When, an hour later, Florence presented a typewritten copy of the story for Mrs. Ward’s inspection she pronounced it, “Capital! The best that has been in your column so far.”
It may be that this extravagant praise turned the girl’s head, leading her to commit an act that brought her into great peril. However that may be, at eight o’clock that night she fell into a trap.
The thing seemed safe enough. True, Florence did the greater part of investigating in the day time. But a “spiritual adviser”—who would expect any sort of danger from such a person?
That was what Professor Alcapar styled himself, “Spiritual Adviser.” Had his sign hung from a church, Florence would not have given it a second thought. But the card that fell into her hand said his studio was on one of the upper floors of a great office building. Perhaps this should have warned her, but it did not.
“I’ll just take the elevator up there and ask a question or two,” she told herself. “Might get a grand story for tomorrow.” She did, but she was not to write it—at least, not yet.
There was no glass in the door of Professor Alcapar’s studio. A light shone through the crack at the edge of the door. She knocked, almost timidly. The door was opened at once. She stepped inside. The door closed itself. She was there.
Save for one small light in a remote corner, the room was shrouded in darkness.
“More of their usual stuff,” she thought to herself without fear. “Darkness stands for secrecy, mystery. At least, these people know how to impress their clients. Spiritual adviser, clothed in darkness.”
She became conscious of someone near her. Then of a sudden she caught the distinct click of a lock, and after that came a flood of light.
She took two backward steps, then stood quite still. With a single sweep of her practiced eye, she took in all within the room. She started as her eyes fell upon—of all persons!—Madame Zaran. She was seated in a chair, smiling a complacent and knowing smile.