Winthrop placed himself in front of her, shutting her off from the others. He spoke in an earnest whisper.
“Don’t!” he begged. “She has asked for a chance. Give her a chance.”
Miss Coates scorned to speak in whispers.
“She has had a chance,” she protested loudly. “She’s had a chance for nine years; and she’s chosen to be a charlatan and a cheat, and—” The angry woman hesitated, and then flung the word—“and a thief!”
In the silence that followed no one turned toward Vera; but as it continued unbroken each raised his eyes and looked at her.
They saw her drawn to her full height; the color flown from her face, her deep, brooding eyes flashing. She was like one by some religious fervor lifted out of herself, exalted. When she spoke her voice was low, tense. It vibrated with tremendous, wondering indignation.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked. She spoke like one in a trance. “Do you know who you are threatening with your police and your laws? I am a priestess! I am a medium between the souls of this world and the next. I am Vera—the Truth! And I mean,” the girl cried suddenly, harshly, flinging out her arm, “that you shall hear the truth! Tonight I will bring your mother from the grave to speak it to you!”
With a swift, sweeping gesture she pointed to the door. “Take those people away!” she cried.
The eyes of Winthrop were filled with pity. “Vera!” he said, “Vera!”
For an instant, against the tenderness and reproach in his voice the girl held herself motionless; and then, falling upon the shoulder of Mrs. Vance, burst into girlish, heart-broken tears.