“To the Institute. Not to the niece,” Vera answered. Gaylor nodded gravely.
“What,” asked Vera, “are the fewest words in which that message could be delivered? I mean—should she say, You are to endow the Hallowell Institute, or Brother, you are to give—Sign the new will?” With satisfaction the girl gave a sharp shake of her head, and nodded to Vance. “Destroy the old will. Sign the new will. That is the best,” she said.
“That’s it exactly,” Gaylor exclaimed eagerly; “that’s excellent!” Then his face clouded. “I think,” he said in a troubled voice, “we should warn Miss Vera, that to guard himself from any trickery, Mr. Hallowell insists on subjecting her to the most severe tests. He—”
“That will be all right,” said the girl. She turned to Vance and, in a lower tone but without interest, asked: “What, for instance?” Vance merely laughed and shrugged his shoulders. The girl smiled. Nettled, and alarmed at what appeared to be their overconfidence, Gaylor objected warmly.
“That’s all very well,” he cried, “but for instance, he insists that the entire time you are in the cabinet, you hold a handful of flour in one hand and of shot in the other”—he illustrated with clenched fists—“which makes it impossible,” he protested, “for you to use your hands.”
The face of the girl showed complete indifference.
“Not necessarily,” she said.
“But you are to be tied hand and foot,” cried the Judge. “And on top of that,” he burst forth indignantly, pointing aggrievedly at Vance, “he himself proposed this flour-and-shot test. It was silly, senseless bravado!”
“Not necessarily,” repeated the girl. “He knew that I invented it.” Rainey laughed. Gaylor gave an exclamation of enlightenment.
“If it will be of any comfort to you, Judge,” said Vance, “I’ll tell you one thing; every test that ever was put to a medium—was invented by a medium.”