the woods, I suppose. We ’ll decide that later. Did you ever hear of Sir Walter Raleigh?”
Barney shook his head. “No, sir.”
“He ’s the scoundrel that started you smoking cigarettes. Here ’s his picture. That ’s what tobacco does to a man.”
He gave Barney “The Queen’s Choir” opened at a picture of Raleigh wearing a corseted doublet, a fluted ruff, a sash that was tied on his shoulder in a puffy bow as big as his head, a hat with feminine feathers in it, and lace falls on his wrists. “Gee!” Barney said. “Was he bug?”
Babbing laughed. “Sit over there and amuse yourself. I have to go through these reports. See if you can think of some way of talking yourself into the Langtons’ bungalow.”
Barney glanced at the book. It opened naturally at the marked page—because Mary Langton, crying over that passage, had hugged it hysterically to her bosom and
