Mrs. De Peyster half-rose in ultimate consternation.

“Oh, please—­please—­you’re not going to let them in!”

“We don’t dare keep them out!” Mr. Pyecroft pressed Mrs. De Peyster firmly back into her chair.  “Keep your nerve!” he repeated sharply.  “Open the door, please,—­quick!”

Mary cast a questioning glance at Jack, who, bewildered, nodded his consent.  She unlocked the door.

CHAPTER XXIII

MR. PYECROFT TAKES CHARGE

The next moment a dozen reporters crowded into the room, the redoubtable Mr. Mayfair at their head; and behind them could be seen the pale, curious faces of William, Miss Gardner, and M. Dubois.  Mrs. De Peyster, Olivetta, and Matilda sat in limp despair.  Judge Harvey, Jack, and Mary gazed in breathless suspense and wonderment at Mr. Pyecroft.  As for Mr. Pyecroft, he stood before Mrs. De Peyster, obscuring her, looking like one who has suffered a severe shock, yet withal grave and composed.

“What’s up?” demanded the keen-faced Mayfair.

“Before I answer that,” said Mr. Pyecroft, “permit me to preface what I have to say by touching upon two necessary personal details.  First, I believe, at least, you, Mr. Mayfair, have known me as Mr. Simpson, brother of Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper.  I am not her brother.  This harmless deception was undertaken, for reasons not necessary to give, at the request of Judge Harvey; he wished me to remain in the house to arrange, and make abstracts of, certain private papers.  The second detail is, that I am speaking at the request of Judge Harvey, as his associate and as the representative of the De Peyster family.”

Judge Harvey felt his collar; Jack stared.  But fortunately the room was dim, and the reporters’ eyes were all on the grave, candid face of Mr. Pyecroft.

“Yes—­yes,” said the impatient Mayfair.  “But out with the story!  What’s doing?”

“Something that I think will surprise you,” said Mr. Pyecroft.  “Something that has completely astounded all of us—­particularly this lady who is Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper, and Miss Harmon, here, who has just returned from a quiet summer in Maine to attend her cousin’s funeral.  The fact is, gentlemen, to come right to the point, there is to be no funeral.”

“No funeral!” cried Mr. Mayfair.

“No funeral!” ran through the crowd.

“No funeral,” repeated Mr. Pyecroft.  “The reason, gentlemen, is that a great mistake has been made.  Mrs. De Peyster is not dead.”

“Not dead!” exclaimed the reporters.

“If you desire proof, here it is.”  Mr. Pyecroft, stepping aside, revealed the figure of Mrs. De Peyster.  He put his right hand upon her shoulder, gripping it tightly and holding her in her chair, and with his left he lifted the thick veil above her face.  “I believe that most of you know Mrs. De Peyster, at least from her pictures.”