ing to Anubis?" There was an echo of cold savagery in her voice, as if the parrot were the only thing in the world she loved besides herself.
Miss Fosdick appeared again and in a tremulous voice murmured, "He doesn't seem to like being shut up now. That's why he's screeching."
"Well, take the curtain off his cage and then fetch a light."
It had grown quite dark and the only light in the room was the faint reflected glow of the dying sunset. Mrs. Weatherby seemed a little, thought Mr. Winnery, like a figure out of a nightmare which might suddenly turn out to be real. It was not true, he told himself. There wasn't any such person as Mrs. Weatherby.
The Princess was murmuring, "But the murder, my dear Mrs. Weatherby. . . . You left us in midair."
"It has never been explained," said Mrs. Weatherby. "He was found beaten to death in broad daylight by the side of the road on the edge of the town. It seems he used to compose his sermons while taking long walks and it happened to him then. They never found out who did it. People said that she must have had something to do with it and that she ought to have been shut up long before. I think they arrested her, but they couldn't prove that she was even out of the house that day. I never knew much about it. It happened a little while after I moved to California to begin my experimental work."
And then suddenly, as if the story had come to an end before she meant it to, she said weakly,
