Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood thinking of Blake's experience. There the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a physical impossibility. Now, once again, which? Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and, after a moment's hesitation, she spoke to him. "Mr. Roberts, I've had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it. Will you help me?" "In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?" "Come in the studio. I'll speak to you first about it. I was looking for Barry, to ask him." They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down. "Here is the letter," said Joyce, handing it to him. "I wish you would read it." Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn? It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship. It ran: _Mrs. Stannard_: Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter. Very truly yours, Orienta. The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant's circular letter. "It isn't worth the paper it's written on," said Bobsy, handing it back. "But how do you know? I've read up on this sort of thing and while there is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it's always done by a cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance. This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I've a notion to see what she'll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good."