LITMIR.BIZ

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than two thousand—even if they could only get a piece of it . . .

      “The property is for sale, is it?” he asked instead.

      “That’s a matter I prefer to discuss in my office.”

      “I’ll come down right away.”

      Don’t count on this, he said to himself in the mirror. He scribbled a non-committal note—“Business. Back around five. Love, Spig”—and went down the service stairs so he wouldn’t meet them coming back from market.

      CHAPTER II

      HE DIDN’T see the dingy yellow line on the kerb when he parked in the somnolent tree-shaded square in Devonport. The courthouse was a faded brick building with a squat, rusty, gold cupola and a porch with pillars, like the little Greek Revival building outside the wall at the Gardens of Eden. There were broken-down green benches under thirsty trees whose exposed roots ribbed the dry ground where a few unhappy blades of grass struggled to live. He went up the uneven brick walk. A big man with curly black hair and deep-set dark eyes was lounging against one of the weater-beaten pillars in the sun.

      “Can you tell me where I’ll find Judge Twohey?”

      “Other side.” The man shoved a big fist out across the square. “That little round arch in the wall, upstairs to your left. And that heap you’ve got. It’s parked on a yellow line. I can make you a deal, if you want to turn it in. I won’t give you a ticket this time.” He grinned at Spig. “I’m the law in these parts. Yerby’s the name. Tell the judge I killed the fellow stealing his wife’s chickens. He’s a black snake about seven feet long. Don’t forget when you want a car.”

      “I’ll remember when I get the dough. My name’s O’Leary.”

      “Oh.” Yerby looked at him with alerted interest. “You’re the guy. Well, good luck. Be seeing you around . . . maybe.”

      Judge Twohey was behind a beat-up oak desk across one corner of a musty room lined with old law books and dog-eared file boxes. He was very old, very neat in his black poplin suit, fragile and semi-transparent as a potato shoot in a dark cellar. But all Spig was aware of were the eyes examining him, intensely alive, unfriendly.

      Judge Twohey spoke abruptly. “Here is the plot of the land you propose to buy.”

      Spig took it. He looked at it. “Oh, no,” he said, his heart taking a sickening nose-dive into the pit. “Oh, no. There’s some mistake. She said several acres, not fifty. She said a . . . a pleasant piece of beach—not thirty-three hundred feet of it. She said two thousand dollars . . .”

      “You’re not interested in the property, then.” Judge Twohey’s voice sounded a shade less hostile.

      There was the sudden, sharp taste of tears in Spig’s mouth. “It’s not that, sir. We are interested. But we don’t have that kind of money. We couldn’t expect to buy . . .”

      “It’s your opinion that if Miss Fairlie wishes to sell you this land for two thousand dollars, she hasn’t the legal right to do so?”

      “Not that, sir. Not if she’s of sound mind.” He flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Except that there was this dame with a lot of teeth taking tickets out there yesterday said Miss Fairlie was mad. Mad as a hatter.”

      “That dame was my wife, Mr. O’Leary.”

      In the silence, of the kind commonly called abysmal, the sweat trickling down between Mr. O’Leary’s shoulder blades was very cold.

      “My second wife. A capable and efficient woman with only the normal dentitional complement, I believe.”

      “I’m sorry, sir.”

      “Quite. It does suggest the practical wisdom of keeping one’s big mouth shut.”

      “You’re understating it, sir.”

      Judge Twohey smiled a little. “Also, here in Devon we say ‘eccentric,’ not ‘mad,’ Mr. O’Leary. But you needn’t have any anxiety on the score of Miss Fairlie’s eccentricity in financial affairs. She has an uncanny gift. A good many people think she has second sight. Her tenants especially. If she plants early, there’s never a frost. If she doesn’t put tobacco in, that’s the year of the blue mould. Yesterday’s the first time she’s ever opened the Gardens of Eden . . . and if I were superstitious, I could easily believe she knew you were coming.”

      He picked up a typed letter. “There is one stipulation. In case of resale, in whole or in part, during her lifetime, Miss Fairlie must approve the vendée or have the option to buy the property herself at the price you’re now paying, plus any actual cash you’ve put into it.”

      “That’s more than fair,” Spig said.

      The judge looked at him intently. “This land may increase greatly in value.”

      “It’s still fair. We’re very grateful to Miss Fairlie.”

      “Gratitude is highly volatile, Mr. O’Leary,” Judge Twohey said dryly. “In my experience, it seldom withstands the impact of hard cash. Miss Fairlie asked only for your word; but I’ve put it in the form of a written agreement. There’s no legal obligation . . .”

      “There’s a moral one.” Spig read the letter and signed it.

      “I’m glad you say that. Because it’s my duty to tell you that such a stipulation is not legally binding. At most, it could be used only to show intent.” He looked steadily at Spig. “I’m asking you for your solemn word, as well as your signature, Mr. O’Leary. There must never be any threat to Eden during Miss Fairlie’s lifetime.”

      “You have my word, sir.”

      “Thank you. May I say I’m greatly relieved about you? Miss Fairlie has refused a good many offers for this tract—one recently from her neighbour Mr. Sudley of one thousand dollars an acre. I didn’t know what form of hypnotism——”

      “Not mine, sir. My son’s. Age four and half.”

      “Ah,” Judge Twohey was silent for an instant. “Yes, that would explain it. In any case, there was nothing I could have done about you. Short of a touch of cyanide.”

      He went over to the dingy corner cupboard and got a bottle and two small glasses. “I did ask Yerby to stand by. He’s the sheriff. Just back from the Marines. If necessary, he might have persuaded you Devon wasn’t the place . . .”

      Spig grinned. “He said to tell you he’d killed the seven-foot black snake stealing your chickens. I’m only six.”

      “My wife’s chickens,” said Judge Twohey equably. He took the stopper out of the bottle.

      “One other thing, sir.” Spig’s face had sobered. “I don’t know how to put it. Miss Fairlie’s . . . eccentricity. My wife and kids’ll be out there all day. There was something said about blood . . . and the big house being haunted.”

      Judge Twohey stood with the bottle stopper motionless in his hand.

      “There was blood, Mr. O’Leary,” he said quietly. “A great deal of blood. And possibly the house is haunted. It well may be. But the blood was a long time ago, and as you’re not living in the big house, its nature is no concern of yours. You’ll find many tongues anxious to relieve your curiosity. But Miss Fairlie took you on faith. She makes no inquiries about you. That’s all, Mr. O’Leary. Take the property or leave it.”

      “I’m sorry . . . we’re glad to take it.”

      The judge’s face, grave as he poured the liquor into the glasses, lighted with a sudden flicker. “I’ll tell you why my wife thinks Miss Fairlie is crazy,” he said amiably. “She and another estimable lady, hell-bent on good works, went out to Eden one hot September day. The gate was padlocked. They climbed it. They walked the half-mile to the garden gate, sweating virtuously. They were climbing that when Miss

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