“There’s only one way,” said Joyce, “and that is to find the real murderer. I wish I had never let that Orienta mix herself into the matter. It’s her talk that turned suspicion toward Eugene. And we all know he’s innocent. But when we try to find out who is the criminal, Eugene’s name comes up.”
“I’m not sorry we had the clairvoyant,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully. “As you say, we all know Mr. Courtenay is innocent, but if there was an intruder, Orienta explained how he could have entered. You wouldn’t have heard any one pass you in the Billiard Room that night, would you, Joyce?”
“No, I’m sure not; I was—I was crying—and I gave no thought to anything but my own troubles.”
“Then somebody may have slipped by you—of course, not Mr. Courtenay, but somebody——”
“I wish that woman had seen the intruder’s face,” said Natalie, suddenly. “You know, I believe in clairvoyance—I’m psychic myself—I wonder—oh, I wonder if I could find out anything—in that way!”
“What are you talking about?” said Barry, impatiently. “Don’t you mix yourself up in those witchcraft things——”
“’Tisn’t witchcraft. And, anyway, I’ve a notion to try it. Don’t you think I might, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“Might what, dear?”
“Find out something about the mysteries that are growing deeper and more numerous all the time?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” began Beatrice, with a helpless look, but Barry said, sternly, “I forbid it,” and turning on his heel, he left the room.