"Draw up," Mitchell directed. "I will lay my cards on the table--and then, Mr. Potter," as the naturalist started to speak, "we'll hear what you have to say. Until then, keep quiet." Mitchell spoke in a tone which commanded respect and Potter sullenly obeyed him. The silence remained unbroken for a tense moment, then the porti�res were drawn aside and Welsh, the plain clothes detective, stuck his head inside the library. "Mrs. Parsons," he announced, and drew back to let her enter. Half way across the library the pretty widow paused and inspected the company assembled around the tea table in astonishment. "My dear Kitty," she said, dropping her lorgnette. "I stopped only for a minute," she hesitated. "I fear I am _de trop_," and she turned to leave. "Not a bit of it." Mitchell spoke so quickly that Kitty, who had risen, had no opportunity to answer Mrs. Parsons. The instinct of courtesy gained ascendancy over her perturbed spirit, and she offered her chair to the pretty widow. "Join us here, Mrs. Parsons," added Mitchell. "We want your advice." Mrs. Parsons' smile was charming, but her eyes were keenly alert as she moved forward, searching each face for a clue to the scene which she felt she had interrupted. Not observing where she was going, she stepped on something soft. A loud wail from Mouchette caused her to start convulsively, and the Angora cat, switching her injured tail, back and forth, sprang on Kitty's vacant chair and from there to the tea table. "That cat is always under my feet, horrid beast!" Mrs. Parsons, conscious of appearing ridiculous, for Wallace had not restrained a chuckle, spoke with irritation. "Let me help you," and Craige, who with the other men had risen on the widow's entrance, assisted her in removing her wrap. Mrs. Parsons presented an alluring picture in her chic cr�pe de Chine calling costume, its soft folds showing her graceful figure to advantage. Mrs. Parsons, with reason, was vain of her neck and arms and generally wore elbow sleeves and square cut neck. She was making a round of visits, and as she removed her long white gloves, she laid her gold card case and mesh bag before her on the tea table. Mouchette eyed them for a second and then put out an inquisitive paw. Mrs. Parsons promptly drew both bag and card case out of the cat's reach. Craige, who missed nothing the widow either said or did, lifted Mouchette off the table and held her on his knee. He was aware of Mrs. Parsons' fear of cats. Mouchette submitted to his petting with good grace and much purring, and finally curled up in his lap, but her yellow eyes never ceased watching Mrs. Parsons. "Is this a s�ance?" asked Mrs. Parsons as the silence continued. "If not," her eyebrows lifted, "why are we sitting around this table?" "We are waiting for Inspector Mitchell to, as he expressed it, 'lay his cards on the table,'" Potter spoke with a sneer. "In other words, Cecelia, you are in at the death."