{ _Ye Watcher in ye Darke Thoult See_ }
{ }
{ (*B*) }
{ }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ . . . . . }
{ }
{ _As Neede Shall Rise_ }
{ _So Mote It Bee_ }
{ }
'~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'

"I'll take the best care of it, Miss Smith; indeed I will!" The
Author promised. "Look here: I'll lock it in the clothes-closet, in
the breast pocket of my coat." As he spoke, he opened the
cedar-lined closet, that was almost as big as a modern hall bedroom,
and put the paper in the breast pocket of his coat. Locking the
door, he placed the key under his pillow, and beside it a new and
businesslike Colt automatic.

"There!" said The Author, confidently. "Nobody can get into that
closet without first tackling _me_. Now you girls go to bed.
To-morrow we'll tackle the unraveling."

And we, remembering of a sudden that we were pig-tailed and
kimonoed, and that The Author himself resembled a step-ladder with a
shawl draped around it, departed hurriedly.

He was late at the breakfast-table next morning. Gloom and
abstraction sat visibly upon him. He left his secretary to bear the
brunt of conversation with the Westmacotes and Miss Emmeline. For
once he failed to do justice to Mary Magdalen's hot biscuit, and
ignored Fernolia's astonished and concerned stare; even a whispered,
"Honey, is you-all got a misery anywheres?" failed to rouse him. I
found him, after a while, waiting for me in the library.

"Miss Smith,"--The Author strode restlessly up and down--"this house
has a peculiar effect upon