A Woman Named Smith Part 27

Alicia has a round, snow-white chin, and when she tilts it the curve of her throat is distracting.

"On second thoughts," said The Author, critically, "I discover that I do not wholly disapprove of you. Come outside. I wish to talk about the venerable, and yet common design that tops every outside window and door of this house.--What do you call that design, may I ask?"

"Why, everybody knows the Greek fret!" said Alicia, staring at it.

"It's as old as the hills."

"Exactly," agreed The Author. "The Greek fret is as old as the hill.

And, with the single exception of the swastika, it is the design most universally known to man. You may find it on a bit of ancient Greek pottery, or on a crumbling wall in Yucatan. Many people refer to it as the Greek key."

Something began to glimmer in my mind--the vaguest, most tenuous shadow of an idea; a tantalizing, hide-and-seek phantom of a thought.

"_Turne h.e.l.lens Keye Three Tennes and Three_,"

he quoted the doggerel verse.

We looked at him mutely.

"It is a tiresome truism," he went on, reflectively, "that what lies close to the eye often escapes observation. For instance, these windows have been staring at me daily, each with its nice little eyebrow of design, and I overlooked the design until my subconscious mind suggested to me that here, in all probability, lies h.e.l.len's Keye."

I remembered the entry in Freeman's diary, concerning the loss of a "Keye," which hadn't been found among his father's papers, and of a secret which had died with the older man.

"I think I told you," said The Author, "that this house was built by master masons, shortly after the Grand Lodge was established in London. Thirty-three is rather a significant number. Yet, how to apply it," he paused, frowning.

"Without disturbing a Watcher in the Dark?" Alicia made light of The Authors itch for mystery. "Aren't you rather forgetting the Watcher in the Dark? Teller of tales, isn't it moon-stuff you're trying to spin?"

"Who talks of a Watcher in the Dark?" asked a pleasant voice.

Accompanied by Mr. Johnson, Mr. Nicholas Jelnik had strolled up unperceived.

"The Author," Alicia explained, mischievously, "is trying to make sense out of nonsense."

"That," said Mr. Jelnik, smiling, "is not an uncommon occupation."

"It's all about a bit of doggerel we found on a sc.r.a.p of paper in the attic," I told him. And I quoted it, adding: "There was a column of dots under it. The Author laments that he lost it, before he had chance to unravel it."

"I lost it, walking in my sleep," said The Author, disagreeably.

"And now he's trying to make us believe that the design in the brick-work above our windows, just because it's the Greek fret, is h.e.l.len's Keye," Alicia said, jestingly.

"Well, you know, if a thing means _anything_, it's got to mean _something_," put in Mr. Johnson.

"Ain't it the truth, though?" hissed The Author, with fury.

Mr. Johnson was saved from stammering explanations by the irruption of Beautiful Dog, who at sound of his voice had wriggled, and cringed, and fawned his way out of the shrubbery, c.o.c.king a wary eye to see that none of the Black family was around. Beautiful Dog rolled his eyes at his G.o.d, swung his tail, waggled his ears, made uncouth movements with his splay feet, and grinned from ear to ear.

He was so utterly absurd that he claimed everybody's amused attention.

"Why, old chap! You're rather glad to see your friends, aren't you?"

the secretary said in his pleasant voice.

Beautiful Dog yelped with rapture, darted back into the shrubbery, and a moment later emerged and laid at his adored one's feet all his treasure, a chewed slipper. He tried to say that precious as this gift undoubtedly was, he gave it willingly, joyfully. But scenting other white people too near, he backed off, and fled.

The Author's eyes followed him.

"I wonder if I'd have been equal to that, myself, if I'd been born a n.i.g.g.e.r dog with an ingrained distrust of the white man?" he questioned. "Gad! it comes near being the real thing, Johnson!"

The secretary looked at the slipper lying at his feet: "I wonder where he found that, now?"

I was wondering the same thing, and so was Alicia.

"Let's show Beautiful Dog the Chinese politeness of being decent enough not to accept his gift when he's decent enough to offer it,"

she suggested.

"Yes, throw it into the shrubbery and let him find it. That may raise white people somewhat in his estimation," I added, hastily.

Instantly Mr. Jelnik picked it up and tossed it among the bushes.

His action seemed the merest polite compliance with my request, and he barely glanced at the object he cast away. Yet it was really worth a second glance. Chewed, frayed, and torn, it had once been of finest red Morocco leather; and it was such a flat and heelless slipper as no native Hyndsville foot had ever worn. It was The Jinnee's slipper.

CHAPTER XIV

THE TALISMAN

Mrs. Ches.h.i.+re Scarboro was far from the fool her cousin Sophronisba had credited her with being. She had sufficient cleverness to understand that Hyndsville wasn't big enough to hold two factions.

For a faction was forming with Hynds House as its storm-center, and it was one which threatened Mrs. Scarboro's. .h.i.therto unquestioned sovereignty. Jimmy Scarboro himself, a most personable youth, was one of the ringleaders of revolt.

A weaker woman would have kept up the fight. Mrs. Scarboro understood that to spend one's powers trying to hold an untenable position is a proof not of valor but of stupidity. She quietly declared a truce, sending out, in the form of an invitation to one of her sacred card-parties, tentative notice that she would consider joining forces. We recognized the olive-branch, seriously extended.

The next move was ours.

"There's a time to fight, and a time to leave off fighting," Alicia decided. "Here's where we disarm. When these people come from under the shade of the dear old family tree, they're quite human. We have got to let them give themselves the opportunity to discover that we're human, too."

It wasn't necessary to explain things to The Author, because a portion of his brain is purely and cattily feminine. That's why he is a genius. No man is a genius whose brain isn't bis.e.xual.

"I shall have to lay aside a cherished prejudice and lend this lady the light of my countenance, although I loathe card-parties. I abhor cards, outside of draw-poker on s.h.i.+pboard, with a crook of sorts sitting in to lend the game a fillip. Despite the fact that poor Mrs. Scarboro couldn't lay hands on a decent crook to save her life, I think I shall go, and thereby acquire merit," he concluded, with the air of a martyr.

I looked at him gratefully.

"I'll wager that little Sophy thinks she wants to go because she desires to be friends and neighbors. 'Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!'--You're a transparent person, you Sophy!"

"But I do desire to be friends with them. I have to live here all the rest of my life, haven't I?"

"Not necessarily," replied The Author, arching his eyebrows. "For instance, you can live in New York any time you want to, Sophy."

"I've never told you that you might call me Sophy," I parried, hastily.

"Oh, but I like to call you Sophy," he responded airily. "And really, you shouldn't mind. I've called people lots worse things than Sophy, in my time! But then," he added, "I didn't happen to like them. As for you, I find you a very likeable being, Sophy; upon my word, extremely likeable!"

"Thank you," said I. I wasn't anxious to hear The Author tell me how likable he found me; at least, not yet.