Part 12 (1/2)

”Lord! What a pity!” he murmured. ”She would have been such an inspiration to him. It was the devil's own luck. Poor Kenwick! Poor little Crete!”

CHAPTER XII

Madame Rosalie was setting her stage for a caller. It was evidently to be an important client, for cards, crystal, horoscope, ouija-board, and other handmaidens to divination were set forth upon the table in the dim back parlor. The priestess herself, in her garnet-colored robe, moved about the room with the noiselessness of a shadow. Although it was barely dusk she drew the shades and swung the electric bulb over the end of the table. Then she stood surveying her work with the critical scrutiny of an artist experimenting for the best light upon his picture.

Her too-brilliant eyes roved restlessly from one carefully arranged detail to another.

Suddenly a footstep sounded outside, and there was a buzz of the electric bell. Madame Rosalie waited exactly the correct length of time before responding to its summons. The interval was expressive neither of eagerness nor indifference. When she returned to her sanctum it was to usher into it a man who moved hurriedly, drew off a pair of heavy driving-gloves, and tossed them into the Morris-chair. The astrologist removed them quietly to a settee in a far corner of the apartment and seated herself in the chair.

”They say you're the eighth wonder of the world.” Her visitor spoke with a thinly veiled sarcasm as he took his place under the light. ”I might as well tell you at the outset that I don't go in much for this sort of thing. I'm here upon the suggestion of somebody else. I've known a good many of you trance mediums and my experience has been that you're strong on the future and weak on the past. You play safer that way. But it happens that I want help with the past more than with the future. What's the idea now? Are you going to hypnotize me?”

His voice was not antagonistic, only briskly businesslike. He might have been suggesting that he try on the suit of clothes which a salesman was proffering for his favor.

Madame Rosalie answered in the low, slightly indifferent voice that had surprised Roger Kenwick. ”Hypnotism is a cooperative measure. I couldn't hypnotize you unless you were willing and would help me.”

He laughed. ”That's a good deal for you to admit. Most of you people claim to be able to do anything.”

”Do you wish me to try to hypnotize you?”

”No, I don't care about it especially. It takes a lot of time, doesn't it? Get busy on something that comes right down to bra.s.s tacks.”

She turned the crystal sphere slowly in her hand. ”You are obsessed by a fear, and you have reason to be. There is a very serious problem confronting you, and you need help in solving it. I can't help you, but perhaps I can find some one else who can.”

She gathered up a bundle of cards. At first glance he had thought they were playing-cards, but he saw now that the reverse sides were all blanks. ”On each of these I am going to write a word,” she explained.

”I'll hold it for an instant before your eyes. Read it, close your eyes, and then look at those maroon-colored curtains over there.”

Without comment he followed these instructions. Ten minutes pa.s.sed while the client glanced at the cards and then at the curtains. Sometimes his gaze strayed back to the bit of pasteboard before the medium had another one ready. By the end of the hour she had cast his horoscope, read his palm, and performed other mystic rites. Then she settled back in the deep chair and announced herself ready to ”project the astral body.” A few moments pa.s.sed in absolute silence. The medium appeared to fall into a light slumber, and the man on the other side of the table was prepared to see her face contorted by the writhing pains of the trance victim.

But it remained calm, almost deathlike. His shrewd eyes were sizing her up as she slept. He seemed almost to forget that he had come for spiritual counsel, and his gaze was calculating, speculative, as though he were considering her possibilities as an ally. Suddenly a voice came from the depths of the chair. It made him jump. It was not the voice of Madame Rosalie, but one that seemed vaguely familiar.

”Marstan is dead.” The words died away in a kind of moan. After an interval of silence came the message, ”He says to tell you that you have found the criminal, and now is the time to act.” She seemed to sink deeper into oblivion. The client waited a full minute. Then he leaned over and whispered through the stillness two words--”Rest Hollow.”

The medium's head rolled from side to side on the cus.h.i.+ons of the chair, like that of a surgical patient who is trying to escape the ether sponge. ”Gone!” she muttered. ”All gone!”

He swept aside the cards and ouija-board and leaned closer, his hands almost touching hers. The amused skepticism had died out of his amber eyes, and the question that he asked came in a tense whisper. ”Where is Ralph Regan?”

A frown drew the woman's heavy black brows together. ”Gone!” she murmured again. ”Gone!”

It was not possible for him to determine from her tone whether she was answering his last question or merely repeating her response to ”Rest Hollow.” He tried again.

And after a moment the reply came slowly through stiff lips. ”The way leads over a curving road. Follow that road to a place with a high stone fence where the gates stand always open. There you will find him.”

He settled back in his chair, his eyes resting, fascinated, upon the graven face.

”Marstan is here.” She spoke in her own voice now and there was in it a note of infinite weariness. ”He has something to say to you.”

The man smiled grimly. ”I should think he would. Tell him to go ahead; I'm listening.”

”He says you must give up the first plan----” She frowned in the effort of transmission. ”And the second plan--and try the third. He says there is a woman working in the plan too: she has just begun to work in it.