Avon Fantasy Reader No. 14 — page 120: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

of person; younger, for one thing, than my old friend the government sur- veyor. Mr. Despard smiled, a kind of wry smile. “Old Morris!” said he, reflectively, and paused. “Might I venture to ask—no offense, my dear sir!—why you wish to rake up such an old matter as Old Morris’ death?” I was a bit nonplussed, I confess. Mr. Despard had been perfectly courteous, as he always is, but, somehow, I had not expected such an intervention on - his part. “Why,” said I, “I should find it hard to tell you, precisely, Mr. Despard. It is not that T am averse to being frank in the face of such an enquiry as yours, sir. I was not aware that there was anything important,—serious, as your tone implies,—about that matter. Put it down to mere curiosity if you will, and answer or not, as you wish, sir.” I was, perhaps, a little nettled at this unexpected, and as it then seemed to me, finicky obstruction being placed in my way. What could there be in such a case for this formal reticence,—these verbal sate-guards? If it were a “juinbee” story, there was no importance to it. If otherwise, well, I might be regarded by Despard as a person of reasonable discretion. Perhaps Despard _ Was some relative of Old Morris, and there was something a bit off-color about his death. That, too, might account for Mr. Bonestecl’s reticence. “By the way,” I enquired, noting Despard’s reticence, “might I ask another: question, Mr. Despard?” “Certainly, Mr. Stewart.” “I do not wish to impress you as idly or unduly curious, but—are you and r. Bonestecl related in any way?” “No, sir. We are not related in any way at all, sir.” “Thank you, Mr. Despard,” said I, and, bowing to each other after the! fashion set here by the Danes, we parted. I had not learned a thing about Old Morris’ death. I went in to see Mrs. Heidenklang. Here, if anywhere, I should find out what was intriguing me. Mrs. Heidenklang is an ancient Creole lady, relict of a prosperous store- keeper, who lives, surrounded by a certain state of her own, propped up in: bed in an environment of a stupendous quantity of lacy things and gauzy' ruffles. I did not intend to mention Old Morris to her, but only to get some in-; formation about the Zombi, if that should be possible. I found thie old lady, surrounded by her ruffles and lace things, in one of her good days. Her health has becn precarious for twenty years! It was not difficult to get her talking about the Zombi. “Yes,” said Mrs, Heidenklang, “it is extraordinary how the old beliefs and the old words cling in their minds! Why, Mr. Stewart, I was hearing about a trial in the police court a few days ago. One old Black woman had sum- moned another for abusive language. On the witness stand the complaining old woman said: “She cahl me a wuthless ole Cartagene, sir!’ Now, think of that! Carthage was destroyed ’way back in the days of Cato the Elder, you know, Mr. Stewart! The greatest town of all Africa. To be a Carthaginian , 118 comicbooks.com