Charmian Reemy was tired from the long automobile ride from the wilderness, and went early to bed. Shortly after her retirement Mary Temple stepped softly to her bedroom door and listened until convinced that her young charge was sound asleep. Then she put on her ancient fur coat and her surprisingly old-fashioned hat, and noiselessly left the apartment. The elevator was still running, and she rode in it to the ground floor, where she slipped out into a cold, foggy night. At the corner she took a streetcar and rode to a point in the city directly opposite Golden Gate Park. Here she left the car, walked three blocks, and rang the bell of a three-story flat. Presently the door automatically swung open, and she entered a warm, carpeted hall. She briskly ascended a long flight of stairs, at the top of which a large woman in a blue-silk kimono awaited her. “Oh, it’s you, is it, dearie?” greeted the woman. “I thought you were in the country.” “We came back this evening, Madame Destrehan,” said Mary, reaching the large woman’s side and extending her hand. “And I came direct to you. I’m in trouble again. That little minx has a new wild scheme in her head. I can’t talk her out of it. But I’m afraid. I just know there’s something wrong.” “Come in and tell me all about it,” offered Madame Destrehan. “I know I can help you. I--I--” She placed a fat, white, bejewelled hand to her forehead and brushed across it. “I see something now.” They entered the medium’s apartment. Both seated themselves, and Mary Temple poured out the story of the two strangers who had invaded El Trono de Tolerancia, and of the opal claims and the Valley of Arcana. Madame Destrehan listened with both eyes closed. She sat immovable after Mary’s cracked voice ceased, her eyelids still lowered. Then she began waving her plump hands slowly this way and that. She did not open her eyes, but she mumbled something which Mary could not interpret. Then suddenly she began speaking in a low, awed tone. “I see that valley,” said the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. “It’s beautiful, but death stalks across it from end to end. And I see-- Oh, horrors! I see an ugly face. The face of a man. It is bluish, and the eyes are popping from the head. The eyes are glazed, and his thick, blue tongue hangs out like the tongue of a tired dog. The man’s hair is dishevelled and long. A matted beard covers his face. His eyes stare, then gleam with ferocity. His skin is withered and yellow, and his finger nails are long. He grits his teeth and babbles like a madman. And--oh, horrors! He is leaning over Mrs. Reemy, and his crooked fingers are drawing nearer and nearer to her white throat!” CHAPTER VII LOT’S WIFE AND SHIRTTAIL HENRY