“It won’t help you in your work,” she pleaded, “to come to see me.” “I must!” repeated Winthrop simply. The eyes of the girl met his, appealingly, defiantly. “You’ll be sorry,” said the girl. Winthrop laughed an eager, boyish laugh. When he spoke the tenseness in his voice had gone. His tone was confident, bantering. “Then I will not come to see you,” he said. Uncertain, puzzled, Vera looked at him in distress. She thought he was mocking her. “No?” she questioned. “I’ll come to see Vera, the medium,” he explained. Vera frowned, and then, in happy embarrassment, smiled wistfully. “Oh, well,” she stammered; “of course, if you’re coming to consult me professionally--my hours are from four to six.” “I’ll be there,” cried the District Attorney. Vera leaned forward eagerly. “What day will you come?” she demanded. “What day!” exclaimed the young man indignantly. “Why, this day!” Vera gave a guilty, frightened laugh. “Oh, will you?” she exclaimed delightedly. She clasped her fingers in a gesture of dismay. “Oh, I hope you won’t be sorry!” she cried. For some moments the District Attorney of New York stood looking at the door through which she had disappeared. Part II The home of the Vances was in Thirty-fifth Street, nearly opposite the Garrick Theatre. It was one of a row of old-fashioned brick houses with high steps. As the seeker after truth entered the front hall, he saw before him the stairs to the second story; on his right, the folding doors of the “front parlor,” and at the far end of the hall, a single door that led to what was, in the old days, before this row of houses had been converted into offices, the family dining room. To Vera the Vances had given the use of this room as a “reception parlor.” The visitor first entered the room on his right, from it passed through another pair of folding doors to the reception parlor, and then, when his audience was at an end, departed by the single door to the hall, and so, to the street. The reception parlor bore but little likeness to a cave of mystery. There were no shaded lights, no stuffed alligator, no Indian draperies, no black cat. On a table, in the centre, under a heavy and hideous chandelier with bronze gas jets, was a green velvet cushion. On this nestled an innocent ball of crystal. Beside it lay the ivory knitting needle with which Vera pointed out, in the hand of the visitor, those lines that showed he would be twice married, was of an ambitious temperament, and would make a success upon the stage. In a corner stood a wooden cabinet that resembled a sentry box on wheels. It was from this, on certain evenings, before a select circle of spiritualists, that Vera projected the ghosts of the departed. Hanging inside the cabinet was a silver-gilt crown and a cloak of black velvet, lined with purple silk and covered in gold thread with signs of the zodiac.