"At last," she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, "at last we come to the vital question. It matters not who wrote it, it is what each one wanted to write. Shall I answer?" There was silence. Orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance around. XII A Vision It was curious to note the various expressions that met the eyes of the Priestess. Bobsy Roberts regarded her with awe. All his scepticism was gone; he was ready to believe anything she might say. She had stood the severest tests, had tossed them aside without noticing them, and had come triumphant through the experimental ordeal. Surely, if she revealed anything hitherto unknown, it would be the truth. But could she do that? Natalie and Barry both showed fear. Strive to hide it as they would, it lurked in their staring eyes, it was evident in their restless hands, and as if moved by the same thought, they turned and gazed at each other. Beatrice Faulkner looked troubled. She saw the two young people in their distress, and she looked at the Detective furtively. Joyce, however, was the one to whom all turned, breathlessly awaiting her decision. "Yes," she said, and her voice rang out with its note of determination, "yes, Madame Orienta, tell all you know,--all you can learn by your mystic power." As if in obedience to a command, the graceful figure of the Mystic fell into a languid pose. Her arms fell limply, her head drooped a very little to one side. Her eyes were open, but seemed to be unseeing, for her glance was fixed, as if watching a mirage. She looked directly toward the chair where Stannard had died. Her half-vacant glance centred on it, and in a moment she began speaking. She sounded as one in a trance. She was alive but not alert, like one sleep-walking or talking in a dream. "I see it all,--clearly. I see the artist in his favourite chair. He is at his work,--no, not working, but gazing at something, criticising work that he has done. It is not a picture--it is a small panel. He takes up a tool,--an instrument, a sharp, pointed one. He hesitates, and then with a sudden angry exclamation, he scratches and mars the work. It pleases him that he has done so, and he smiles. A man enters." There was a stir among her audience. The tension was too great. Barry sought Natalie's hand and clasped it tightly. Roberts shot glances quickly from one to another, but returned his gaze at once to the speaker. Joyce and Beatrice leaned forward, fairly hanging on the words of revelation.