moaned, "Why didn't I tell them to give those other two spoons away? Melt them down, bury them—anything! If that diary had only told how Van Grooten died, perhaps I could have warned them to avoid.... But there were only hints! The writer never did come out and say.... But that young man is intelligent. Perhaps he could come to some conclusion that I've missed...!"
He turned and ran for the telephone directory, leafing through it hastily to find the names Fentress or Milam, the signature on the young man's check. For an hour he clung to the phone, calling every Fentress and Milam in the book—but there was no "Robert" Milam. Mr. Sproull tried the hotels, then the funeral homes to trace the dead brother, Alan. Finally he hung up, defeated, concluding that they were all from out of town. He sat staring at the telephone then, wringing his wrinkled old hands in the helpless anguish of one who can only wait ... wait ... for disaster.
But the period of waiting was not long.
Three days later, just at noon, the doorbell tinkled again. Mr. Sproull looked up from a six-branched candelabra he was polishing, to see a disheveled figure swaying a few feet from him. It was Bob Milam, his face drawn and covered with a stubble of beard, his eyes bloodshot and puffy from drinking. In his hand he held an ugly little automatic.
Mr. Sproull caught his breath, and stood very still. Then, despite his own fear, he burst out:
"Oh, my poor young friend! The ... the second spoon? Your ... fiancee?"
The blond man's mouth twisted with pain and bitterness. For reply, he flung another of the monkey spoons at the old dealer's feet. Mr, Sproull stooped to pick it up. He paled, and nodded. The tiny oval seal on the handle was engraved to read:
Marcia Fentress
Born April 17, 1927
Died November 6, 1949
At the old man's nod, Bob's eyes narrowed. He said not a word, but the ominous click of the safety catch on his gun was eloquent enough. Yet there was more pity than terror in Mr. Sproull's face.
"Ohh!" His murmur of shocked sympathy had a genuine ring. "H-how did she...?"
"My fiancee," the young man grated bitterly, "was terribly grief-stricken at her brother's death—you figured on that, too, didn't you? You insane, twisted...!" His voice broke on a sob of impotent rage. "Alan and Marcia were inseparable; we three were, in fact. Marcia couldn't sleep, so last night she took a big dose of sleeping pills. While..." He gulped, then plunged on miserably, "While she was drugged, a ... a very large beauty pillow on her bed fell over her face, somehow. She ... It wasn't the sleeping pills; she ... smothered to death! The coroner called it an accident," he lashed out. "But I call it murder! You murdered Alan, too! I can't prove it, but I surely as hell can...!"
With a sob he leveled the gun at the old antique dealer's heart, his mouth working with hate and grief. At sight of his tortured young face, Mr. Sproull dabbed at his eyes, oblivious to his own danger.
"My poor, unfortunate young friend!" he murmured pityingly. "You can't believe I would cause such tragedy, for a few paltry dollars? I did not change those seals — but I can not hope to persuade anyone as matter-of-fact as yourself to believe in ... in the supernatural. The diary recounts that ... that, when each guest at Van Grooten's Dood Feest died, their spoons changed, too! Mrs. Haversham's seal altered also—the lawyer found it later among her effects, but assumed it to be the grim jest of some house-servant..."
Bob Milam snorted derisively. But the murderous anger in his eyes ebbed slowly, and the gun in his hand wavered.
"You're insane," he said heavily. "Maybe you don't even realize you changed those seals. Maybe your twisted mind really believes all that silly guff about ... some old Dutchman who..."
His shoulders slumped all at once. He swayed, passing one hand over his bleary
