Face Cards E-Book

Carolyn Wells

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A house party at a country house in Connecticut, reputedly a house under a curse. The owner dies mysteriously, and one of the house party vanishes. The characters of the wealthy murdered man, his young wife and his daughter, as well as those of the servants and detectives are more than usually convincing and the story altogether adapted for effortless fireside reading. While the reader is prevented from divining the solution too easily, a proper number of clues are conscientiously given and the events, nicely dovetailed together. „Face Cards”, written by an American author and poet Carolyn Wells, is a locked-room mystery in which crime and a family curse are interwoven, with plenty of creepy supernatural events thrown in, relating to exotic masks.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER I

THE KING OF CLUBS

The constructor and interior decorator had done their work; such scars to the grounds as piles of unused building material had been removed; and today, with the new addition and appointments complete and in order, a few week-end guests were expected at Clearman Court by way of celebration.

These guests were few, and not entirely easy in mind. House guests had not been usual at Clearman Court since the master’s astounding second marriage. For one thing Stephen Clearman and his wife rarely cared for the same people, and just as rarely did the guests at Clearman Court desire to go again.

They might pretend to be amused at the legend of the Curse of Clearman Court, yet there was an undeniable spell of Oriental exoticism saturating the place. One felt it even in the Clearman limousine that called at the station for one; although it bespoke Detroit or Indianapolis in every glint of its body, every thrum of its motor, within it the guest thought of bamboo, teak wood, gongs, idols.

Perhaps the car had a strangely sweet perfume in it. It would not have been beyond Stephen Clearman to have put some curious scent in the upholstery just to foster respect for the legend of the Curse. There was no amusement in the legend for him.

What an extraordinary composite the man was! His cultured side was evident to the world at large. He was wealthy, educated, basically intelligent. A cosmopolitan, having traveled and lived in many countries, he had the poise anywhere he found himself of a notable man-about-town. In short, like his exclusive kind, he was well-bred, well-fed, well-read.

He belonged to a great number of clubs, some of which he had himself organized and most of which had at one time or another called him President. Worthwhile clubs they were, the great city clubs, the exclusive country clubs, clubs of a special sport or game and the wiseacre clubs devoted to lore and research.

To so many of these had he given assistance, both in the way of prestige and financial support, that he had come to be known by the title of the King of Clubs. This pleased him and he had his note paper engraved with a miniature King of Clubs copied from a playing card.

Now the other side of Stephen Clearman, the bizarre side, was known only to the few house guests who came up from the city to Clearman Court for week-ends–and to his family and servants, of course.

It was a side of him that scorned civilization, that reveled in the savage, the barbaric, the primitive.

He claimed, himself, that this odd deflection of his personality was a birthright, that he inherited it from his forebears. For since the time long ago when an ancestor of his had traveled in far distant lands, and had come home with many strange tales and fancies, there had always been a member of the family who had followed the lead.

It was nearly two centuries since old Dathan Clearman had fared forth and his wanderings had taken him to islands near New Guinea, where strange rites and ceremonies prevailed then, even as they do now in such far lands.

Dathan Clearman had come home, the legend ran, to find that his son had added to the Connecticut homestead, building a wing here and raising a roof there, until the house had lost its original symmetry and type. The stern old New Englander, seething with white rage, cursed his son in many terrible blasts, disowned him, and sent him away.

As a guardian of the Clearman homestead against further alteration, Dathan formally and solemnly set up on the manteltree of the great hall a hideous mask which he had brought home, and which was known in the savage tribe from whom he obtained it, as the Duk-Duk.

In its native home, the Duk-Duk is the great arbiter of morals, and is a supreme power, who accuses and punishes at will. So, argued Dathan Clearman, who was a convert to the heathen religions, the mask of Duk-Duk will protect my home from further despoiling.

For with the mask went a great curse, a malediction on any descendant of Dathan, who should add to or take from the building as it stood. Even so much as the cutting of a window or the addition of an ell, would be punished by speedy and violent death to the offender.

Ever since, the monstrous, frightful-looking thing had stood where Dathan had placed it, untouched by any desecrating hands.

Twice in the passing years, however, the curse had been scoffed at, and the consequences braved. Additions and alterations had been made in the old house, and in both instances the originator of the improvements had quickly died–not a natural death. Such was the legend of the Clearman Curse.

At any rate the future heirs were benefited by the ill-fated changes, for now the old home stood, a great and noble structure, symmetrical, harmonious, beautiful–bearing little resemblance to the first Clearman homestead built so many years ago.

It fronted on a wide terrace, of century old flagstones, through whose uneven crevices the grass-blades crowded. The view from this terrace included some of the most picturesque hills and lakes of New England, and below, down a mile or so of winding road, lay the tiny village of Valley Falls, quite evidently named with a careful attention to topographical detail.

The present owner of Clearman Court, the King of Clubs, paced the terrace in the late June afternoon.

“Yes,” he said, as with vigorous step and pocketed hands he strode back and forth, “the place is just about perfect now. I have it all exactly as I want it, and all I shall do, from now on, will be in the way of polishing off and finishing up. Thanks to you, Raynor, for following my instructions so meticulously. Few architects would have been willing to obey implicitly. You are a rare type.”

“Yes,” Jack Raynor grinned, assentingly, “they don’t make ’em like me, often. I’m mighty glad you’re pleased and all that, Mr. Clearman, but I feel I must say that I might have kicked over the traces if I hadn’t agreed with your ideas in my own heart. Now, if you don’t drop dead, we can look upon the whole matter as an overwhelming success.”

“Oh, I shan’t drop dead. We should never have proceeded if I were not sure of circumventing old Duk-Duk. I’m immune.”

“I do hope so,” said a sweet tremulous voice, and Miss Phoebe Clearman looked up with a gaze of troubled apprehension.

The placid little woman was a physical contrast to her big stalwart brother, but there was a similarity of feature, and a decided likeness in their quiet way of speaking, and the never failing correctness of their manner.

“You see, Mr. Raynor,” she turned to the young architect, “Stephen is unafraid, always,–but he has braved the curse,–the family curse–.”

“That’s all right, Phoebe,” her brother broke in, “don’t mull over that any more. I’m sure Raynor is tired hearing about it.”

“No,” the architect returned, “not that, for I admit a certain apprehension. When a curse has made itself felt twice, one can’t scoff at the possibility of a third time.”

“But there’s no possibility, Jack,” his host insisted. “I know more than those ancestors of mine who fell under the ban. I know how to ward off the danger, and I shall never suffer the punishment.”

“So far, so good,” and Raynor shrugged his shoulders. He had no wish to see Stephen Clearman overtaken by the threatened fate, but he had a trace of the almost universal fear of the supernatural.

To be sure, the architect’s knowledge of the occult was largely derived from book lore, but just because he had never before run up against what he called a real, live Curse, he was deeply interested to see how it worked out–or failed to do so.

If Stephen Clearman carried through, if he suffered no inexplicable disaster or stroke, then Raynor was ready to believe the stories of the past were all poppycock. But if Clearman should be mysteriously killed, then–well, it would give food for thought.

It was hard to connect the idea of death with the big, hearty figure striding the terrace. Few men showed more brawn and brain; more energy and vitality than Stephen Clearman. His broad shoulders were square and firm and his coats hung from them as from a well built rack. At sixty-three, his graying hair was the only sign of advancing age, and his impatient will power and hair-trigger intellect were as young as ever they had been.

The architect of course was an important factor at the week-end celebration, and he had been permitted to invite a friend of his own, one Nicky Goring, who was expected on the next train.

Raynor was the son of a college chum of Clearman’s and, besides being a first-rate architect, was an all-round good fellow. If he was a trifle in love with Clearman’s wife, that was merely because she was the only woman around except the elderly Miss Clearman, and Raynor was accustomed to feminine worship.

Called Jack of Hearts by his chaffing friends, he did live up to the title.

He hit it off all right with Stephen Clearman, for in the matter of planning the changes in the house, their ideas were seldom at variance, and readily adjusted. Both were diplomatic, so there had been no friction.

The new building was practically self-contained, being a large wing that should house only Clearman and his wife. It included bedroom, bath and living room for each, but these, with their attendant dressing rooms, halls, balconies and sun porches, made up what almost equalled a good-sized house.

The plans being perfected and settled upon, the Clearmans had gone off for a long trip to Eastern lands, and Raynor had pushed the work through as expeditiously as possible.

He had had occasional slight misgivings whether the curse might not fall vicariously on him, but nothing untoward had happened, and now the owner was back to resume the command–and the danger.

Yet who could look for trouble, this lovely, soft June afternoon, the distant hills quivering under the passing purple shadows, the glistening lakes coquetting with the darting rays of the setting sun.

And then Carlotta Clearman trailed out from the house. Long, slender and pointed were all her effects.

Her exquisite face was long and delicate, with a pointed chin and her long dark eyes were full of hinted possibilities of passion and sorrow.

Yet Carlotta was a merry thing and often kept a whole company amused with her drolleries.

Her gown, of trailing black tulle, was long and pointed, and on the points of its draperies dangled jet tassels. Her long jet earrings did not dangle, but, for the most part, hung quietly, a frame for her pale, perfect face.

Though she was more than thirty years her husband’s junior, they were congenial in many ways and compatible in all ways,–or, all but one.

He had married her for her beauty, she had married him for his money. Not a unique instance, but one which had turned out rather better than might have been expected.

As his passion was for rare antiquities of certain sorts, so hers was for diamonds. No other gem did she care for; diamonds she adored. And he had showered them upon her. In all cuttings, of all sizes, but of only the rarest quality, he had given her the jewels, until she well deserved the title that so naturally ensued, and was called the Queen of Diamonds.

Now, her black gown was caught here and there with a few diamond buckles and a slender string of perfectly matched stones hung round her throat.

Never did she overdo her ornamentation. Never did she wear too many or too large ones for the occasion.

Yet they were so much a part of her, that it would have seemed strange to see her without them. As one of her friends observed, “Carly could wear a tiara to breakfast, and get away with it!”

She trailed across the terrace and sat herself on a low balustrade, drawing one knee up and clasping it in her arms with a careless grace.

Her husband came toward her, and she looked up into his face and smiled, as she asked, “When the old Duk-Duk gets you, will he get me, too?”

Her air was half serious, half whimsical, and Clearman looked down on her, his eyes full of admiration.

“I hope to Heaven he will!” he said fervently, “I’ll never depart this life and leave you behind. You’re too beautiful!” He lifted her pointed chin with one forefinger, kissed her lightly on her wistful lips, and turned away, as his ear caught the advent of a newcomer.

It was Nicky Goring, the friend of Raynor’s, an alert, wide-awake young man, who had caught sight of the marital caress and was faintly smiling.

Clearman’s greeting was hearty and unembarrassed. It would take much to disturb his poise.

Raynor introduced the visitor, and then tea came, and they all felt acquainted and friendly at once.

Stephen told briefly of their wanderings in strange countries and among quaint primitive peoples, and narrated a few instances of tragic or humorous interest.

“And did you enjoy it all, Mrs. Clearman?” Goring asked.

“Not all,” and the long pointed eyes smiled as she turned them to her husband for an instant. “There were so many places not–well, not so clean, you see.”

“Yes, my wife’s housekeeping instincts were sadly shocked by Oriental squalor,” Stephen chuckled. “I’m sure she wanted, more than anything else, to show those poor, benighted heathen how to use a vacuum cleaner.”

“Indeed, I should,” returned Carlotta, with spirit, “but it would have been wasted on them. The heathen in his blindness, kneels down to wood and stone, but he wants that wood and stone properly dirty. He wouldn’t worship clean wood and stone.”

“My goodness, Carly, is it as bad as that!” exclaimed Phoebe, “I’m glad I didn’t go with you two. How did you ever stand it?”

“It was awful,” Carlotta shuddered at the remembrance; “and, incidentally, it’s the dirt that’s largely responsible for the heathen’s blindness.”

“Oh, child, the hymn doesn’t mean that kind of blindness–”

“Well, they have all kinds of blindness,–and all kinds of dirt–”

“For Heaven’s sake, Carlotta,” Clearman broke in, “do stop talking about it! You women seem to revel in revolting subjects–”

“Not half so revolting as your old mud masks!” his wife flung back. “Do tell me you don’t like mud masks, either,” she turned to Nicky Goring. “My husband and Mr. Raynor are crazy about them.”

“Yes, we eat ’em up,” agreed Raynor, watching the play of smile and frown on Carlotta’s lovely face.

“They’re not on my menu,” Goring declared, “and as a matter of fact, I’m almost entirely unacquainted with them. Are they like birds’-nest pudding? Do they agree with you, Miss Clearman?”

“They’re terrible!” Phoebe said, in her quiet way, that often carried more weight than vehemence. “They’re fearful! But they’re not edible,–you know.”

“I say, Goring, aren’t you up on the things?” Stephen Clearman shouted. His boisterousness equalled his sister’s placidity. “Well, then, you’ve a treat ahead of you! After dinner, I’ll show you my collection, and before the evening is over, you’ll know more about masks than you ever dreamed there was to know.”

“Oh, not tonight, dear,” his wife begged, her eyes full of pleading; “Lulie is coming home, and you know how she dislikes the things.”

Clearman looked at her, as if he were studying some beautiful but inanimate object.

“That’s a good gown, Carlotta,” he said; “those jet points suit you perfectly.”

Then he turned back to Goring and said, as if uninterrupted, “yes, after dinner I’ll initiate you into the fascinating lore and mysteries of the East.”

“Is Miss Clearman coming tonight?” asked Raynor, partly to change the subject and partly because he wanted to know more about it. “I’ve never met her, you know.”

“And you nearly missed out on it this time,” Phoebe informed him. “Yes, the child has been visiting friends in the South, and stopped for a time in New York. She expected to stay there another week, but plans were changed, and she’ll be here for dinner. Bless her! It will be a joy to have her back.”

“What’s she like?” asked Raynor, idly, with the freedom of intimacy.

“Like a fair, pale lily,” said Miss Clearman. “Like a Burne-Jones picture, like a Blessed Damosel or a Lily Maid of Astolat.”

Stephen Clearman laughed.

“Fine, Phoebe,” he exclaimed, “but I can’t have my daughter maligned like that. She’s just a sweet, dear, everyday girl,–isn’t she, Carlotta?”

“Yes, dear, but you are both right; Phoebe as to her appearance, you as to her real self.”

“Is she real?” asked Goring. “It doesn’t seem as if a young lady answering to such descriptions could be real.”

“She is my daughter,” Clearman asserted, with a mock swagger. “So she must be more or less of a paragon, eh, Carly?”

His second wife looked at him with a quizzical smile.

“Am I supposed to agree to your being a paragon?” she chaffed. “Well, I certainly think you one.”

“Ha,” cried the King of Clubs, “that’s the thing! All for love and the world well lost! Now, Carly, since you’re so devoted to me, I’ll let you take this rather fascinating Mr. Goring for a stroll in the garden before dinner. Don’t flirt with him.”

“Shan’t promise,” said the Queen of Diamonds, her gems flashing as she rose and caught the last flickers of the sinking sun. “Come, Mr. Goring, we have peacocks and a family spectre. I can’t promise to show the spectre, but the peacocks may be on view.”

“Never mind the enumerated live stock,” Nicky said, following her down the terrace steps. “Just let’s stroll through a rose garden or by a lily pond. I daresay I shall get enough excitement this evening. Lead me to some bosky dell where all is peace and quietness. That’s my métier, always.”

“Really?” and Carlotta turned an inquiring face. “You seem so–so energetic, so–”

“So fidgety, I suppose you mean. Well, I am. But I am trying to overcome it, and acquire a supine elegance. My first governess taught me ‘all haste is vulgar,’ and though I continually forget it, it comes back to me now and then.”

“What brought it to mind just now?” The tone was chaffing but the long, dark eyes seemed to demand a serious answer.

“I don’t know. Wait, till I run over my sequence of thought–oh, yes, without doubt,–that was it! I have it! I was impressed by the word picture Miss Clearman drew of the young lady who is arriving. I gathered she would not like a fidgety man.”

“If opposites are likable, she would. Lulie is the calmest thing in the world, the most serene, most imperturbable, but, and perhaps for that very reason, she rather favors more lively types.”

“And old Raynor has never seen her?”

“No,–it has so happened that she has never been at home when he was here. She was brought up in a convent abroad,–that is, after her mother died. And, lately, she has traveled or visited with friends a great deal. As you must know, Mr. Goring, a stepmother and stepdaughter is not always the happiest of relationships. Yet, I think I can say that Lulie and I get along better in most ways than she does with her own father.”

“Yes, I gather that Mr. Clearman, fine as he is, is not as wax in any woman’s hands.”

“He is in mine,” Carlotta cried, quickly, as if in some way her vanity had been touched.

“Oh, well,” and Nicky resumed his bantering tone, “if a second wife can’t twist a man round her finger, nobody can.”

“True, and if a woman can’t wind any man round her finger,–she isn’t–”

“Isn’t much of a siren.”

“No; and, surely, to be a siren is the first duty of woman?”

“Oh, surely.” Nicky was beginning to enjoy himself. “I know you have Jack Raynor completely under your spell. But, that’s not so much of a feat, for he is, you know, called the Jack of Hearts.”

“I won’t have my spell belittled like that! As a punishment, I shall charm you.”

“Do, I’ll help. By the way, are you all Face Cards up here? Jack tells me your husband is widely known as the King of Clubs and yourself as–”

“As the Queen of Diamonds, yes. I love the stones, not colored ones, only pure, flawless white ones, and large, but not too enormous.”

Carlotta spoke as if half to herself. She was running through her fingers the necklace of small, pure stones, like a chain of light. She watched it with a rapt look, then suddenly remembering herself, dropped the chain and turned to him with a slightly abashed smile.

“When you know me better,” she said, “you’ll know my love for diamonds is not a pose, it’s an innate and ineradicable fetish.”

“I didn’t think it was a pose,” he said, simply. “And if it’s a fetish, as you call it, it’s a very beautiful one.”

“There is, there must be, I think, a barbaric strain in my nature that makes diamonds an obsession–”

“Not exactly barbaric,–to me that word connotes glaring colors and blaring sounds–”

“Not necessarily. But perhaps I mean savage. Anyway, it’s some throwback,–or whatever they call it, that makes my love for diamonds stronger than any other passion I have ever experienced.”

“If necessary, you would steal them–” he whispered, for the mere fun of leading her on.

“Yes,” she whispered back, “or kill for them. Or betray my friends for them. The most heinous sin would be nothing to me, if it brought me my treasures.”

Again she had picked up her long chain, and was caressing it almost as a snake charmer might fondle a serpent.

Goring looked at her curiously.

Of course she was fooling. She had already shown herself quite ready to meet his gayest banter, quite ready to respond with seeming seriousness to his most absurd chaff.

“We must go in and dress for dinner,” she said, in a matter of fact tone. “Lulie brings a friend with her, and there will be one or two stray guests.”

“And after dinner,–mayn’t I come out here with you and see the peacocks again, instead of seeing the Mudheads?” he said, coaxingly.

She laughed outright.

“I’m glad you liked the peacocks,” she said, “but after dinner, you must obey my husband’s behests, whatever they are, or–”

“Or what?”

“Or the Duk-Duk will get you!”

“And you don’t want to lose me yet–”

“No, not yet.”

CHAPTER II

LULIE

The dinner guests were all assembled when Lulie and her friend appeared in the drawing-room.

“This is not to make an effective entrance,” Lulie declared, laughingly, “but because I couldn’t get Nan ready any sooner. Isn’t she wonderful!”

Lulie Clearman presented her friend as if she were a work of art, and the pretty girl, with her dark hair and eyes and her flame-colored frock was an arresting sight. Nan Loftis smiled impartially around, greeted everybody as she was presented, and finally singled out Jack Raynor as her quarry, and sidled to him with a plaintive, “Please like me.”

“I do like you,” returned the Jack of Hearts, with enthusiasm, but with an involuntary glance at Lulie herself.

Lulie Clearman, a complete contrast to Nan, was well worth many glances.

She was, as her aunt had said, distinctly of a Burne-Jones type, but so modernized or rather vivified, that it was like a picture come to life.

Of medium height, slim, graceful and gracious, she was also alert and perceptive. Her hair was of the true ash blonde, so often seen in England, so seldom over here. Her eyes can only be described as amber or beryl or tawny, or any of those hackneyed terms for that peculiar brown with glistening lights in it.

Her face was pale, with the merest touch of makeup, and she wore a simple chiffon gown of a deep ivory color, that by its contrast made her hair almost golden.

“I say, but you know how to dress!” was Nicky Goring’s low-voiced comment, as they went together to the dining room.

“Praise my clothes, if you like,” said Lulie, indifferently, “but don’t tell me how beautiful I am.”

“You must be sick and tired of hearing it,” he returned, fervently. “You remind me of that wonderful poem written by somebody or other in that book about the Queen’s Doll House.”

“Haven’t read it,–what is it?”

“I don’t remember it all, but the principal line is: ‘I am a Doll and very beautiful.’ I don’t know why, exactly, but I think that’s a wonderful line.”

“The line is all right, but why do you think me a doll?”

“I don’t. In fact, I haven’t had time to classify you at all yet. But the line seems to fit you. It has your calm.”

“My calm is my pride and delight. I glory in it.”

Lulie spoke with a quiet seriousness that made Goring look at her twice to see if she were chaffing him. And still he didn’t know. Nor care. He adored girls, and gratefully accepted each new one as Heaven’s last, best gift.

“Your friend is pretty, too,” he said, conversationally.

“Yes,” Lulie agreed, amused at this casual wag, and accepting his structural plans for talk. “But she is muffin-minded.”

“She would be. Sports girl, in civilian dress, isn’t she?”

“Yes. You knew it from her muscles.”

“And from her face. She has that eager, prize-is-set-before-us look.”

“Yes, she has,” and Lulie looked appraisingly at Nan. “Tell me about Mr. Raynor. He seems charming.”

“Oh, he is. He is Prince Charming and Jack of Hearts and Paris and Apollo and all the gods at once.”

“Shall I adore him?”

“Of course. Every girl does.”

“The man that all are praising is not the man for me!”

“Good! Take me, then. Nobody praises me, though I richly deserve it. I say, after dinner your father is going to take us to his study, and show us Mudheads,–or something.”

“Well?”

“Well, they don’t interest me. I asked Mrs. Clearman to go strolling in the moonlight with me instead, but she refused. Won’t you go?”

“Not if Dad orders otherwise. He’s King of the Home as well as of Clubs.”

“What a tyrant! And you put up with it?”

“Hug my chains. I adore Dad. Except–”

“Except when? But I’ve no right to ask.”

“No, you’ve no right to ask.”

“Tell me about this Mudhead complex. What’s it all about?”

“You’ll get enough of that after dinner. Let’s have fun now.”

So they did. Goring was quick-witted and his type of wit pleased Lulie, who met him halfway in his jesting.

But when, dinner over, Stephen Clearman decreed an adjournment to his study, none was brave enough to demur.

The great room was a museum, and its curios and treasures were of surpassing interest, even to uneducated observers.

There were collections of fearsome looking death-dealing instruments, daggers and swords of various centuries and various countries. There was armor and there were battle flags, as well as more peaceful effects of musical instruments and curious carved chests and cabinets.

But most important of all was the great collection of masks, and these, a novelty to most of the audience, interested them more than the curios more frequently seen.

They were, for the most part, hideous, monstrous faces, which, though repulsive to look at, held the attention by a sort of leering fascination.

“Now, don’t think,” Clearman was saying, “that these are merely a lot of junk. On the contrary, they are a power, and they may be a menace, a foe.

“The mask,” Clearman began to take on his professorial manner, “is nearly as old as humanity itself. The first mask, that of the aborigine, was, of course, merely paint, as–” he smiled as he glanced round at the women’s faces, “as it is now. But rapidly the cult or habit progressed and masks were made of wood, of wax, of papier maché and even of clay.”

“Did people really wear them?” asked Goring, interested in spite of himself.

“They did and they do. In Australia, in New Guinea, in South America, New Mexico, Alaska, in many countries, the mask is still in use–”

“But what is its use?” interrupted Nan Loftis. Her eyes were sparkling with interest; she waited breathlessly for information.

“Its main, its primitive use,” Clearman went on, “is the propitiation or coercion of spirits.”

“I knew there was a catch somewhere!” exclaimed the irrepressible Nicky. “Nothing but a Spiritualist lecture!”

“Not a bit of it,” declared Clearman, good-naturedly. “Not spirits, as the mediums and their dupes regard spooks. Nothing of that sort. It’s magic, the real old dyed-in-the-wool magic. Primitive man, and some of his descendants today, believe in the strongest and most powerful spirits. These, whether good or bad spirits, can, they believe, be persuaded or coerced, frightened or propitiated by masks–”

“Worn?” put in Nan.

“Sometimes worn, sometimes carried–”

“I didn’t know they were ever carried,” Carlotta said, musingly. She, of course, was more or less familiar with the subject in hand.

“Yes,” her husband said, a little impatiently, “of course they are sometimes carried, but more often worn. It is a protection. Then again, it is merely an ornament or decoration, to be worn at funerals, weddings or other ceremonies.”

“Not much decoration about that one!” declared the frivolous Nicky. “Is that their idea of ornamentation?”

He indicated a particularly hideous face that leered and glared in a diabolical way.

“That is a funeral mask of the Alaskan Indians. They dance in it at the burial, and then leave it at the grave for the dead man to use in the other world, as a protection against demons.”

“Hard on the demons,” Nicky murmured.

“Yes, you know they visit the grave twice a day,–I mean, the demons do,–to pester the poor corpse.”

“Hard on the corpse, then, too. Here’s a really lovely one!”

“Yes, that’s a ghost mask, and beautifully ornamented. That’s to charm the dead man back to earth again.”

“Does he come?”

“They say he does, and brings presents to his family. Now, here’s a skull mask. This is Toltec, and is used to denote the impending murder of a chief. This merry event is gracefully described as a ‘going-away,’ and this mosaic mask is hung on his ancestor-post by way of recompense.”

“It’s got me!” said Goring, seriously. “I’m going to study up these matters. I’m already interested–I mean it.”

“You can’t help being, once you start in,” Clearman told him. “Now, here’s the Mudhead. Perhaps the plainest, least melodramatic of the whole bunch in appearance, but one of the most feared. The Zuni Indians pray to him, and watch their step mighty carefully, lest they offend him.”

“How did you come to take up this study, Mr. Clearman?” Nan asked, curiously.

“Because my ancestor, Dathan Clearman, did before me. He was a traveler and an antiquarian, and he started this collection. But he believed in the Magic himself, at least, I think he did. I have his old diary, and it seems incredible, I know, but he was nearly as much under the spell of these things as the savages themselves.”

“And by the way, dear,” said Carlotta, “I found a few more leaves of that old diary today.”

“You did! Where are they?”

“I’ll give them to you later. If I give them now, you’ll immerse yourself, and be lost to us all.” She smiled at him, and he resigned himself to her decree with a whimsical scowl of impatience.

“And have you no belief in the Magic part of it?” asked Jack Raynor, looking at the King of Clubs a little quizzically.

Clearman reddened a bit, then laughed outright.

“I may as well confess,” he said. “I don’t think I really believe in the whole confounded business, but I’ve studied and pored over it so much, that–well, I began it in fun,–but now, I–”

“I’ll tell you what he does!” cried Lulie, laughing. “He sits here in this room for an hour every morning, with a mask on–”

“What!” cried several voices at once.

“Yes, he does,” averred the girl. “He locks himself in, but while he is in here alone, he wears one of the masks!”

Clearman looked a little sheepish at first, then his face grew stern, and he said:

“Well, I suppose I’ve a right to. If it’s superstition, many a man has a pet foible of that sort. If it’s mere silliness, that surely is no crime.”

“No, it isn’t,” cried Carlotta, with quick sympathy. “Lots of men carry a rabbit’s foot, or won’t walk under a ladder, or sit at table with thirteen! Stephen has as good a right to a bit of superstition as the next man!”

“Of course he has,” agreed Raynor, promptly. “But, I say, Mr. Clearman, is it superstition?”

Clearman smiled. “I think it’s habit,” he said; “that, and tradition. My ancestor, Dathan, firmly believed in it all. Other ancestors have dabbled in it more or less, and, so far as I am concerned, I’m–amused by it.”

“Only amused?” asked his sister Phoebe.