“Stop!” cried Mrs. Markham.

“Now, my dear,” protested Rosalie, “I’ve been in the house four weeks jest watchin’ you work.  Your play is to shut up until you see what we’ve got in our hand.  If you don’t, you’ll put your foot in it!”

As though aware of her presence for the first time, Mrs. Markham turned and looked Rosalie straight in the face.  And as though realizing the common sense in this counsel, she seated herself.  Only a gnawing at her under lip indicated her mental disturbance.

Now Annette, as though beginning to realize the situation, was sobbing softly.  Blake patted her shoulder; and the passion went out of his voice.  But he still held the revolver alert in his free hand.

[Illustration:  “STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” HE COMMANDED]

“Her method is fairly established.  In a few minutes, I will permit you to see the trap between the ceiling of that cabinet room there and the floor of the room above.  The trap is hollow; in it, for safety, she keeps those phosphorescent robes”—­he nodded toward the white heap on the floor—­“all her cabinet paraphernalia, and the notes on such as you.  Full information on your love affair with Helen Whitton has been in that trap for weeks.”  Then, seeing how raw was the nerve which he had touched in the old man, he added: 

“I beg your pardon again, sir; but I must speak of this.  Mme. Le Grange there—­my agent in this house—­is an expert on such matters.  She informs me that those notes are the work of a private detective—­that the information comes from an old aunt of Helen Whitton who must have been her confidante.  Do you see now what happened?  Every night of a seance, Mrs. Markham has prepared for you by sending this girl to bed early—­by sitting beside her and putting her to sleep.  That is what Miss Markham, in her innocence, calls it.  It is sleep—­the hypnotic sleep.  Miss Markham is in bad condition.  Her nerves are those of the overworked hypnotic horse.  Mrs. Markham has used that as a pretext for putting her to bed early.  Shall I particularize?  Do I need to go on?”

“Oh, pray do!  You are very interesting!” spoke Mrs. Markham from the piano stool.

“I will—­since you wish it,” returned Blake with an equal sarcastic courtesy.  “When sleep was established, Mrs. Markham made her rise and dress herself in those phosphorescent robes”—­he pointed to the gauzy heap on the floor—­“put her back on the couch, and gave her directions.  She was to rise at a signal—­you know it—­’Wild roamed an Indian maid.’  Must I tell you any more?” he burst out.  “Do you know that three nights ago I looked into her sitting-room above that trap and saw her—­saw her go down to you—­heard what she said to you!”

Annette was gasping and moaning.

“Oh, did I do that?” she said.