"You may choose," said the Priestess. "Dark, then," replied Joyce. So again the room was made totally dark, and immediately came Orienta's soft, velvety tones. "'Will what I fear ever happen?'" she read slowly. Then she sighed, "I cannot say, my child." Every one present knew she spoke to Natalie, although the question had not been signed. "I hope not,--I think not,--but the vision is clouded. It is better that you forget all. Forget the past, live for a bright and happy future. The vision fades." They had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject, and the next one would ensue. With scarcely a pause and without hesitation, Orienta went on: "'What can I do to help?'" No hint was needed, for all felt sure this was Beatrice Faulkner's question. The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: "Nothing more than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here and they are appreciated." "The rest in the light?" asked Bobsy Roberts, impatiently. "If you choose," returned Joyce, and Roberts switched on the electrics. Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness. She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark. "'Am I doing right?'" she read. For an instant the long lashes on the cheeks of the Priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at Joyce. "Yes, you are doing right. Continue in the procedure you have planned." A look of contentment passed over Joyce's face. She showed intense relief, and oblivious to the others' curious glances she drew a long sigh and relaxed in her chair. Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that the questions were not signed. She knew at once who wrote each. Next came Barry's. Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, "'Will the truth ever be known?'" There was a perceptible pause before she said, "You do not want it known, because you fear it. But your secret is safe. That, at least, will never be known." Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry Stannard had a secret. Pshaw! Not necessarily because this faker said so! And yet, was she a faker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put those sealed envelopes into that long, inert hand. There they were still, intact, seals unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if they were so much blank paper. Whatever her power, it was superhuman. No physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. No, there was no chance for trickery. It was a supernatural gift of some sort. His own envelope came last. He had boldly written, "Who killed Eric Stannard?" a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude words. Orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envelope and her eyes closed.