CHAPTER VIII.
THE BACK-DOOR KEY.
'Look!" I said. “Look!”
“Look at what? What’s the matter with you, Pollie? Why are you glaring at me like that?” “Don’t you see what’s at the end of it?”
She turned the bangle over.
“It isn’t pretty, but—it’s some sort of ornament, I suppose.”
“It’s that thing which was in the scrap of paper, or its double.”
“Pollie! Are you sure?”
“Certain. I’ll back myself to know that wherever it turns up.”
Taking the bracelet from her I eyed it closely. There was no mistaking the likeness; to one end was attached the very double of that painted little horror. Emily criticised it as she leant over my shoulder.
“It looks as if it were meant for a man who mostly runs to head. And what a head it is! Look at his beard, it reaches to what may be meant for feet. And his hair, it stands out from his scalp like bristles.”
“Don’t forget his eyes, how they shine. They must be painted with luminous paint, or whatever they call the stuff, which lights up in the dark. The other night they gleamed so I thought the creature was alive. And his teeth—talk about dentist’s advertisements! I believe it’s meant for one of those heathen gods who are supposed to live on babies, and that kind of thing. He looks the character to the life. But fancy your
