“That’s the one,” assented Vera. She smiled with satisfaction. “Well, that’s where I lived until Aunt died,” she said.
“And then, what?” asked Winthrop.
For a moment the girl did not answer. Her face had grown grave and she sat motionless, staring beyond her. Suddenly, as though casting her thoughts from her, she gave a sharp toss of her head.
“Then,” she said, speaking quickly, “I went into the mills, and was ill there, and I wrote Paul and Mabel to ask if I could join them, and they said I could. But I was too ill, and I had no money—nothing. And then,” she raised her eyes to his and regarded him steadily, “then I stole that cloak to get the money to join them, and you—you helped me to get away, and—and” Winthrop broke in hastily. He disregarded both her manner and the nature of what she had said.
“And how did you come to know the Vances?” he asked.
After a pause of an instant, the girl accepted the cue his manner gave her, and answered as before.
“Through my aunt,” she said, “she was a medium too.”
“Of course!” cried Winthrop. “I remember now, that’s why we called it the haunted house.”
“My aunt,” said the girl, regarding him steadily and with, in her manner, a certain defiance, “was a great medium. All the spiritualists in that part of the State used to meet at our house. I’ve witnessed some wonderful manifestations in that front parlor.” She turned to Winthrop and smiled. “So, you see,” she exclaimed, “I was born and brought up in this business. I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. My grandmother was a medium, my mother was a medium—she worked with the Fox sisters before they were exposed. But, my aunt,” she added thoughtfully, judicially, “was the greatest medium I have ever seen. She did certain things I couldn’t understand, and I know every trick in the trade—unless,” she explained, “you believe the spirits helped her.”
Winthrop was observing the girl intently, with a new interest.