“that the occult would scarcely appeal to such a practical specimen of manhood as Archer. Who is he and what is he?”
“To begin with, he’s a supreme egotist.”
“Oh, I don’t mean his character; but what does he do?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I believe he’s a mining engineer or something. But he’s terribly in love with Anne, and he’s clever enough not to let Mr. Van Wyck know it.”
“But Anne knows it?”
“Of course, yes; and she doesn’t care two cents for him. But she’s a born coquette, and she leads him on, for nothing but an idle amusement. I don’t think a woman ought to do that.”
“Doubtless you are right, Miss Fordyce; but is it your experience that women always do what they ought to do?”
“Very rarely,” returned Miss Fordyce, laughing, and I began to realize that when the girl dropped her silly pose, she was really charming. “And especially Anne,” she went on. “She’s one of my dearest friends, but that doesn’t blind me to her faults.”
“And is it a fault to be attractive?”
“To be as attractive as Anne Van Wyck is a crime.” Miss Fordyce smiled as she spoke, but there was a ring of earnestness in her tone. “She is a siren, and her charm is of the sort that bowls men over before they know what they’re about.”
“I’m glad you warned me,” I returned; “I’ll be on my guard against her fatal glances.”
“You’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?”
“Oh, no; I knew her ten years ago, as a schoolgirl, but she doesn’t seem to be the same Anne now.”
“She’s a dear!” exclaimed Miss Fordyce, warmheartedly, “and I have done wrong in even seeming to censure her. But she does lead men a dance.”
“Isn’t she afraid of her husband?”
“Anne is afraid of nobody on earth,—well, with one exception,—but the exception is not her husband.”
“Who is it then? You?”
“Oh, goodness, no! Why should she be afraid of me? But she is afraid of Mrs. Carstairs, the housekeeper.”
“The housekeeper! How curious. Why is it?”
“I don’t know. But Mrs. Carstairs is really a most peculiar person. She was housekeeper for Mr. Van Wyck before Anne married him. Her son is Mr. Van Wyck’s valet. Well, Anne would be glad to send them both packing, mother and son, but her husband won’t let her.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, he is accustomed to their ways,—and they are both remarkably capable.”
“But why is Anne afraid of them?”
“I don’t think she’s afraid of Carstairs. But the mother is so queer. Anne says she has the evil eye.”
“Aren’t you and Anne imagining these things? Isn’t it one of your ‘occult’ notions?”
“Wait till you see Mrs. Carstairs. You’ll realize at once she’s queer.”
“I thought a housekeeper was always a portly, placid, middle-aged woman, in a black silk dress.”
Beth Fordyce laughed, “You couldn’t guess farther from the mark! Mrs. Carstairs is not middle-aged. Indeed, she seems extremely young to be the mother of the valet. He must be over twenty. Then she is very good looking, with a dark, subtle sort of beauty. She’s small, and slender, and she glides about so softly, she seems to appear from nowhere. Why, there she is now!”
I looked across the room and saw Mrs. Carstairs speaking to Anne. She wore black silk, it is true; but of modish cut and long, graceful lines. Indeed, she seemed to have more of an air of distinction than any of the other women present, excepting Anne.
She had no touch of apology or obsequiousness in her manner, and stood quietly talking, until she had finished her errand, and then moved away, and left the room without embarrassment. Her selfpoise was marvellous, and I felt a flash of regret that such a woman should have to pursue what was after all, a menial occupation.
“She looks interesting,” I remarked to Miss Fordyce.
“She is!” was the emphatic reply. “Of course, it's an open secret that she hoped to marry Mr. Van Wyck. She was housekeeper here when he was a widower. Then, when he married Anne, he insisted that Mrs. Carstairs should stay on, to relieve Anne of all housekeeping boredom.”
“And Anne doesn’t want her?”
“Not a bit; but she can’t persuade Mr. Van Wyck to discharge her. The valet is most satisfactory, I believe, and the mother and son refuse to be separated. So, they’re both here. But Anne is afraid of her.”
“How absurd!”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Carstairs hates Anne, and though she is never openly disrespectful, she finds hundreds of little ways to annoy her.”
“And Anne’s step-children? How does she get along with them?”
“Oh, right enough. Morland adores her, and though Barbara was offish at first, she is coming round. Anne has shown great tact in managing Barbara, and I think they’ll get to be chums.”
I hadn’t yet had opportunity to converse with Barbara Van Wyck, and under pretense of a quest of fresh tea, I led Miss Fordyce toward the tea-table.
Miss Van Wyck was cordial, but not effusive, and struck me as being what is sometimes called “strong-minded.”
She was a striking-looking girl, with a pale face and large dark eyes; but she had no such charm as Anne, nor had she the gentle softness of Beth Fordyce. She managed the tea-things with a graceful air of being accustomed to it, and included us at once in a conversation she was carrying on with some other callers.
It seemed the Van Wyck tea hour was something of an institution; and neighbors and village people were always in greater or less attendance.
The discussion was concerning a new public library in the town, and as it was of slight interest to me, I permitted my attention to wander about the room, and began to plan some way by which I could unobtrusively make my way back to my hostess.
But just then a motor-car arrived, and a group of callers came in through the great portals of the study. The general confusion of introductions and greetings followed, and when it was over I somehow found myself standing beside Mrs. Stelton, the pretty young widow from whose toils Anne hoped to rescue Morland Van Wyck.
She was attractive in her way, but commonplace compared to Beth Fordyce or Anne. She chatted pleasantly, but her conversation was of the sort that makes a man’s mind wander.
“Are you here for the week end, Mr. Sturgis?” she rattled on; “you’ll have a heavenly time! It’s the dearest place to visit. And they are all such lovely people. The beautiful Mrs. Van Wyck is a perfect hostess,—and Mr. Van Wyck is an old dear, —though a bit of a curmudgeon now and then.”
“You’re speaking of Mr. Morland Van Wyck?” I teased.
“You naughty man! Of course not. I mean our host. Morly isn’t in the least curmudgeonish!” She tapped my arm with her lorgnon in a playful manner. “As if any one could be,—to you,” I returned, knowing her type.
“Nice gentleman!” she babbled on. “I admit I like a compliment now and then. I’m glad you're here. We’re such a pleasant house-party.”
“Who is that striking-looking man standing by the window?” I asked. “We were introduced as he came in, but I didn’t catch his name.”
“Stone,” she replied, “Fleming Stone. They say he is a detective.”
“Stone!” I