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The dinner guests were all assembled when Lulie and her friend appeared in the drawing-room.

"This is not to make an effective entrance," Lulie declared, laughingly, "but because I couldn't get Nan ready any sooner. Isn't she wonderful!"

Lulie Clearman presented her friend as if she were a work of art, and the pretty girl, with her dark hair and eyes and her flame-colored frock was an arresting sight. Nan Loftis smiled impartially around, greeted everybody as she was presented, and finally singled out Jack Raynor as her quarry, and sidled to him with a plaintive, "Please like me."

"I do like you," returned the Jack of Hearts, with enthusiasm, but with an involuntary glance at Lulie herself.

Lulie Clearman, a complete contrast to Nan, was well worth many glances.

She was, as her aunt had said, distinctly of a Burne-Jones type, but so modernized or rather vivified, that it was like a picture come to life.

Of medium height, slim, graceful and gracious, she was also alert and perceptive. Her hair was of the true ash blonde, so often seen in England, so seldom over here. Her eyes can only be described as amber or beryl or tawny, or any of those hackneyed terms for that peculiar brown with glistening lights in it.

Her face was pale, with the merest touch of makeup, and she wore a simple chiffon gown of a deep ivory color, that by its contrast made her hair almost golden.

"I say, but you know how to dress!" was Nicky Goring's low-voiced comment, as they went together to the dining room.

"Praise my clothes, if you like," said Lulie, indifferently, "but don't tell me how beautiful I am."

"You must be sick and tired of hearing it," he returned, fervently. "You remind me of that wonderful poem written by somebody or other in that book about the Queen's Doll House."

"Haven't read it,—what is it?"

"I don't remember it all, but the principal line is: 'I am a Doll and very beautiful.' I don't know why, exactly, but I think that's a wonderful line."

"The line is all right, but why do you think me a doll?"

"I don't. In fact, I haven't had time to classify you at all yet. But the line seems to fit you. It has your calm."

"My calm is my pride and delight. I glory in it."

Lulie spoke with a quiet seriousness that made Goring look at her twice to see if she were chaffing him. And still he didn't know. Nor care. He adored girls, and gratefully accepted each new one as Heaven's last, best gift.

"Your friend is pretty, too," he said, conversationally.

"Yes," Lulie agreed, amused at this casual wag, and accepting his structural plans for talk. "But she is muffin-minded."

"She would be. Sports girl, in civilian dress, isn't she?"

"Yes. You knew it from her muscles."

"And from her face. She has that eager, prize-is-set-before-us look."

"Yes, she has," and Lulie looked appraisingly at Nan. "Tell me about Mr. Raynor. He seems charming."

"Oh, he is. He is Prince Charming and Jack of Hearts and Paris and Apollo and all the gods at once."

"Shall I adore him?"

"Of course. Every girl does."

"The man that all are praising is not the man for me!"

"Good! Take me, then. Nobody praises me, though I richly deserve it. I say, after dinner your father is going to take us to his study, and show us Mudheads,—or something."

"Well?"

"Well, they don't interest me. I asked Mrs. Clearman to go strolling in the moonlight with me instead, but she refused. Won't you go?"

"Not if Dad orders otherwise. He's King of the Home as well as of Clubs."

"What a tyrant! And you put up with it?"

"Hug my chains. I adore Dad. Except——"

"Except when? But I've no right to ask."

"No, you've no right to ask."

"Tell me about this Mudhead complex. What's it all about?"

"You'll get enough of that after dinner. Let's have fun now."

So they did. Goring was quick-witted and his type of wit pleased Lulie, who met him halfway in his jesting.

But when, dinner over, Stephen Clearman decreed an adjournment to his study, none was brave enough to demur.

The great room was a museum, and its curios and treasures were of surpassing interest, even to uneducated observers.

There were collections of fearsome looking death-dealing instruments, daggers and swords of various centuries and various countries. There was armor and there were battle flags, as well as more peaceful effects of musical instruments and curious carved chests and cabinets.

But most important of all was the great collection of masks, and these, a novelty to most of the audience, interested them more than the curios more frequently seen.

They were, for the most part, hideous, monstrous faces, which, though repulsive to look at, held the attention by a sort of leering fascination.

"Now, don't think," Clearman was saying, "that these are merely a lot of junk. On the contrary, they are a power, and they may be a menace, a foe.

"The mask," Clearman began to take on his professorial manner, "is nearly as old as humanity itself. The first mask, that of the aborigine, was, of course, merely paint, as—" he smiled as he glanced round at the women's faces, "as it is now. But rapidly the cult or habit progressed and masks were made of wood, of wax, of papier maché and even of clay."

"Did people really wear them?" asked Goring, interested in spite of himself.

"They did and they do. In Australia, in New Guinea, in South America, New Mexico, Alaska, in many countries, the mask is still in use——"

"But what is its use?" interrupted Nan Loftis. Her eyes were sparkling with interest; she waited breathlessly for information.

"Its main, its primitive use," Clearman went on, "is the propitiation or coercion of spirits."

"I knew there was a catch somewhere!" exclaimed the irrepressible Nicky. "Nothing but a Spiritualist lecture!"

"Not a bit of it," declared Clearman, good-naturedly. "Not spirits, as the mediums and their dupes regard spooks. Nothing of that sort. It's magic, the real old dyed-in-the-wool magic. Primitive man, and some of his descendants today, believe in the strongest and most powerful spirits. These, whether good or bad spirits, can, they believe, be persuaded or coerced, frightened or propitiated by masks——"

"Worn?" put in Nan.

"Sometimes worn, sometimes carried——"

"I didn't know they were ever carried," Carlotta said, musingly. She, of course, was more or less familiar with the subject in hand.

"Yes," her husband said, a little impatiently, "of course they are sometimes carried, but more often worn. It is a protection. Then again, it is merely an ornament or decoration, to be worn at funerals, weddings or other ceremonies."

"Not much decoration about that one!" declared the frivolous Nicky. "Is that their idea of ornamentation?"

He indicated a particularly hideous face that leered and glared in a diabolical way.

"That is a funeral mask of the Alaskan Indians. They dance in it at the burial, and then leave it at the grave for the dead man to use in the other world, as a protection against demons."

"Hard on the demons," Nicky murmured.

"Yes, you know they visit the grave twice a day,—I mean, the demons do,—to pester the poor corpse."

"Hard on the corpse, then, too. Here's a really lovely one!"

"Yes, that's a ghost mask, and beautifully ornamented. That's to charm the dead man back to earth again."

"Does he come?"

"They say he does, and brings presents to his family. Now, here's a skull mask. This is Toltec, and is used to denote the impending murder of a chief. This merry event is gracefully described as a 'going-away,' and this mosaic mask is hung on his ancestor-post by way of recompense."

"It's got me!" said Goring, seriously. "I'm going to study up these matters. I'm already interested—I mean it."

"You can't help being, once you start in," Clearman told him. "Now, here's the Mudhead. Perhaps the plainest, least melodramatic of the whole bunch in appearance, but one of the most feared. The Zuni Indians pray to him, and watch their step mighty carefully, lest they offend him."

"How did you come to take up this study, Mr. Clearman?" Nan asked, curiously.

"Because my ancestor, Dathan Clearman, did before me. He was a traveler and an antiquarian, and he started this collection. But he believed in the Magic himself, at least, I think he did. I have his old diary, and it seems incredible, I know, but he was nearly as much under the spell of these things as the savages themselves."

"And by the way, dear," said Carlotta, "I found a few more leaves of that old diary today."

"You did! Where are they?"

"I'll give them to you later. If I give them now, you'll immerse yourself, and be lost to us all." She smiled at him, and he resigned himself to her decree with a whimsical scowl of impatience.

"And have you no belief in the Magic part of it?" asked Jack Raynor, looking at the King of Clubs a little quizzically.

Clearman reddened a bit, then laughed outright.

"I may as well confess," he said. "I don't think I really believe in the whole confounded business, but I've studied and pored over it so much, that—well, I began it in fun,—but now, I——"

"I'll tell you what he does!" cried Lulie, laughing. "He sits here in this room for an hour every morning, with a mask on——"

"What!" cried several voices at once.

"Yes, he does," averred the girl. "He locks himself in, but while he is in here alone, he wears one of the masks!"

Clearman looked a little sheepish at first, then his face grew stern, and he said:

"Well, I suppose I've a right to. If it's superstition, many a man has a pet foible of that sort. If it's mere silliness, that surely is no crime."

"No, it isn't," cried Carlotta, with quick sympathy. "Lots of men carry a rabbit's foot, or won't walk under a ladder, or sit at table with thirteen! Stephen has as good a right to a bit of superstition as the next man!"

"Of course he has," agreed Raynor, promptly. "But, I say, Mr. Clearman, is it superstition?"

Clearman smiled. "I think it's habit," he said; "that, and tradition. My ancestor, Dathan, firmly believed in it all. Other ancestors have dabbled in it more or less, and, so far as I am concerned, I'm—amused by it."

"Only amused?" asked his sister Phoebe.

"Well, now, look here," Clearman spoke as if cornered, "these heathen people wear a mask to frighten away evil spirits, or to propitiate or coerce them to good. If I choose to wear a mask for those same reasons, does it harm anyone? Does it matter to anyone? My wife likes diamonds, my daughter likes to paint her face, my sister likes to tell her fortune by cards or tea-leaves. Harmless foibles, all of them. May I not be allowed to ride my hobby, too?"

"Of course you can, Dad," Lulie cried, gaily, "of course you shall, of course you do! Doesn't he, West?"

She spoke to West, the valet and body servant of Stephen Clearman. West had been long in the household, and by reason of having held various consecutive and even simultaneous offices was more or less a privileged character. Yet he had never presumed on the favors shown him, and merely answered, "Yes, Miss Lulie," in a monotone.

West was a character by reason of his very lack of characteristics. A perfect valet, he could also be a chauffeur, a gardener, a handy man or perform whatever office might be suddenly demanded, yet in pursuit of each calling he was the same colorless, unobtrusive servant.

He rejoiced in the rather impressive cognomen of Gallagher West, but Clearman had long ago condensed this to Galley West, and the name stuck.

"You see," Lulie went on, for she loved to rag her father, "Dad sits in here of a morning, writing letters, and wearing,—yes, actually wearing one of these heathenish contraptions,—sometimes one, sometimes another,—I suppose according to what sort of evil spirit he wants to exorcise."

"Or in an endeavor to keep away from you certain evil spirits that would be justified in tormenting you!" her father retorted, pretending to scowl at her.

"And where is the Duk-Duk?" asked Nicky, not knowing if the sparring might not get serious.

"The old original that my ancestor brought is down in the hall," said Clearman, "but here is another, which I brought home myself. It is equally authentic, of course, as a heathen mask, but it hasn't the power of the family curse, as the one downstairs has."

"You believe in that curse, then?" asked Goring.

"Not so you'd notice it!" Stephen declared. "Do you suppose I'd have built this wing if I had? That is,—don't misunderstand me,—I believe old Dathan cursed us all right enough, and I believe he expected to see that his Duk-Duk carried out the specifications of his decree, but—and here's the little joker, I have learned enough of this sort of thing to know how to circumvent and render harmless——"

"Oh, come now, Stephen," said his wife, laughing, "really, we've all had quite enough of this sort of thing. If anyone wants to stay here with you and delve deeper into these mysteries, let him, the rest of us are going down to the hall for a dance."

"Good!" cried Nan Loftis, "I'm glad of it. I love this old, wise lore, but—well, a little of it goes a long way with me. Let's dance tonight, and duck ducks tomorrow."

Most of the party agreed and trooped off to descend the great staircase to the hall.

Nicky Goring tarried a while with Clearman and his sister, as the rest disappeared.

"Don't mistake my interest for curiosity," Nicky said, "but do you really do this mask-wearing business? I ask you as man to man, not as an idle question."

"As man to man, Goring, I do. If I am a fool, it is a harmless foolishness. And if, as may be," his eyes seemed to look far away, "there is anything in it, it may save me—may have already saved me from tragedy."

"You are in earnest?" Nicky was astonished. He had fully expected Clearman to say it was all a jest.

"Very much so, and not at all ashamed of it."

"Put one on," Nicky begged, "let me see the darned thing in action."

Without hesitation, the King of Clubs selected a terrible affair of carved and painted wood, with fearful protruding eyes and a malignant gaping mouth. It was, it seemed, of light weight and easy adjustment, and apparently not at all uncomfortable, yet on Clearman the effect was so frightful as to make even the practical Nicky quiver.

Miss Phoebe surveyed her brother critically.

"That's from Ceylon," she said; "that's the mask that cures leprosy. The doctor puts it on and dances around the patient three times a day."

"Right!" said Clearman as he took the mask off. "Good for you, Phoebe! You know a heap!"

"As I said," Goring went on, "I'm intrigued. I'm going to study up these things. May I look in this room tomorrow?"

"If I'm here," Stephen replied. "No one may come in here in my absence."

"Right-o! Now I'll run down for a dance, but I fear I'll make a savage dance of it! I shall, in my mind, anyway."

He went off, and the brother and sister sat alone amidst the grinning, scowling faces of the painted primitives.

"I don't like it, Stephen," she said, at last.

"Don't like what, sister?"

"Oh, the whole thing,—this new building of yours, this idea of yours to ward off the curse by a mask, for I know that's why you wear it an hour every day."

"Oh, come now, Phoebe, don't be foolish. The curse hasn't struck yet!"

"No,—but in the other two cases it delayed for a time——"

"All right, never cross a curse until you come to it. Now, skittle, old lady, I'm going to read."

"Aren't you going downstairs?"

"Not unless I have to. Not unless Carlotta demands my presence. Did you hear what that rascal said? That she has found some more leaves of old Dathan's journal?"

"Where did she find them?"

"I don't know. I suppose up in that old loft, where she's everlastingly rooting, in hopes she can find something that will please me."

"Has she ever?"

"Lord, yes. She unearthed several old letters and documents of more or less interest, genealogically. She's a brick, you know, Phoebe. Think how she traveled with me all through those heathen places, when she hated them and was just longing to get to Paris and civilization once more."

"Yes, she's a good wife to you, dear. Are you getting her some more diamonds?"

"No, the child has enough for the present. How beautiful she looks tonight!"

"Yes, and Raynor thinks so, too."

"Raynor may think what he likes. I trust my Carlotta implicitly."

"She's a good woman, Stephen. But very different from Lulie's mother."

"I should say so! Lulie's mother was a saint, Carlotta is a siren. Run off, now, Phoebe, I want to read."

Miss Clearman went off obediently, and the King of Clubs became so absorbed in his books that he thought of nothing else until a laughing voice cried:

"Well, old bookworm! Going to read all night?"

Two soft arms went round his neck, and the lovely woman he had called a siren made good her claim to the title.

"Where are those leaves of the journal?" he asked, ignoring her caress.

"I'll get them—want them now?"

"Yes, of course. Why didn't you leave them for me before you went downstairs?"

"Forgot it. Kiss me—don't be a Mudhead!"

"Bring me the papers, then I'll kiss you."

The papers were brought, a kiss was given with a somewhat preoccupied air, and Stephen Clearman settled down to the examination of the new find.

Carlotta went to her room and went to bed. The others had all retired, and save for the study of the master of the house, the place was in darkness.

Servants had put out the corridor lights and no sound was heard for an hour or more.

Then there rose a scream, a loud shriek from somewhere, that was audible all over the still house.

It seemed to come from the other wing, the part of the house opposite the new addition.

Clearman jumped from his books and flung wide his study door. Almost simultaneously, Carlotta appeared in her door, slipping into a kimono as she moved. Behind her stood, hovering, her maid, Violet, a tall, slender negress, who, looking scared herself, kept close guard on her mistress.

"What is it, Stephen? Who is it?" Carlotta asked, but Clearman was already striding along the corridor. He flashed on lights as he went, and at last came to his sister's room.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed in a state of collapse. A wrap had been hastily flung round her shoulders, and she was shivering with fear and sobbing hysterically.

"I saw it, Stephen!" she cried, as he sat beside her and put his arm round her.

"Saw what, Phoebe? Saw what, dear?"

"The Skull mask! Oh, Stephen, it is the warning! Oh, my boy, the curse is about to fall!"

"Phoebe, stop! Pull yourself together! You are disturbing the whole house. You have had a terrible nightmare, I'm afraid. Go back to bed, dear—Shall I send Violet to you?"

Violet was the inappropriate name of Carlotta's gaunt negro woman. Phoebe was not inclined to have a maid of her own, being of a certain old-fashioned type; she preferred to do for herself.

"Violet? Nonsense. And it was not a nightmare, Stephen. I was wakeful, and so I wandered about, as I often do, when I can't sleep. And I stepped out into the hall, and there it was moving slowly along, high in the air—a head without a body—a mask—nothing else, just the terrible, dreadful Skull mask! Oh, Stephen, the curse will get you—it will!"

"Hush, Phoebe, you are hysterical. No, it won't—come in, Carlotta—see if you can help quiet her."

Carlotta came, followed at a respectful distance by Violet, but Phoebe wanted no such comforting.

"Go to bed, Carlotta," she ordered. "Violet, put your mistress back to bed. Stephen, you can go too. Nothing can be done about it. I tell you I saw that thing. I had no nightmare, it was not imagination. I saw it——"

"How could you see it?" asked Carlotta. "Wasn't the hall dark?"

"Yes, but the thing shone—shone, I tell you. Oh, Steve," and she wept in her brother's arms.

"There, there, Phoebe," he soothed her. "Forget it, dear. As you say, we can't do anything about it. Go back to bed, won't you?"

"Of course I will. What else is there to do? Go back to your room, Lulie," for the girl's fair head was peeping into the hall.

Other doors had opened a little and closed again. Phoebe Clearman was as good as her word and went back to her bed.