With everybody raptly watching, Roberts, holding the envelopes, turned off the lights. The room was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing on a small table. Then he handed the lot of sealed envelopes to Orienta, who took them in a hand-clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of them. In another second, Bobsy had taken his seat, and snapped off the last small light. The room was in perfect darkness. Barry's hand stole out and clasped Natalie's, but otherwise there was no movement on the part of any one. Not a second seemed to have passed before Orienta's soft voice was heard. "I will read the questions," she said, "in the order they were given me. This is the first: 'Who is Goldenheart?' It is signed Joyce Stannard. This is the answer, as my mind sees it. A woman sitting on a rocky seat near a rushing brook or river. There is a man near her. He bends above her, and speaks endearing words. He calls her Marie, she calls him Eric. She is small and pale. Her hair is Titian red. Though not beautiful, she is attractive in a pathetic way. Ah, the vision is gone." As the low voice ceased, there was a slight rustle as of some one about to speak. "No questions, please," said Orienta, "unless you want this experiment to stop right here. I will now read the contents of the next envelope. This is, 'Who marred my etched picture?' signed Natalie Vernon. My mind sees the artist who made it, himself scratching it. He is in a fury. It is because he does not feel satisfied with his own work. He mutters, 'Not right! no, not right, yet!' There is no one with him. He is alone. The vision fades." Orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if exhausted. But in a moment she spoke again. "You know," she said, "if you prefer to have the lights, it doesn't matter at all to me. I read these in the dark because I think if the room were lighted you might suppose I saw the message in some way by means of my physical eyes. It is not so, but if you prefer the light, turn it on." "I do," cried Roberts, and before any one could object, he snapped on the table light and then the main key which flooded the big room with illumination. Orienta smiled. "I thought you were sceptical, Mr. Roberts," she said. And then, as if his doubts were of little consequence, she said, "Shall I proceed?" Joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance and reproof at Bobsy Roberts, who looked a little crestfallen, but determined to take no chances. Orienta picked up the next envelope. She had laid aside on a table the two she had read. She did not look at the envelope she now held, but looked straight at Roberts, as if to convince him of her honesty.