Page:Weird tales v36n07 1942-09.djvu/29

more than my old eyes would care to take in.

Peter told me, as we walked some distance behind Hank on our way back to my little shooting-lodge (Hank strode ahead of us with a thunderous, black countenance, a pointed, tasselled stockinette cap dangling from one hand) that the girl was—"

"Well, Judge, extraordinary, if you get what I mean."

"Can't say that I do, Peter. Now, if you were telling me that Magda Farrar was extraordinary," I suggested, smiling, but Peter shook his blond head impatiently.

"Magda is—well, Magda," he explained carefully but unconvincingly. "Now, this girl was—well—say, Judge, do you remember that Hans Christian Anderson story about the erl-king's daughters, who were beautiful before, but hollow, seen from behind?"

"That girl's scream didn't ring hollow, Peter," I bantered.

His blue eyes blazed with earnest fire.

"Judge Holley, she made me remember those elf-princesses. There was a—a something," he tried to tell me lamely, "about her eyes, and her whole expression—elfish, unearthly — that wasn't — well, that wasn't—"

"I can see that this wood nymph has made a strong impression upon you, my boy. As for a hollow back, Peter—?"

"Her long cloak completely enveloped her, Judge. As for any impression, what I got wasn't pleasant. You see, she was absolutely white with fury at Walters and when she let out that scream—" Peter actually shuddered at the mere remembrance of it, "—I felt sick."

"H-m-m, I confess it struck me that way, too, Peter," I conceded. "Very strong personality, that young woman's," I mused thoughtfully.

"Walters had no business to snatch off a strange girl's cap," Peter criticized as he swung along beside me.

"Walters has a weakness toward all femininity, Peter," I murmured deprecatorily. (Who could know my own law-partner as well as I?) "He means no harm. Just his little failing, my boy."

"Just his failing?" repeated Peter sharply. "It was his little failing that tortured and killed Magda's mother."

I could not deny that; everybody knew that Hank's peccadillos on the primrose path had disillusioned and, yes, had broken Edith Farrar-Walter's heart. She had litterally died of a broken heart, induced by the crash of her house of dreams. Her own physician had told me—but that is another story.

"Still you had no business interfering, Peter," I said gravely. "Hank is an older man than you. Also, he is Magda's guardian."

That last touched Peter, who started as if this thought with its attendant inferences came to him for the first time.

After a moment's silence he declared stubbornly, "Just the same he had no right to pull off that girl's cap and keep it from her. A perfect stranger. . . . Judge, I have a feeling that she won't let the matter drop; she'll get back at him."

"Poppycock!" laughed I. "Then I suppose that's her cap he's swinging at us like a red rag at a bull?" quoth I, amused.

Peter nodded.

"Judge, that girl had the most marvelous red hair I've ever seen in all my life. It almost wasn't real. Why, it was like a mass of curling flames that tumbled, blazing, upon her shoulders when Walters pulled her pointed cap off. And do you know, it struck me that what made her furious was because he'd uncovered her wonderful hair and she couldn't tuck it out of sight again."

"Perhaps she was mortified at wearing it