white pigeons, Mr. Kennaston?" he said, meaningly.
"Why, no, they keep up such a maddening cooing and purring on warm days, and drum so on tin roofs"—Kennaston stammered—"that I long ago lost patience with the birds of Venus, whatever the tincture of their plumage. There used to be any number of them on our place, though—"
"Ah, well," the personage said, with a wise nod, and a bright gleam of teeth, "you exercise the privilege common to all of us—and my intended analogy falls through. In any event, it has been a great pleasure to meet you. Come and see me again, Mr. Kennaston—and meanwhile, think over what I have said."
And that was all. Kennaston returned to Alcluid in a whirl of formless speculations. The mirror and the insane query as to white pigeons could not, he considered, but constitute some password to which Kennaston had failed to give the proper response.
The mystery had some connection with what he
