she possessed to have Pat with her, alive and safe. Nor did she now care a straw whether or not these two creatures were in a plot together. She hesitated only because it seemed too good to be true that Pat should be given back to her so easily. She had suffered so much, had realized so bitterly her need of him—guilty or innocent—that she was actually dazzled by the man's offer. And when she had calmed herself by drawing a deep breath or two, she answered:

"Yes, it seems good to me!"

"Then it is good, all right!"

"How soon—can you do this?"

"How soon can you get hold of the money?"

"To-morrow. Of course it's too late to-day."

"To-morrow then. Come here at this same time. Can you manage that?"

"I will manage it," Juliet said. She remembered that she had written to Nancy van Esten, meaning to attend the rehearsal. The letter wasn't posted yet, but she would send it, and go to the theatre for a few minutes. From there, she would come here to Madame Veno's. No one could think then that she had avoided meeting Lyda Pavoya, but if she had a pressing engagement to keep, it wouldn't be her fault if there were no time for introductions!

Besides, Jack Manners and Sanders were supposed to be coming to-morrow afternoon, to discuss some new detail in the Duke's study—what, Juliet didn't know. The rehearsal would give her an excuse for absence while they were there, and as it was to meet Lyda, Jack would be pleased to have her go.

"Remember, Madam, if you don't keep this business strictly to yourself, the Duke won't materialize," the man in the mask went on. "I assure you—not on my honour, because that's a minus quantity to you, but on your husband's—you can take my word for this. And furthermore, if you attempt to trick us you'll never have a chance again."

"If there were as little chance of your tricking me, as of my tricking you," Juliet exclaimed, "I should be happy."

"Be happy then!" retorted the man. "The thing's settled. I'm off. And I'll tell the Duke that you send him a good message."

He was out of the room before Juliet had realized that he meant to suit his action to his word! With a wild impulse she would have sprung after him to ask other questions, but the door slammed in her face. She was too late. And besides, what would have been gained by keeping the man a moment more?

"I don't think there's anything further to do or say. But let him go quietly," Madame Veno advised.

Juliet turned upon her. "I believe you're in this!" she cried.

The elder woman smiled indulgently, as at a petulant child. "My dear, I'm not!" she said. "But I can't prove that, if you don't want to take my word."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter!" Juliet sighed. "What do I owe you for—your services?"

"What you think they're worth. Pay me to-morrow," Madame replied.

To-morrow! It seemed that Juliet could not live till then!