After the turmoil of London and the excitements of that last
uncomfortable week at The Home of Art, the peace and beauty and
rural influences of Beckleigh were extremely pleasant. Patricia
arrived with unsteady nerves and an unhappy feeling of unrest, but
after seven days in this somnolent corner of Devonshire, she regained
her usual placidity of character. Although she was Irish, the girl, by
reason of her magnificent health, escaped, to a great extent, those
up-in-the-air and down-in-the-sea moods which characterize the Celt.
As Arthur had been taken to the island valley of Avilion, there to be
healed of his grievous wound, so Patricia felt that she had been
guided to this Garden of Sleep that her irritated nerves might be
soothed. And at the end of a week, she was more convinced than ever
that she had chanced upon a veritable paradise of rest, which well
deserved the name. “It is the Garden of Sleep,” thought Patricia
dreamily, “and here I shall rest until—-” she paused at this point,
as her future could not be foretold in any way.

The girl found Beckleigh to be a little fairy bay on the south coast
of Devonshire, shut out from the world by high moorlands, over which
tourists rarely came. Where the rolling downs dipped to the sea, there
was a secluded nook–a dimple on the face of natural beauty, and here
a quaint, rambling old house of mellowed grey stone nestled close to a
mighty cliff of red sandstone. It was a quarter of a mile from the
mansion to the yellow sands of the tiny beach, and the fertile acres
were covered with many trees. The wood was partly wild and partly
artificial, and was threaded by dozens of paths, narrow and broad.
These led unexpectedly to clearings, rainbow-hued with flowers, or to
sylvan glades fit for the revels of Titania and her elves. Although it
was close upon Christmas, yet myriad flowers were in bloom, and
stately palms, growing here and there, gave a suggestion of tropical
vegetation to the miniature forest. The climate of this particular
beauty-spot was truly wonderful, with almost constant warmth and
sunshine. And here again it resembled Avilion, lacking snow and hail
and rain, and the voice of wild, destructive winds. The ruddy cliff
gathered the heat of many suns and poured it forth when the skies were
clouded, while the high moors screened this favoured paradise from the
cutting north winds.

“It is truly lovely,” said Patricia, as she strolled with Mara through
these gardens of Alcinous, day after day, and found the same bland
conditions prevailing. “I would not have believed that there was such
a lovely spot in this cold, grey England.”

“Oh, we have bad weather sometimes,” said Mara, in her soft, low
voice; “the skies grow cloudy and the sea grows very rough. It rains,
too, heavily at times, but I don’t think we have ever had snow or
hail. The cliff keeps us warm.”

The two girls turned on the edge of the lawn, where the woods began,
and looked upward at the mighty cliff, which towered majestically
above them like the Tower of Babel. To Mara, who had dwelt beneath it
for so long, it looked like a kindly guardian giant, who gave shelter
and warmth to the favoured acres at its base; but Patricia thought it
looked frowning and menacing.

“It looks as though one day it would fall and crush the house,” she
said with a shiver, for the hostility of the great mass of rock seemed

Mara smiled in her slow, sad way. “It has stood there without falling
since the world began, I suppose,” she said wisely, “so I don’t see
why it should fall, now you have come.”

“I suppose not. Yet,” Patricia shivered again, “it makes me feel
uncomfortable. Do you remember in ‘Childe Roland,’ how the hills, like
giants at hunting, lay watching the game at bay. It looks to me like

But Mara had not read Browning, and could not grasp the allusion. She
gazed at the vast, lowering mass with affection, for to her it was
like a domestic hearth where she could warm herself. After a time she
turned, and stared seaward towards the glistening sapphire waters,
which flashed in the pale winter sunshine. Through the woods a broad
path was cut from the lawns surrounding the house to the smooth beach,
where the wavelets broke in gentle play. To right and left of the bay
were tall cliffs, similar to that which guarded the mansion, and these
ended in bold headlands some distance out. On one side and the other,
rising gently and greenly, the vast spaces of the moorlands swept
grandly away to the heights above. And in their cup was the solitary
mansion muffled in its warm woods. In spite of the lateness of the
season, the air was moist and heated, as if the red cliff was clasping
the home of the Colpsters to its gigantic breast.

“But how do you get food here?” asked Patricia suddenly, when she saw
that Mara did not speak; “are there any villages about?”

“Two on the moorlands, and one on the way to Hendle, where the railway

“Ah, yes,” Patricia nodded. “I remember Hendle, and how I drove here
with the Squire down that winding road. But it was so dark that I
could see nothing on the way, and since I have been in this place I
have not explored the neighbourhood.”

“We can do so whenever you like,” said Mara quietly; “but it will be
best to wait until Basil comes home next week. He loves this place,
and knows every inch of the surrounding country.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Dane know it also?”

“Theodore? Oh, yes, in a way. But he is like my father, and is never
so happy as when he is reading and writing. He does not go out much,
and we only see him at luncheon and dinner. It is nearly luncheon

Patricia caught the girl’s slim hand. “Let us go in now,” she said. “I
am hungry, Mara, but I don’t believe you are. A fairy like you, lives

“‘apricocks and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.'”

“Who said that?” asked Mara, smiling in her dreamy fashion.

“Titania said it, and Shakespeare put the words into her mouth. Mara,
I must educate you in English literature. You knew nothing of Browning
when I quoted him lately, and now I see that you have not read
Shakespeare’s plays. This is dreadful.”

Mara shrugged her thin shoulders. “I don’t care for reading, Patricia.
It is much nicer to walk about under the open sky. I don’t wish to
become like Theodore and father. They stay indoors everlastingly.”

“Do they never go away for a change?”

“Rarely. Both Theodore and father have been in London lately. Theodore
came back first, and then father came last week with you.”

“Are you sorry he brought me?” asked Patricia, slipping her arm
impulsively round the girl’s waist.

“No,” said Mara, in so unemotional a fashion that Patricia felt
chilled. “I like you, as you don’t worry me. Miss Tibbets always
worried me with lessons.”

“But you must be educated, Mara?”

“Why? I don’t see the use of learning things.”

Patricia looked at her curiously, for although she had been studying
the girl for several days, Mara was still an enigma to her. Mr.
Colpster’s only daughter and only child was undersized and slim,
graceful in figure and movements, and clever enough, in spite of her
dreamy ways, to look after herself in a very thorough fashion.
Patricia did not at all agree with Mrs. Sellars’ use of the word
“weak” as applied to Mara, for that young lady made shrewd remarks at
times which showed a capable character. But there was something
decidedly elfish about the girl, both in looks and ways. Mara’s pale
golden locks and pale blue eyes and pale complexion presented her to
the onlooker as a somewhat shadowy creature. Her silent movements and
low voice and frequent lack of conversation gave the same impression.
Patricia could not get near the shy soul clothed in this fragile,
tintless body. She seemed to be scarcely human, but to be compounded
of moonlight and grey mist, containing in herself all that was
melancholy in Nature. The warmth and tropical luxuriance of Beckleigh
did not suit her personality. She should have been placed in some sad,
antique temple, isolated on a lonely plain, and under sombre skies.
The Irish girl was warm, human, life-loving and affectionate, so it
was difficult to make friends with this Undine, so chill and distant
in her ways and looks. Patricia began to think that, after all, the
salary she had thought so large was not too much, seeing that she had
to warm this statue into life. But how to set about the task she did
not know.

“What do you like doing?” she asked, as they walked towards the house.


“Don’t you get bored?”

“Not at all; I–” Mara hesitated, then turned her pale blue eyes on
the flushed and lovely face of her companion–“I dream,” she said

“What do you dream about?” asked Patricia curiously.

Mara passed her pale hand across her pale forehead. “I can hardly tell
you,” she said in her low voice, which suggested softly breathing
midnight winds; “there is something wanting.”

“Something wanting?”

“To bring back that which I dream about.”

“But what do you dream about?” persisted Miss Carrol, more puzzled
than ever, as she looked at Mara’s pale, pathetic face.

“The something will tell me when it brings it back.”

“Brings what back?”

“That which I dream about?”

“And that is—-?”

“I don’t know.”

The conversation was turning in a circle, and Mara was repeating her
answers, as was Patricia her questions. Some invisible barrier divided
the two girls, and although Patricia wished, in order to earn her
salary honestly, to break it down, Mara apparently did not. Neither in
look nor gesture did she make any advance, so Miss Carrol could do
nothing but sigh over the difficulty of the problem which she had to
solve, and renew her walk towards the house. Mara followed in silence,
not sullen at being questioned and not angry. She was simply

The Colpster homestead was two-storey and rambling, confusedly
composed of various styles of architecture. The oldest portion was
Tudor, and had been built by Amyas, the founder of the family, when he
had first set up his tent in this solitary spot. Later Colpsters had
added and taken away, so that one wing was wanting, while the other
was of Jacobean style. On one side also there stood a square Georgian
block of many rooms, comfortable but ugly. The effect of this mass of
different orders of architecture was to make the entire dwelling look
picturesque, if not strictly beautiful. Time also had mellowed the
whole to lovely restful hues, and Nature had clothed many eye-sores
with trailing ivy and Virginian creeper. Indeed, so thickly were the
walls covered with living vegetation, that it looked as though the
loosely-built, untidy dwelling was fastened to the emerald sward of
the lawns. Or, as Patricia thought, halting on the doorstep for a
single moment, as though the building had sprang therefrom in a single
night, like a mushroom. And the house dwelt in, and fondled, and loved
for many generations had about it a warm, homely feeling of intimate
humanity. But over it, as the girl again observed with a shiver, ever
hung the angry, red-faced cliff, menacing and sinister.

The interior of the mansion was as jumbled, so to speak, as its
outside, for various additions and alterations and removals had
destroyed the original plan of the dwelling, if, indeed, it ever had
possessed any such design. Some rooms had doors leading into others,
passages twisted and turned in a most bewildering manner, and a few
ended in blank walls. A stranger would find himself stepping down into
one room and up into another, as the flooring of the whole house was
irregular. There were narrow doors and broad doors: many of the
windows were diamond-paned casements, while others presented a large
surface of modern glass. Grates were here, and vast open fireplaces
there, and many rooms were as dark as others were light.

The house both pleased and irritated, as everywhere the visitor came
upon unexpected corners, or was brought up short before closed
entrances. It was a nightmare house, and like none that Patricia, used
to extreme modernity, had ever entered.

The furniture and furnishing of the many rooms was also fantastic, and
here Patricia saw more plainly the effects of Colpster’s narrow
income, as everything was old-fashioned and worn. The carpets and
hangings, the paper covering the walls and the paintings adorning the
ceiling, were shabby and faded. The drawing-room was filled with
Chippendale tables, Sheraton chairs, fender-stools of the Albert
period, and Empire sofas covered with worn brocade, while the
dining-room had merely a horsehair mahogany suite, aggressively
slippery. The whole house looked shabby and was shabby, yet the hand
of Time had so co-ordinated the furniture and decorations of various
epochs that the effect of the whole was beautiful. The sombre family
portraits, the tarnished silver ornaments, the subdued hues of
curtains and carpets, all gave the dwelling a refined air. There was
nothing modern or garish or machine-made about the place. Everything
looked mellow, suitable, old-world and slightly melancholy. It was a
house to dream in, as it was filled with drowsy suggestions: a mansion
of meditation, as the grounds without were the Gardens of Sleep. No
wonder Mara was given to vague visions. A stronger person would have
succumbed to the somniferous influence of the place.

The luncheon-table, laid with snow-white linen, glittering with
diamond-cut glass, and heavy, old-fashioned silver, looked very
attractive in the soft light of the large room, which stole in through
quaint casements. Patricia, anxious to take up her household duties,
had arranged the decorations of the table, and was rapidly getting
into the swing of her domestic duties. She found the servants dull and
out-of-date, but very obedient; and although, with the privilege of
old retainers, they grumbled at many of her innovations, they did what
she asked them to do. Mr. Colpster congratulated her on her successful
_début_ on this very occasion.

“You are a born housekeeper, Miss Carrol,” he said, when he took his
place at the head of the table, looking leaner and more like a student
than ever.

“I used to look after my father’s house before he died,” said Patricia
with a sigh, “and he was very particular.”

“He was, even as a boy. I remember him at Sandhurst.”

“Were you at Sandhurst?” remarked the girl, looking at her host, who
did not in any way resemble a military man.

Colpster laughed in his silent fashion. “Oh, yes. I had thoughts of
winning the V.C., and so tormented my father to make me a soldier. But
I soon grew tired of the Army, as I had not the necessary money to
keep it up. I therefore retired when my father died and have vegetated
here ever since. I hope you don’t find our life here too dull, Miss
Carrol,” and he looked anxiously towards the bright face of the girl.

“I like it,” replied Patricia absently; “it is such a rest after the
rush and worry of London. By the way, Mr. Colpster, I wish you would
not call me Miss Carrol: it sounds so stiff.”

“Patricia, then,” said the Squire genially, and with a bright look in
his usually sad eyes which showed that he was pleased; “it is a very
charming name and suits”–he made an old-world bow–“a very charming
young lady.”

The girl laughed and coloured and bowed in return. Then, to turn the
conversation, which was becoming too complimentary, she glanced at the
vacant place opposite to that of Mara’s. “Where is Mr. Dane?” she
asked abruptly.

“Talk of angels and you hear their wings,” said the Squire, for at
that moment the door opened to admit the eldest nephew.

Theodore was tall and rather stout, with a heavy face by no means
attractive. His skin was pale, and he possessed very bright blue eyes,
and reddish hair, worn–as was his uncle’s–rather long. His jaw was
of the bull-dog order, and with this, and his bulky figure, to say
nothing of the piercing look in his eyes, he appeared to be rather a
formidable personage. But he was so good-natured and conversational
that Patricia liked him, and thought–which was probably true–that
his bark was much worse than his bite. He dressed much more carefully
than did Mr. Colpster, and one noticeable point about him were his
delicate white hands, which he was rather fond of using to emphasize
his conversation. Patricia guessed that the man was proud of those
hands, as one of his rare good points, and liked to draw attention to
their perfection.

“I am sorry that I am late, Miss Carrol,” said Theodore, sitting down
with an alacrity surprising in so heavy a man. “I was taken up with a
new manuscript which I acquired when I was in London.”

“What is it about?” asked Patricia politely.

“Occult matters. You would not understand even if I explained.”
Theodore stopped; then looked into her face and added: “Yet you are

“What has that got to do with your remark, Mr. Dane?”

“Only this: that the Celt is usually more in touch with the Unseen
than is the Saxon. I come of the latter race, and have no psychic
powers; but I think you have, Miss Carrol.”

“What do you mean exactly by psychic powers?”

“You can see things and feel things, which is more than many people
can do by reason of their limitations. Ah!” he looked at her sharply,
as he saw her face change. “You have felt something, or you have seen

“Well, yes,” answered Patricia, and regretted the admission. At the
moment, she was thinking of the Mikado Jewel and her sensations when
holding it. Fearful of being ridiculed, she had not said anything even
to Mr. Colpster about this, and did not wish to speak even to
Theodore, although she guessed from his talk that he was less
sceptical about such things than the ordinary man. “I may tell you
about my experience some day,” she added, quickly, seeing from his
face that he was about to press his questions. “Not now.”

Theodore nodded. “I shall keep you to your promise,” he said alertly,
“and we might try some experiments. Mara won’t let me experiment with

“I don’t like your experiments, Theodore,” said Mara quietly, and
looking up with a nervous look on her pale face, “they are dangerous.”

“There is always danger, my dear girl, when one is exploring a new
country, and the Realms of the Unseen are new to us. Your dreams—-”

Mara flushed. “Never mind about my dreams,” she said frowning, and
with a sudden glance at Patricia.

“And never mind continuing this unwholesome conversation,” said Mr.
Colpster, who had been opening letters, “it is not good for Mara. By
the way, Basil is coming home in three days. His ship is at Falmouth.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Mara delightedly. “I love Basil. He’s a

“Let us hope that Miss Carrol will love him also,” said Theodore

“I love everybody who is nice to me,” said Patricia, laughing,
although she wondered why Mr. Dane made such a remark.

“Oh, Basil will be nice! He’s a universal lover,” scoffed the man

Patricia looked at him sharply and noticed the acrid tone. It seemed
to her that Theodore was not fond of his brother. “I wonder why?” she
asked herself, but naturally could obtain no reply to such an intimate

Life went so softly and gently at Beckleigh that it was like dwelling
in an enchanted land, in a fabled heaven of drowsy ease. Patricia
compared the place to the island of the Lotus-eaters, and after the
storms of her early experiences, she enjoyed to the full its calm
seclusion. Never was there so solitary a place. The Colpsters were a
county family of respectable antiquity, and it was to be presumed that
in the ordinary course of things they knew many people of their own
rank. But either their friends and acquaintances lived too far away or
were not invited to the house, for no stranger ever came near the
place. Not even the inevitable tourist chanced upon this charmed spot.
Beckleigh might have been situated in the moon, for all connection it
had with the outside world.

The dwellers in this quiet haven did not seem to mind being left alone
in this odd way. The servants, mostly old and staid, were contented
with the house and grounds, and occasionally ventured on the quiet
waters of the fairy bay in rowing-boats. Once a week the elderly
butler drove to Hendle and to the adjacent villages, to bring back
groceries and such things as were needful to support life. The postman
came on a bicycle, once a day, with news from the outside world, and
Patricia found that the library was well supplied with magazines and
newspapers. There was no complaint to be made on that score, as the
inhabitants of Beckleigh always knew what was going on both at home
and abroad. They might be secluded, but they were not ignorant, and
although not rolling stones, they gathered no moss. This warm,
forgotten nook was an ideal home for a student.

And both Theodore and his uncle were students, as Patricia gradually
learned. Mr. Colpster was writing a history of his family, and had
been engaged for many years in doing so. From Amyas downward the
Squire traced the history of his forebears, showing how they had risen
to wealth and rank until the middle part of Elizabeth’s reign, and
how, from that period, by the selfish conduct of Bevis Colpster in
parting with the emerald, his sons and grandsons had lost the greater
part of their possessions. Also, he related various romantic stories
dealing with the attempts of Georgian Colpsters to redeem the family
fortunes. And, finally, when he reached the conclusion of the book, as
he told Patricia, he intended to relate how the emerald had been
recovered, and how again it had worked its spell of good fortune.

“But if you don’t recover the emerald?” asked Miss Carrol very

“I must recover it,” said the Squire vehemently. “If I do not, the
family will die out. When the Mikado Jewel is again in our possession,
she can inherit the estates on condition that she marries Theodore or

“Are you speaking of Mara?” questioned Patricia, noting the vague way
in which her companion talked.

“Of course; of course,” he answered testily. “She must marry one of
her cousins, and her husband can take the family name. Then the
emerald will draw plenty of money to us, and we will again buy back
our lost lands.”

“How can the emerald draw back money?” asked Patricia, again thinking,
as she very often did, of her sensations when holding the stone.

“I don’t know; I can’t say. I am only using a figure of speech, as it
were, my dear girl. But in some way this emerald means good fortune to
us, as was amply proved by the success of Amyas, his son and grandson.
They owned all the land as far as Hendle; but when the emerald was
lost the acres and their villages were lost also.” Mr. Colpster rose
and began to walk to and fro excitedly. “I must find that emerald; I
must; I must!”

“How are you going to set about it?” asked the girl, doubtfully.

“I cannot say.” He resumed his seat at his desk with a heavy sigh.
“There is no clue to follow. If we could learn who murdered Martha we
might discover the assassin and regain the jewel.”

“But how can the assassin have it, Mr. Colpster? Assuming that he
murdered poor Mrs. Pentreddle in order to steal the emerald, you know
that it was not in her possession.”

“No. That is quite true. While the assassin was searching the house,
the emerald was being stolen from you in the Park. But undoubtedly the
emerald was meant to be given to Martha since you went to receive it.
How did she manage to get it? I want an answer to that question.”

“Why not ask it of Harry Pentreddle?” suggested Patricia quietly.

Colpster raised his head and stared. “Why? What could Harry possibly
know about the matter?”

“I am only putting two and two together,” continued the girl,
thoughtfully looking out of the window. “You told me that the emerald
was taken to Japan, and also that Harry Pentreddle had returned from
the Far East. He—-”

“What?” Colpster rose excitedly to his feet. “You think that Harry
brought it with him; that he stole it from the Temple of Kitzuki?”

“Why not?” demanded Patricia swiftly. “Japan is in the Far East, and
Harry Pentreddle came from there. Also, his mother came up to London
to meet him and receive the emerald. I feel sure of it.”

“But Harry never came near the house,” expostulated the Squire. “That
was clearly proved at the inquest.”

“Quite so. But do you remember what you told me about the emerald
being a sacred stone, and how you mentioned Wilkie Collins’ novel of
‘The Moonstone’? Perhaps some priests were on Harry Pentreddle’s
track, and so he did not dare to go openly to his mother. He must have
arranged the signal of the red light in the Park, so that he could
give his mother the emerald secretly. She could not keep the
appointment by reason of her sprained foot, and so sent me. I now
believe, on these assumptions,” declared Patricia firmly, “that it was
Harry Pentreddle who gave me the deal box.”

Colpster grew very excited. “It sounds a feasible theory,” he
muttered. “Of course, Martha knew all about my desire to get back the
emerald. But why should she get her son to steal it? I can understand
the secrecy of the meeting in the Park, as undoubtedly the priests
of the Kitzuki Temple would make every effort to regain the stone.
Harry had to give the emerald to his mother secretly, and probably
for the same reason he is now in hiding at Amsterdam. It all fits in.
But”–Mr. Colpster paused and looked straightly at the girl–“why did
Martha want the emerald?”

“Perhaps to give it to you.”

“In that case, she would have told me of her plans.”

“I think not,” said Patricia, after a pause. “She might fancy you
would not approve of the jewel being stolen. However, it is all
theory, and the only way in which you can get at the truth is by
questioning Harry Pentreddle.”

“The question is how to find him,” murmured the Squire musingly. “If
he thinks the priests are after him, he will remain in hiding.”

“If he has seen the report of his mother’s death and of the inquest,”
said Patricia coolly, “he will see that there is no longer any reason
for him to dread the priests of Kitzuki.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe that Harry was followed by one on that night, and
that the second man who stole the jewel from me was one of the

“If that is so, why was Martha murdered?”

“I can’t say. Of course, like the Moonstone guardians, there may have
been three priests. One followed Harry and one went to The Home of

“And the third?”

“The third may have directed the other two. It is all fancy, perhaps,”
said Patricia, hesitating; “but I think that my theory is correct.”

“I am positive that it is,” said the Squire, with decision. “Where a
man argues to reach a point, a woman jumps in the dark intuitively.
Gradually I might have arrived at the same conclusion you suggest by
reasoning; but I feel certain that you have given me the truth by
using that subconscious mind which is more active in woman than man.
Yes, yes!” Mr. Colpster opened and shut his hands excitedly; “you have
given me the clue. Harry was told by his mother to steal the emerald;
she did not tell me, as she knew that I would not approve. Harry
secured the emerald and was followed by those who guarded it. Being in
danger of death, he made the secret appointment with his mother which
you kept, and passed along the jewel. The Japanese who was following
saw that what he wanted had changed hands, and leaving Harry, came
after you. When you looked at the jewel he snatched it. Meanwhile, in
some way, these priests knew that the jewel was to go to Martha, and
so one must have gone to get it from her. She refused to say anything
and was killed by the man, who afterwards searched the house for the
emerald. It is all clear, perfectly clear.”

“What will you do now?” asked Patricia, catching fire from his

“Do?” almost shouted the old man, straightening his bent frame. “I
shall try and find Harry Pentreddle and see if he will endorse your

“My theory,” corrected the girl quickly.

“Well, theory, if you like. But Harry must be found. No doubt,
thinking he was in danger of his life, he went abroad and is in

“How can you find him, then?”

“I shall ask Isa Lee. She lives at Hendle, and is the girl to whom he
is engaged. He must have written to her, and–and—-”

“And why not ask Mara,” broke in a quiet voice.

Patricia looked up with a start, so unexpected was the observation.
From behind a screen which was placed in front of the door came
Theodore Dane. For so huge a man–and in Patricia’s eyes he looked
more gigantic than ever at the moment–he moved as quietly as a cat.
Mr. Colpster seemed rather annoyed by this stealthy entrance.

“I wish you would make more noise,” he said irritably.

“I thought you did not like noise, uncle,” said Theodore calmly, and
allowed himself to drop into a saddle-back chair.

“No more I do. All the same, I don’t care about being surprised in
this way. You should have knocked at the door, or have rattled the
handle, or—-”

“I did knock, I did rattle the handle,” said Dane carelessly, and
thrust one white hand through his leonine masses of reddish hair; “but
you were so interested in your conversation with Miss Carrol that you
did not hear me.”

“And you listened?” continued the Squire irritably.

“I ask pardon for doing so. But the conversation was about the Mikado
Jewel, which always fascinates me, and I could scarcely help
overhearing a few words. But if the conversation is private—-” He
heaved up his big frame as if to go away.

“It’s not private,” snapped Colpster, sitting down at his desk; “only
your unexpected appearance startled me. I would have reported the
conversation to you later, as I know that you are as anxious as I am
to recover the palladium of the family.”

“I should certainly like to recover it personally,” said Theodore with
point, “as I know the succession to the estate depends upon its being
given to you. If I get it, I inherit; if Basil is the lucky finder, he
obtains all the property. You know what you arranged.”

“Yes, and I hold to that arrangement. But as neither Basil nor you
have secured the Mikado Jewel—-”

“Neither one of us inherits?” finished Dane quietly.

“The one who marries Mara gets it,” said Colpster decisively. “She is
my only daughter and must benefit under my will. Marry her, Theodore,
and be my heir. Mara is a nice girl; you can’t object.”

“Mara will. She likes Basil better than she does me.”

“In that case, she must marry Basil, and he can become master here,
when I pass over,” said Mr. Colpster, with a shrug.

Theodore’s white face flushed and his blue eyes glittered even
more brightly than usual. Patricia, who was watchful of his every
movement–for the latent strength of the man impressed her–guessed
that he was furiously angry, but was reining in his passion with an
iron hand. “If Basil inherits he will turn me out of doors,” he said

“Oh, you can make your own arrangements with Basil,” said the Squire.
“You and he never get on well together, so—-”

“Because I am the ugly duckling,” burst out Theodore, his eyes flaming
like sapphires. “Basil is the popular one; he has all the looks and
all the—-” He checked himself suddenly and smiled in a wry manner.
“But these family arrangements cannot interest Miss Carrol. Let us
leave marriages and any arrangement that may come after your death,
uncle, alone for the moment. We have to find the emerald.”

“In what way?” asked the Squire directly, and rather sourly. There did
not seem to be much love lost between him and his burly nephew.

“We must find out where Harry Pentreddle is and question him. Isa Lee
may know, but in order not to lose time, I suggest that we question

“No,” said Colpster sharply. “Last time you put her in a trance she
was ill for days. I won’t have her constitution tampered with.”

“Mara’s spirit got beyond my control,” said Theodore quickly, “and
remained away longer than was wise. It would not obey!”

“The child might have died,” growled the Squire, who did not seem
surprised at this strange speech of his nephew’s. “Leave her alone.
Isa Lee will certainly be able to tell us where Harry is. Mara is

“She was not useless when she told you where the emerald was to be
found,” said Theodore calmly, and lounging in his deep chair.

Mr. Colpster looked at Patricia, who was privately amazed at this
extraordinary conversation, which dealt in a matter-of-fact way with
super-physical things, and laughed at the expression on her face. “I
promised to explain one day how I came to learn where the emerald
was,” he remarked.

Patricia nodded. “Yes, you did, Mr. Colpster. In the train.”

“I remember. Well, then, Theodore here put Mara asleep, and told her
to look for the jewel. She went unerringly to Japan and saw that it
was in the Temple of Kitzuki in the province of Izumo. At the time I
did not believe this, but it proved to be true, and the shrine which
held it, as Basil wrote home to me, was precisely described by Mara
when in her trance.”

“But I don’t believe in these things,” burst out Patricia, staring
aghast at what she regarded as gross superstition.

“And the Inquisition did not believe that the earth went round the
sun,” said Theodore coolly. “But although they forced Galileo to deny
that truth, the earth continued to circle the sun and took the
disbelieving Inquisitors along with it. Do not measure everything by
your own brain, Miss Carrol, for there are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamed of in your—-”

“Oh, I have heard that quotation so often,” cried Patricia
impetuously; “but nothing can be proved.”

“Not to those who only possess physical brains. But those who have
eyes can see and those who have ears can hear. To those people Christ

Patricia laid her delicate hands on her lap despairingly. “I don’t
know what you are talking about,” she observed, with a shrug.

“Well, never mind,” Theodore hastened to say, seeing that she was
rather annoyed. “Some day you will understand. Just now all you need
know is that Mara told us that the emerald was to be found in the
Temple of Kitzuki in Japan. That proved to be true, although it was
learned in what appears to you to be a nonsensical way. I believe,” he
fixed her gaze with his keen blue eyes strongly, “I believe that you
are psychic yourself.”

Mr. Colpster jumped up a trifle nervously. “I won’t have it, Theodore.
Leave Patricia alone. I am quite sure your experiments with Mara have
done her a great deal of harm, and have made her more dreamy and
unpractical than ever. I won’t have Patricia caught in these evil

“There is no evil in searching for the Unseen,” protested Theodore
warmly. “In that case–if it was regarded as evil, I mean–men would
cease to inquire and there would be no inventions.”

“If the searching you mention was regarded as evil,” said the Squire
grimly, “men would certainly search more willingly than if the powers
were regarded as good. However, I put my foot down. I am not an
unbeliever, as you know, but I don’t think it is right to pry into
what God wishes to be concealed. ‘Thus far shalt thou go and no

“That was said of the ocean,” retorted Theodore. “And yet we have
reclaimed lands from the sea and prevented the waves from going as far
as they used to. Everything is good if rightly used, and—-”

“I won’t hear; I won’t hear;” Mr. Colpster walked abruptly to the
window. “You are always arguing. Leave Patricia alone.”

“What does Miss Carrol say herself?” asked Dane, turning to the girl.

“I agree with Mr. Colpster,” she rejoined promptly. “I don’t like such
things, and think they are evil.”

“Very good. We will talk no more of the matter,” said Theodore
quietly. “Only one thing I will ask you, since I believe you to be a
sensitive. Have you not experienced strange sensations yourself?”

“In connection with the emerald I have,” replied Patricia, who was
anxious to have her curiosity in this respect gratified. And Dane
certainly seemed a man who could do so.

On hearing her reply, Mr. Colpster turned away from the window and
walked back to plant himself before her. “What do you mean?” he asked

“I mean that while I held the emerald I felt the strangest sensations.
It was because I felt these that I opened the box.”

Theodore leaned forward with his hands on the arms of his chair. “I
knew you were psychic,” he said triumphantly. “All Irish people are,
more or less, as they come along the Chaldean-Egyptian-Carthagenian

“What do you mean?” asked Patricia, completely puzzled.

“Oh, never mind; never mind,” broke in the Squire impatiently.
“Theodore can explain himself later. Meanwhile tell me what sensations
you felt?”

Patricia stared straight before her, striving to recall what she had
experienced on that terrible night. “Both when the jewel was in the
box and in my hand,” she said slowly, “I felt a sensation as though it
held some great force which was ever pushing outward.”

“Pushing outward!” muttered Theodore, pinching his nether lip. “How?”

“I can scarcely explain. Wave after wave of this invisible force
seemed to radiate from the petals of the flower.”

“What flower?” asked Colpster, greatly interested.

“The chrysanthemum blossom which was formed of the carved jade petals,
with the emerald in its centre. The radiating force seemed to push
back all darkness and all evil, so that I did not feel afraid. It
seemed as though I were in the middle of a circle of light, and thus
was safe from any harm.”

Theodore muttered again and bent forward eagerly. “Was there any sign
carved on the emerald?” he demanded breathlessly.

“What sign?” she asked, greatly puzzled.

“A triangle; a circle; a–a–oh, any sign?”

“I did not observe,” replied Patricia simply. “The jewel was so
lovely, and my sensations were so strange, that I kept staring at it
in silence, feeling happy and safe. When it became cold and dark I
then was afraid.”

Theodore held up his hand to prevent his uncle from speaking. “When
did the jewel become cold and dark, as you phrase it?” he asked

“Just before the man snatched it. The radiance seemed to die away, and
the power appeared to falter. When I felt that I was holding a mere
ornament, dull and dead and cold, the thief snatched it away from me.”

Dane rose slowly, and nodded towards his uncle. “It certainly was a
priest who stole the jewel,” he observed. “Probably it is now on its
way back to Japan. You will never get it, uncle, as now it will be
guarded more carefully.”

“Why do you think the thief is a priest?” questioned the Squire

“Well, you thought so yourself,” said Theodore lightly. “And it seems
natural to suppose that the priests of Kitzuki would be more anxious
than other people to get back their sacred talisman.”

“Talisman!” echoed Patricia.

Theodore turned heavily towards her. “Yes,” he said emphatically. “The
emerald in some way has been impregnated with the radiating power you
mention, for some purpose which I cannot say. Perhaps, as you suggest,
to keep off evil and darkness. At all events, the man who stole it had
some way of neutralizing the power, which he did when he saw you
staring at the jewel. It might be that he could not take it from you
until he had destroyed the barrier of light which you felt. But in any
case, seeing that he was able to take away the force, he must have
been a priest of the Temple, who knew all about the Mikado Jewel. You

“No,” faltered Patricia. “I don’t understand at all.”

“Neither do I,” growled the Squire; “but I intend to recover the jewel
some day and in some way. It is mine, and I shall regain it.”

Theodore shook his head. “You will never regain it,” he said firmly.
“It is now on its way back to the shrine whence it was taken by

The odd conversation with the Squire and Theodore Dane strangely
affected Patricia, and in rather an unhealthy way. She was an ordinary
commonsense Irish girl, whose father had been a matter-of-fact
military man, and in her conventional life there had been no place
for the supernatural. And when, with Colonel Carrol’s death, came
his daughter’s subsequent poverty, Patricia had been far too much
taken up with battling for existence to think of the Unseen. To be
over-inquisitive about the next world seemed to her sensible mind
unnecessary, since there was so much to be done on earth. She knew
very well that she was sensitive to things which other people did not
perceive, but she put this down to having highly-strung nerves, and
thought very little about the matter. Now, apparently, the time had
come for her to consciously use organs hitherto unguessed at.

Patricia could scarcely help feeling that the atmosphere of Beckleigh
Hall was unusual. The isolation, the dreamy nature of Mara, the
uncanny conversation of Theodore, which his uncle appeared to accept
as quite ordinary–all these things had an effect on her mind. She
began to be vaguely afraid of the darkness, and her sleep was greatly
disturbed by vivid dreams. In vain she assured herself that all this
was owing to her imagination, and that she was losing her nerve in a
most ridiculous manner, for the spell of the place was laid upon her,
and she felt that she was being caught in those nets of the Unseen of
which Mr. Colpster had spoken. To a healthy-minded girl, such as Miss
Carrol undoubtedly was, the feeling was highly unpleasant, and she
resented the influence which seemed bent upon controlling her, even
against her will. Yet to this influence which she vaguely felt, but
could not describe, she could not even put a name. The only thing she
could tell herself was that some powerful Influence was setting itself
to capture her mind and will and body and soul–all that there was of
herself that she knew.

Later, she became aware that the Influence seemed to be centred in
Theodore, for when in his presence she felt more than ever the desire
to peer behind the veil. He had always been polite to her, since the
night she arrived, but had looked upon her, she felt certain, as
merely a pretty, commonplace girl, content with earthly things. And
this was surely true, or had been, until the Influence came to draw
her away from the concrete to the abstract. But since she had
confessed to experiencing the weird sensation of the Jewel, Theodore
had haunted her steps persistently. He talked to her during meals; he
strolled with her in the gardens; he exerted himself to please her in
every way, and finally asked her to visit his special set of rooms,
which were at the back of the house. With a sense that some danger
to the soul lurked within them, she at first refused, but finally,
over-borne by his insistency, she consented to enter along with Mara.
The girl was absentminded and indifferent; still she would form a
convenient third, and would prevent Theodore from performing any of
the experiments she hated. And, as a matter of fact, Mara mentioned
that she objected to these.

“You need not be afraid, my dear cousin,” said Dane dryly, as he led
the way along the corridor. “I only wish to show Miss Carrol my books
and have a chat with her about psychic matters.”

“I don’t think it’s healthy,” murmured Patricia, feeling distressed
and uneasy. “I wish you would talk of something else.”

“There is nothing else which interests me in the world,” retorted
Theodore, throwing open a door. “This is my study, Miss Carrol, and
through that door is my bedroom, so you see I have this part of the
house all to myself.”

The room was large and broad, with a low ceiling, and a wide casement
looking towards the east. The walls were plastered with some
darkly-red material, smooth and glistening, and a frieze of
vividly-coloured Egyptian hieroglyphics ran round them directly under
the broad expanse of the ceiling, which was painted with zodiacal
signs. The floor was of polished white wood, with a square of grimly
red carpet in the centre. There was scarcely any furniture, so that
the vast room looked almost empty. The casement was draped with
purple hangings, and before it stood a large mahogany table, covered
with papers and writing materials. There was also a sofa, two deep
arm-chairs, besides the one placed before the table, and one wall
half-way up was lined with books. A purple curtain also hung before
the door which led into the bedroom. The apartment looked bare and
somewhat bleak, and an atmosphere of incense pervaded it generally, so
that when Patricia sat down in one of the arm-chairs, she
involuntarily thought of a church. Yet there seemed to be something
evil hanging about the place which was foreign to a place of worship.

Mara felt this even more than did her companion, for she walked to the
casement and threw it wide open, so as to let in the salt breath of
the sea. It was growing dusk, and the room was filled with shadows
which added to its eerie appearance and accentuated the eerie feeling
of Miss Carrol. Yet Theodore did not offer to light the lamp which
stood on a tall brass pedestal near an alcove, masked with purple
curtains, which was at the end of the room opposite the casement.
Patricia noted that there was no fire-place.

“Don’t you feel cold here at times?” she asked, more because she
wished to break the silence than because she desired to know.

Theodore smiled. “I am never cold,” he said smoothly; “cold and heat
and pain and pleasure exist only in thought, and I can control my
thoughts in every way. Why did you open the window, Mara?”

“I don’t like your stuffy atmosphere,” said the girl bluntly; then her
nostrils dilated, and she sniffed the air like a wild animal. “Pah!
What bad things you have in this room, Theodore!”

“What kind of things?” asked Patricia, looking round uneasily.

“Things that dwell in darkness and dare not face the light,” chanted
Mara in soft tones. “This room reeks with selfishness.”

“So does the whole world,” retorted her cousin with a sneer.

“Yes; but the effect is not so great as you make it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have transferred the selfish energies to a higher and more fluid

“Mara!” Theodore came close to the girl and peered curiously into her
pale face with vivid curiosity. “Who told you that?”

“It came to me.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” he said roughly.

“Perhaps not,” she replied dreamily; “but what I mean is plain to you.
I can see your soul shivering with shame at being forced to obey the

Theodore shrugged his great shoulders and looked at Patricia. “I
sometimes think that Mara is mad,” he remarked impolitely; “do you

“No,” answered Patricia truthfully; “what does she mean?”

Mara slipped off the writing-table whereon she had perched herself,
and pointed one lean finger at Theodore. “I mean that he is an utterly
selfish man, who strives to sweep aside all who stand in his path. By
egotism he isolates himself from the Great Whole, and wishes to dwell
apart in self-conscious power.” She faced Dane, and in the twilight
looked like a wavering shadow. “There is nothing you would not do to
obtain power, and for that reason your punishment will be greater than
that of others.”

“Why?” asked Theodore tartly, “seeing that all desire power?”

“You have more Light. You know, others do not.” Mara paused as though
she was listening. “It is a warning,” she finished solemnly, “a last
chance which is given to you, who are so strong in evil might.”

“But, Mara—-”

“I have said all that I am told to say, and now I say no more,” said
the pale girl enigmatically, and returned to seat herself on the table
and gaze into the rapidly gathering night.

“What does it all mean?” asked Patricia, under her breath.

“Simply that Mara doesn’t like me,” said Dane coolly, but Miss Carrol
noticed that he wiped the perspiration from his high forehead as he
spoke; “her standard is too lofty for us ever to become husband and
wife. I can see plainly that Basil will marry her and inherit the
property.” He looked round the room with a savage expression. “To lose
all this is terrible!”

“But your brother will let you stay here,” said Patricia consolingly.

“No, he won’t. Basil doesn’t care for my occult studies, and he
doesn’t care for me. You would never think we were brothers, so
different he is to me. We are Cain and Abel, Esau and Jacob, Polynices
and Eteocles, and have never been friends since birth. I hate him, and
he hates me.”

“Oh, no, no, Mr. Dane,” said Patricia, quite distressed and shocked,
“you must not talk in that way. It is wrong.”

“It is human,” retorted Theodore bitterly. “All his life Basil has
been the petted darling. Uncle George always loved him and ignored me.
Basil is good-looking; I am not. Basil is popular; I am not. Basil
will marry Mara and inherit Beckleigh, while I am forced to wander
homeless and friendless. And if—-”

His cousin, who had been listening quietly, interrupted at this
moment. “I shall not marry Basil,” she said very decidedly. “We are
good friends, but nothing more.”

“If you don’t marry him, Mara, you will lose the property.”

“I don’t care,” she answered indifferently. “I can always live

“If you would marry me,” said Theodore eagerly, “you could go away and
live where you liked. I only want to inherit Beckleigh.”

“Oh!” cried Patricia, revolted by this selfish sentiment.

Theodore wheeled to face her. “It is a brutal thing for a man to say
to a woman, is it not?” he asked derisively; “and if Mara loved me, I
would not say what I have said. But she hates me, as you can see.”

“I don’t hate you!” put in Mara. “I am merely indifferent to you!
Besides, as you said just now, you only want the property.”

“Yes, I do,” declared Dane boldly; “and I only put into words what
other people think. I wish to have this house all to myself.”

“Why this house particularly?” asked Patricia, after a pause.

“Because it is so secluded, and so safe for my purpose.”

“What is your purpose?”

“I wish to continue my occult studies. I wish to get others to join me
so that we may form a school. If I teach what I have learned to
others, we can create a power which will be able to dominate the
world. Here,” he grew excited and seemed to swell with arrogance, “in
this hidden spot, and by the exercise of certain powers, it is
possible to sway the minds of men at a distance. The Wisdom of Solomon
is no fable, Miss Carrol.”

“And for that reason,” said Mara, in her cold, unemotional voice, “you
will not be permitted to acquire it.”

“I know much,” retorted Dane, still bulking hugely in the shadows,
“and as time goes on I shall know more.”

“The time is very short now,” whispered Mara.

Patricia, peering through the soft twilight, saw the big man’s face
suddenly grow white. He moved, soft-footed as a cat, to the girl’s
side. “Mara,” he breathed, and his voice was sick with terror, “do you
see danger?”

“Great danger, and very near.”

“What is it? Where is it? Look and see!” He raised his hands and made
a pass before her face. Mara slipped from between him and the table
like an eel.

“I won’t submit to your experiments,” she said angrily. “Father told
you that you were not to worry me.”

“But the danger?” faltered Theodore, who seemed to be quite unnerved.

“I can sense it, but I cannot see it,” said Mara, wearily; “and all
this talk makes me tired.” She walked across to the other arm-chair
and sank down into its depths gladly. “I am glad that Basil will soon
be here.”

“When do you expect him?” asked Patricia, anxious to turn the
conversation, which had taken a mystical turn of which she did not

“He may be here at any minute. Father said that he received a letter
by the mid-day post. I like Basil; I love Basil, and I am glad he is

“Let us ask Mr. Colpster when he will arrive,” said Patricia, rising.

She moved two steps towards the door, but before she could reach it,
Theodore had placed himself before her. “Don’t go, Miss Carrol,” he
entreated, “just wait for a few minutes. Perhaps you don’t like the
darkness, so I shall light the lamp.” He walked towards the tall brass

“You need not be in a hurry, Patricia,” said the voice of Mara out of
the gloom, “it will be an hour before Basil appears.”

Patricia sat down again, although her instinct told her to fly from
this room and the evil influences with which it was impregnated. “I
shall wait for a few minutes,” she said, determined not to be
cowardly; “but do let us talk of more healthy things, Mr. Dane.”

The lamp was lighted by this time, and its radiance spread gradually
through the room, as the wick was turned up. Patricia felt more
comfortable in the flood of cheerful light, although the shadows still
lurked in the corners. Silent and pale, in her deep chair sat Mara,
but her cousin moved about the room actively and brightly: with an
effort, however, as it seemed from the glimpse she caught of his eyes.
These were filled with a vague terror, and he frequently moistened his
dry lips. Nevertheless, he began to talk lightly and discursively
about this, that, and the other thing, evidently anxious to keep his
guests. He described the neighbourhood to Patricia, and the people who
dwelt therein. He advised her to make excursions round about with
Mara, and examine old rocking-stones and the remains of British
villages and Phoenician towers. He extolled the healthiness of the
place, and the beauty of its landscapes, and finally promised to take
the two girls out in a sailing-boat. “Oh, we can give you much
pleasure here, in spite of our isolation, Miss Carrol,” he declared,
with laboured gaiety, “and in spite of this danger which Mara says
that I stand in. Who is going to hurt me, Mara?” he asked with assumed
lightness, but real eagerness.

“No one,” she replied quietly; “but”–she drew her hand across her
face and said peevishly, “I wish you wouldn’t ask me silly questions.”

“You have told me such silly things,” retorted Theodore snappishly.
“You mustn’t mind what Mara says, Miss Carrol: she does nothing but

“We must rouse her out of such dreaming, Mr. Dane.”

“Of course; of course! She ought to have a season in London; that
would do her endless good. There is too much lotus-eating about this
place. It suits me, but it would not suit all. That is why Basil
entered the Navy: he loves to travel about the world, and only comes
to see us once in a blue moon. By the way, Miss Carrol, you must not
take what I said about him too seriously, for Basil is really a good
fellow. We have different ideas of life, that is all; and fire and
water won’t mix you know.”

In this way he rattled on, and then produced a chafing-dish of bronze
on which a charcoal fire smouldered, with thin wisps of smoke curling
up. “I find the atmosphere of this room too chilly, Miss Carrol. Would
you mind my throwing some incense on this fire?”

“Not at all,” said Patricia innocently; but Mara moved with

“Don’t you try any experiments, Theodore. Remember what father said.”

“My dear child,” said the man impatiently, and planting the smoking
dish of charcoal at Patricia’s elbow, “when I make a promise I always
keep it. This is no experiment. By the way, Miss Carrol,” he added,
while he went to a cupboard and brought back a metal box, “when your
eyes are closed at night, do you see colours?”

“Oh, frequently.”

“I thought so,” muttered Dane, opening the box. “And pictures?”


“Have you ever wished to be in any picture you saw?”

“No–that is–I don’t exactly follow you, Mr. Dane.”

“No matter. I quite understand. If you did wish to find yourself in
the picture,” he went on with emphasis, “you would find yourself
there. I knew you were psychic, and all you tell me makes me more
certain than ever.”

Patricia shuddered. “Don’t talk about these uncanny things. I don’t
like them: they make me uncomfortable.”

Theodore laughed in a constrained manner, and with a spoon threw some
powder on the charcoal. At once a thick bluish smoke arose like a
column, and a strong perfume spread through the chill atmosphere of
the room. “A pleasant scent, is it not, Miss Carrol?” said Dane,
restoring the box to its cupboard and fixing his eyes on the girl’s
face. “It is made after a recipe of Moses. ‘Sweet spices, stacte, and
onycha and galbanum; these sweet spices with pure frankincense: of
each shall there be a like weight.’ You will find those words in
Exodus. Result of mingling such things a sacred incense, as this is.
Smell it; breathe it; the perfume is beautiful.”

It was assuredly a wonderful smell, but too overpoweringly sweet.
Patricia drew in a deep breath through her nostrils, and the fragrance
seemed to impregnate her whole being. She began to feel languid and
singularly content, and unwilling to move. And all the time Dane’s
vividly blue eyes were fixed on her face. They seemed to be sapphire
flames. But as she breathed the perfume and looked into his deep eyes,
she heard a movement and removed her own eyes–with an effort, as it
appeared to her now confused senses. She then saw that Mara was on her
feet, moving towards the door. But not as an ordinary human being
would walk. She rather appeared to be dancing in a rhythmic way,
swaying from side to side, and waving her arms gracefully. With
clasped hands she seemed to be shaking some invisible instrument.
Theodore put out his hand to stay her, but she waved him aside and
danced–if it could be called dancing–through the door. As she
disappeared, Patricia tried vainly to rise.

“I must go to her! she is ill!” murmured Patricia, and then fell back
in the chair again, enveloped–as it seemed to her–in a dense cloud
of perfumed smoke. Her eyes closed, her breath seemed to leave her,
and then she appeared to go away to a league-long goal.

Where she went, or how she went, she could not say. Her inward
perceptions were only conscious of a vividly brilliant atmosphere
through which she passed as swiftly as a swallow. And far away she
heard a thin voice, like one speaking through a telephone, bidding her
search for the danger. It was the voice of Theodore.

But as Patricia, in her dream or trance, or whatever was her state of
being, passed swiftly on, soaring to some unknown end, she became
aware that her flight was being stopped. She faltered, paused, then
turned, and came swiftly back with the speed of light. Her senses
returned to feel water being poured on her forehead, and to feel also
the cool night air. She was out of doors, and in the arms of a man,
who bathed her face.

“Don’t move; don’t move,” said the man anxiously; “you have fainted.”

“Who are you?” asked Patricia, gazing upward at the handsome face.

“I am Basil,” said the man, “and my brother has been trying his
devilries on you.”