Feathers left around

KNOX flung his book across the veranda.

“Another of those old Sealed Room plots,” he complained, as his host, Valentine Loft looked up, mildly inquiring.

“Man dead in an inaccessible room,” Knox went on, “doors and windows all locked, no weapon to be found; murder or suicide?--and how was it done--if any?”

“The sort I like best,” and Loft looked interested. “I eat up Detective Stories, and I like better the How Was It Done? or the Who Did It? kind better than the Why?”

“You’re dead wrong. The real interest of a murder story lies in the motive. That’s the thing.”

“Nope. It’s the cleverness of the detail work. The art of the criminal. Now, if I were going to commit a murder....”

“Heavens and earth, Val! What are you talking about? Drop it, any way, and listen to little Anna. I’ve thought up a name for this place.”

“Number two thousand and six!” Loft groaned. “I pray Heaven may sometime send me a guest who does not requite my hospitality by offering me a ‘name for my place’!”

The vivacious little blonde who had just come up on the terrace, accompanied by a big, good-natured looking man, sat on the arm of Loft’s chair, as she insisted on her suggestion.

“You’ll like this, Val, though. It’s different from the Stonywolds and Ferndales that the herd invents. It’s Valhalla! There, how’s that?”

“Rotten!”

“Not a bit of it,--is it, Ned?” and Anna Knox appealed to her husband, whose talk with Loft she had interrupted.

“Pretty good,” he responded; “I believe Valhalla means the place of departed spirits,--so, in a way, it’s appropriate!”

“If you people stay much longer, mine will be entirely departed. But while I’ve a dram left,--I can take a hint.” Loft leaned over to touch a bell button.

“Oh, Val, listen!” Anna went on. “It’s the name,--don’t you see? Valentine,--Val,--Hall,--Valhalla!”

“I heard you the first time,” and Loft looked at her smilingly; “but, though I recognized the Val connection,--I didn’t get the Hall part till you explained it. Almost like a charade.”

“You are the most aggravating thing!” and Mrs. Knox favored him with her best pout.

Little Anna was one of the few perfect blondes Nature ever turned out. She needed no vanity-case, her face was like a Greuze pastel. Her shining hair, carelessly tucked up, nestled over her ears in loose, involuntary rings, not at all a rolled-up mass.

Dainty of flesh and blood, she was always perfectly togged, and today, in her white knitted silk sport suit, she seemed a morsel that any man might greedily devour.

Ned Knox looked at her adoringly, yet a trifle uneasily as she lounged nearer to Valentine Loft.

“Come here, Anna,” he said, authoritatively, “come here and sit by me.”

“Yes, dear, as soon as I make Val consent to my suggestion.”

She lightly ran her fingers through the thick dark hair of Loft’s restless head.

“Get out, Anna!” he growled; “get out! I’ll murder you!”

“Come over here, Anna,” said Angel Bob Baldwin, the man who had arrived with her.

Baldwin was a giant person of the Viking type, and by reason of his calm serenity and frequently upturned blue eyes was called Angel.

“But I’ve had you all the afternoon,” Anna smiled; “I can have Ned all my life,--and I can only catch Val in an unoccupied moment, now and then, when Pauline doesn’t see me.”

“Just for that, you’ve got to go,” and with a calm push, Loft gently dislodged her from her perch, whereupon, nothing dismayed, she went round and sat on the other arm of his chair.

But Anna’s caprices were always smiled upon, and Loft offered her a cigarette.

The veranda gave West, and the disappearing sun touched the flowers, the trees and Anna’s golden hair with a final blaze of glory. None of the three men could keep his eyes off her exquisite face, and though seemingly unconscious of this, she saw it, exultantly, and her vain little soul fairly lapped it up.

The “place” of Valentine Loft was a small estate in Westchester County, more noticeable for its quiet taste and comfortable appointments than for grandeur. He had guests much of the time, and always a group of people over the week-ends.

Yet, though up to now, a bachelor’s domain, Petticoat Rule was imminent, for in a few months Loft would marry Pauline Fuller, and into her capable hands would pass the household reins of government.

But no gracious chatelaine could improve on the kindly courtesy or thoughtful hospitality of Valentine Loft.

A good-looking chap of thirty-two, he was a man of varied interests and vocations. A lawyer first, but more or less of a dabbler in Real Estate, an architect of no small skill and a general financier. But his natural quickness of intellect and his achieved efficiency enabled him to have many irons in the fire, and keep them all hot. In his offices he was a General, commanding, inspiring, conquering. In his home, he was a delightful, debonair host, a man of the world, the flesh and the devil.

One of his most endearing traits was a broad, sweet tolerance that forgave idiosyncrasies and even defects in others, making allowance for their unfortunate lack of mental or psychical equipment. Yet there were a few things he could not condone or forgive. On these points he was so positive as to seem stubborn.

One of these was his attitude toward divorce. With the assuredness of the inexperienced, he held that once married was always married. So far did he carry this notion of his, that he rarely made friends of divorced people, and preferred not to meet them.

Some had jestingly told him that after his own marriage he might change his mind, but his cold reception of these pleasantries forbade their repetition.

His love for Pauline Fuller was the love of his life,--in it he had already put his whole soul, and Loft’s was not a fickle nature.

Another fad of his was the value of inaction. He deplored waste motion, and held that far more was lost by effort than by restraint. A favorite maxim was: “Do nothing and all things will be done.” This he had picked up in a book somewhere, and frequently quoted it. Though such a code might be dangerous to a less executive brain, to Loft it was wise counsel.

And seemingly, his plan worked. He seemed, indeed, to do nothing and yet, in his domain all things were done. His household mechanism was of the most smooth-running variety, and no incoming bride could hope to improve on it,--the most she might hope would be to keep it up to its present standards.