“Maybe you specialize on mendin’ people’s bones and maybe your specialty is their insides.  I’ve got a specialty, too.  You see, in this business it’s easy to go all to the bad unless you do somethin’ for other people.  You have to have a kind of religion to tie to.  Mine is unitin’ and reunitin’ lovin’ hearts.  Of course you’re saying that this is a lot of foolishness.  Never mind.”  She paused a moment, and plied the needle.  “What’s the trouble between you and that slim little niece of Mrs. Markham’s that you want her aunt exposed?  An’ can’t I fix it some other way?”

“What do you know about Miss Markham?” asked the sitter.

“I’ve opened myself up to you like a school-girl in a cosey corner chat,” said Rosalie Le Grange; “ain’t it time you was doin’ some confidin’?”

“Did you ever hear that Miss Markham had been brought up to be a medium?  That she mustn’t marry because it would destroy her powers?  That she’s been taught to believe that she will never develop fully until she’s put aside an earthly love?”

“O-ho!” quoth Rosalie; “so that’s the way the wind sets!  My!  I must say that’s the fakiest thing I ever heard about Mrs. Markham.  We all know that a medium’s born.  This dark room developin’ seance work is bosh to stall the dopes along.  Still, Mrs. Markham has always played a lone hand.  She’s never mixed with other mediums, which is why I’ll be safe in goin’ into her house—­she won’t recognize me.  Probably she’s kept some fool notions that the rest of us lost long ago.  But the poor little puss!”—­her voice sank to a ripple—­“the poor little puss!” Her eyes grew tender, and tenderly they met the softened eyes of the young man.  “Just robbin’ her of her girlhood!  I wonder”—­her voice grew harder as she turned to practical consideration of the subject—­“if Mrs. Markham got the idea from them Yogis and adepts and things that she mixed with in India.  Just like ’em.  They’ve got the real thing, but they’re little, crawling Dagoes with no more blood in ’em than a swarm of horseflies.”

“It is terrible to think of,” said the sitter.

“You poor dear, I should say so!” responded Rosalie.  “Of course, I see what you want done.  If I can prove that Mrs. Markham is a fake, then I prove to the girl that it’s all bosh about her not marrying.  I can’t give you no encouragement as far as exposin’ goes, seem’ ’s I know Mrs. Markham is real, but if I’m on the ground, maybe I can fix it some other way.  How are you goin’ to git me into the house?”

“This week,” responded her co-conspirator, “Mrs. Markham will advertise for a housekeeper.  I suppose you can play housekeeper well enough to keep the place a month, can’t you?”

“If there’s anythin’ I can do,” responded Rosalie, “it’s keep house.  Is it a big house?”

“Three stories—­three or four servants, I suppose.”

“That’s good; I’ll enjoy it; I never had a chance at that!”