Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that the questions were not signed. She knew at once who wrote each. Next came Barry’s.
Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, “‘Will the truth ever be known?’”
There was a perceptible pause before she said, “You do not want it known, because you fear it. But your secret is safe. That, at least, will never be known.”
Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry Stannard had a secret. Pshaw! Not necessarily because this faker said so! And yet, was she a faker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put those sealed envelopes into that long, inert hand. There they were still, intact, seals unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if they were so much blank paper. Whatever her power, it was superhuman. No physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. No, there was no chance for trickery. It was a supernatural gift of some sort.
His own envelope came last. He had boldly written, “Who killed Eric Stannard?” a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude words.
Orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envelope and her eyes closed.
“At last,” she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, “at last we come to the vital question. It matters not who wrote it, it is what each one wanted to write. Shall I answer?”
There was silence.
Orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance around.