“Why, I haven’t them, Mr. Roberts. Perhaps they’re among my husband’s belongings, but I’ve never seen them.”
“You see,” observed Ford, stepping out into the hall, “it’s the wonderful proportion of one part to another that makes the beauty of it. The stair-well, clear to the roof, the arcaded hall, the noble high-ceiled studio and this little low-ceiled Reception Room, fitted in just here, make up a splendid whole. Did not your late husband feel this?” Ford added, turning to Beatrice.
“Yes,” she replied, briefly, and then Bobsy tore himself away from the fascinating subject of architecture to ask Alan Ford if he had made any progress in his investigations.
“I have,” replied Ford. “I have found out a lot of things that seem to me indicative. But it all hinges on whether there are spiritual influences at work or not. It seems to me, if the spirit of Mr. Stannard could return to earth and manifest itself in any way, it would prove——”
“Prove what?” asked Mrs. Faulkner, as the detective paused.
“Well, I may be foolish, but it would seem to me to prove that he wanted us to stop these investigations and let the matter remain a mystery.”
“You really think that!” exclaimed Bobsy, as his estimation of Alan Ford’s genius for detective work received a sudden setback.
“I think I agree with Mr. Ford,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully. “If Eric wanted us to continue our inquiries he would rest quiet in his grave.”
“Oh, Mr. Ford,” and Natalie gave a little gasp, “do you really think, then, it was Mr. Stannard’s spirit that I heard in the studio? Do you think I am enough of a sensitive to bring about a real manifestation?”
“Those things are hard to tell, Miss Vernon. But I am going to ask the privilege of spending to-night alone in the studio. Then if any demonstration occurs, I shall, as I told you, think there is reason to believe——”