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"Mean!" cried Jen, in a tone of conviction. "Why! that Etwald is mixed up in this business also!" She knew very well what it was, for her grandmother had been carried off as a slave from the west coast of Africa, and knew all about Ashantee sorcery and fetish rites. These she had repeated to her granddaughter Dido, with the result that Dido, cherishing these recollections, knew exactly how to use the wand of sleep. She had spoken about it to Dr. Etwald, quite ignorant that Jen kept one as a curiosity, and now Etwald had intimated through Battersea that he wished her to do something in connection with the stick. What that something might be Dido at the present moment could not guess. "I thought I'd like to have her here," she said, with a sidelong glance at Judith. "We've found out something about——".

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Elinor smiled and her shining eyes traveled down the wide dim corridor with its rows of battered gray lockers, past the confusion of chairs and easels that clustered around the big screen of the composition room, straight into the farthest nook of the great bare work rooms beyond, where an array of heroic-sized white casts loomed conspicuous in the cold north light above the clutter of easels, stools and drawing-boards that encompassed the silent, intent workers. "I wish I could draw," mused Patricia, absently sugaring her Frankfurter. "I've got tons of ideas already." CHAPTER XI. MAJOR JEN, DETECTIVE. "—and all these years I have walked the world, blindfolded to its loveliness with the blackness that came to me when I found that you—".