Penelope. It's so prim and old fashioned. I told you what
to call me--Fauvette. That's the name I like. Fauvette! I am your
Fauvette. Say it."

Her eyes consumed him.

Christopher realized his danger, but he was powerless against the spell
of her beauty.

"My Fauvette!" he caught her in his arms.

"Ah! Ah! _Mon cheri!_ Wait!" Swiftly she turned off the lights, then
darted back to him in the darkness.

At this moment of supreme crisis the door of the apartment opened slowly
and, as the light streamed in, a figure entered that came like a gentle
radiance. It was Seraphine.

CHAPTER XI

THE EVIL SPIRIT

Penelope sprang up from the divan panting with anger. Her hair was
dishevelled. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the shadows. She glared at
Seraphine.

"How dare you come in here?" she demanded insolently. "What do you want
here?"

With a smile of infinite compassion Mrs. Walters approached like a
loving mother. "My child! My dear child!" she said tenderly.

But the mad young creature repulsed her. "No, no! I hate you! Go away!"

The newcomer turned reassuringly to Captain Herrick. "I am Penelope's
friend--Seraphine."

"Ha! Seraphine! I am Fauvette! What do I care for you?" The frantic one
snapped her fingers at the other woman.

"Penelope!" pleaded Christopher, shocked at her violence.

She turned on him in fury. "You fool! You wouldn't take the chance I
offered you."

"I will quiet her," said Mrs. Walters to Herrick. "Don't be alarmed."

"You can't quiet me. I'll say anything I damn please. Go on, quiet me!
Quiet Fauvette! I'd like to see you do it. Ha, ha, ha!" Her wild
laughter rang through the apartment.

Christopher's face was tense with alarm and distress. "What can I do?
What is the matter with her?" he appealed to Seraphine.

"She is ill. She is not herself," was the grave reply. "I'll call Dr.
Owen; I'll tell him to come at once."

He hurried out of the room and the two women faced each other.

Fauvette sank back on the divan and lay there in sullen defiance. "Now
we're alone--you and I. What are you going to do about it?" was her
harsh challenge.

The psychic did not answer, but her lips moved as if in prayer; then she
spoke sternly, her deep eyes widening: "I see your scarlet lights, your
sinister face."

From the shadowy corner Fauvette sneered: "I see your soft, sentimental
Christmas card face. I'm not afraid of you. I laugh at you." And peals
of shrill, almost satanic, la