* * * * * Lucy Ollnee breathed no more. She had died as she had lived, a martyr to the unseen world. But her death was triumphant, for on the sensitive plate of each camera science and law were able to read the proof of her power. In the dark face of his grandsire Victor read a stern contempt as though he said: "Deny and still deny. In the end you _must_ believe." In the alcove on the pad these words were written in his mother's hand: "_Do not grieve. My work is done. I do not go far. I shall be near to cheer and guide you. Your future is secure. Work hard, be patient, and all will be well. Farewell, but not good-by._" Below, written in the quaint script which Victor recognized, were these words: "_Men of science and of law, blazon forth the marvels you have seen and tested. Make the world ring with them; in such wise will you advance veneration for God and remove the fear of death._ "_WATTS._" XV THE RING Bartol obeyed the command of the invisible powers. He gladly blazoned the triumphant death of the psychic to the world. Lucy Ollnee became at once a glorious martyr for her faith, a victim of science. Liberal journals and religious journals alike lamented that it was necessary for the sake of proof as regards immortality "that an innocent woman should be caged and tortured to death with electric batteries," and even the _Star_, leader in the war against the mediums, permitted itself an editorial word of regret, and published in full Bartol's letter, and also a long interview with Stinchfield, wherein he admitted the genuineness of the dead woman's claims to supra-normal power. But all this was, at the moment, of small comfort to Victor. For a long time he refused to believe in the reality of his mother's death, insisting that she was in deep trance (as she had been before); but at last, when the body was to be removed to Mrs. Joyce's home and Doctor Steele and Doctor Eberly had both examined it and found no signs of life, he gave up all hope of her return. Accompanied by Mrs. Joyce, he visited the California Avenue flat for the last time to pack up the few things of value which his mother had been permitted to acquire. His attitude toward the chairs, the slates, the old table, had utterly changed. They were now instinct with his mother's power, permeated with some part of her subtler material self, and he was minded to preserve them. They were no longer the tools of a conjuror; they were the sacred relics of a priestess. Mrs. Joyce asked permission to house them for him till he had secured a home of his own, and to this he consented, for with his present feeling concerning them he was troubled by the thought of their being stored in dark vaults among masses of commonplace furniture. "I shall keep the table in my own room," said Mrs. Joyce. "It may be that Lucy will be able to manifest herself to me through it. I have been promised such power."