about a man whom I believe to be an ancestor of mine."
As he spoke, eagerly now, I was surprised to note how his features lost their tight, hard appearance. The look of impudence was gone.
"I do love Delia very much," he said, his voice vibrant, low. "What would she think of me, George, if it turned out that her accusations were partly true? Of course, that's nonsense. But you can see that we are in trouble, George â bad trouble, that is considerably out of the line of work a private detective follows. Your work is concrete, though in your criminal investigations you must have learned that the mind and body of a man are sometimes subject to brutal powers. Not supernatural â no. But things â hard to talk about.
"George, would you do something for me? Come to the performance tonight. Afterward we can discuss this whole matter more fully. And another thing. See that old pamphlet over there? I have good reason for thinking it concerns an ancestor of mine. Take it with you. Read it. But for heaven's sake don't let Delia see it. You see, Georgeâ"
He broke off uncertainly. He seemed about to take me into his confidence about something, but then the hard, self-contained look returned to his face.
"Leave me now," he said abruptly. "This talk, and that business with the old fool, Franetti, has made me nervous."
I walked over to the table, carefully laid down Punch, and picked up the yellow-paged, ancient pamphlet he had indicated.
"I'll see you tonight after the show," I said.
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III
Punch and Judy
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AS I CLOSED THE DOOR behind me, I thought I saw in Lathrop's eyes that same look of fear I had seen in Delia's. But it was deeper, much deeper. And only then did I remember that not once during our interview had Jock Lathrop taken his hands out of his pockets.
Delia rushed up to me. I could tell she had been crying.
"What will we do, George â what will we do? What did he say to you? What did he tell you?"
I had to admit that her hectic manner was consistent with Jock's theory of neurotic fancies.
"Is it true, Delia," I asked abruptly, "that he's been urging you to see a psychoanalyst?"
"Why, yes." Then I saw her stiffen. "Jock's been telling you it's only my imagination, and you've been believing him," she accused.
"No, that's not it," I lied, "but I want to have time to think it all over. I'm coming to the performance tonight. I'll talk with you then."
"He has persuaded you!" she insisted, clinging to my sleeve. "But you mustn't believe him, George. He's afraid of them! He's in worse trouble than I am."
"I agree with you partly," I said, not knowing this time whether I was lying or not, "and after the performance we'll talk it over."
She suddenly drew away. Her face had lost something of its helpless look.
"If you won't help me," she said, breathing heavily, "I know a way of finding out whether I'm right or wrong. A sure way."
"What do you mean, Delia?"
"Tonight," she said huskily, "you may find out."
More than that she wouldn't say, although I pressed her. I took away with me a vision of her distraught gray eyes, contrasted oddly with the thick sweep of golden hair. I hurried through the hall, down the stairs. The measured pandemonium of Forty-second Street was welcome. It was good to see so many people, walk with them, be jostled by them and forget the fantastic fears of Delia and Jock Lathrop.
I glanced at the pamphlet in my hand. The type was ancient and irregular. The paper was crumbly at the edges. I read the lengthy title:
A TRUE ACCOUNT, as related by a Notable Personage to a Trustworthy Gentleman, of the CIRCUMSTANCES attending the Life and DEATH of JOCKEY LOWTHROPE, an Englishman who gave PUPPET SHEWS; telling how many surmised that his Death was encompassed by these same PUPPETS.
Night was sliding in over New York. My office was a mass of shadows. From where I was sitting I could see the mammoth Empire State Building topping the irregular skyline.
I rubbed my eyes
Catherine Gilbert Murdock