rs 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.

Save that these stage properties illustrated the taste of Mabel Vance,
the room was of no interest. It held a rubber plant, a red velvet
rocking chair, across the back of which Mrs. Vance had draped a
Neapolitan scarf; an upright piano, upon which Emman