Something New | Page 4

half an
hour in front of a sheet of paper bearing the words: "The Adventure of
the Wand of Death," and trying to decide what a wand of death might
be, has not his mind under proper control.
The net result of these things was that, for perhaps half a minute, Ashe
behaved absurdly. He goggled and he yammered. An alienist, had one
been present, would have made up his mind about him without further
investigation. For an appreciable time he did not think of rising from
his seat. When he did, the combined leap and twist he executed
practically amounted to a Larsen Exercise.
Nor was the girl unembarrassed. If Ashe had been calmer he would
have observed on her cheek the flush which told that she, too, was
finding the situation trying. But, woman being ever better equipped
with poise than man, it was she who spoke first.
"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you."
"No, no!" said Ashe. "Oh, no; not at all--not at all! No. Oh, no--not at
all--no!" And would have continued to play on the theme indefinitely
had not the girl spoken again.
"I wanted to apologize," she said, "for my abominable rudeness in
laughing at you just now. It was idiotic of me and I don't know why I
did it. I'm sorry."
Science, with a thousand triumphs to her credit, has not yet succeeded
in discovering the correct reply for a young man to make who finds
himself in the appalling position of being apologized to by a pretty girl.
If he says nothing he seems sullen and unforgiving. If he says anything
he makes a fool of himself. Ashe, hesitating between these two courses,
suddenly caught sight of the sheet of paper over which he had been
poring so long.
"What is a wand of death?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"

"A wand of death?"
"I don't understand."
The delirium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burst out
laughing. A moment later the girl did the same. And simultaneously
embarrassment ceased to be.
"I suppose you think I'm mad?" said Ashe.
"Certainly," said the girl.
"Well, I should have been if you hadn't come in."
"Why was that?"
"I was trying to write a detective story."
"I was wondering whether you were a writer."
"Do you write?"
"Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?"
"Never!"
"You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It's a horrid little
paper--all brown-paper patterns and advice to the lovelorn and puzzles.
I do a short story for it every week, under various names. A duke or an
earl goes with each story. I loathe it intensely."
"I am sorry for your troubles," said Ashe firmly; "but we are wandering
from the point. What is a wand of death?"
"A wand of death?"
"A wand of death."
The girl frowned reflectively.

"Why, of course; it's the sacred ebony stick stolen from the Indian
temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoever possesses it. The
hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog him and send him threatening
messages. What else could it be?"
Ashe could not restrain his admiration.
"This is genius!"
"Oh, no!"
"Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle, and that
patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wicked coincidences, solves
the mystery; and there am I, with another month's work done."
She looked at him with interest.
"Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?"
"Don't tell me you read him!"
"I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm that publishes
Home Gossip, and I can't help seeing his cover sometimes while I am
waiting in the waiting room to see the editress."
Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood's chum on a desert island. Here
was a real bond between them.
"Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades in
misfortune--fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we be friends?"
"I should be delighted."
"Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves a little?"
"But I am keeping you from your work."
"An errand of mercy."

She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like
everything else, it may be an index to character. There was something
wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this girl did it. She
neither seated herself on the extreme edge of the easy-chair, as one
braced for instant flight; nor did she wallow in the easy-chair, as one
come to stay for the week-end. She carried herself in an unconventional
situation with an unstudied self-confidence that he could not
sufficiently admire.
Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, a girl in a
first-floor front may be excused for