Burn, Witch, Burn!

I said, abruptly: "McCann, I'm going down to talk to this Madame Mandilip. I want you to come with

me."

He said: "I'll be right beside you, Doc. With my fingers on my guns."

I said: "No, I'm going to see her alone. But I want you to keep close watch outside."

He did not like that; argued; at last reluctantly assented.

I called up my office. I talked to Braile and learned that Ricori was recovering with astonishing rapidity. I

asked Braile to look after things the balance of the day, inventing a consultation to account for the

request. I had myself switched to Ricori's room. I had the nurse tell him that McCann was with me, that

we were making an investigation along a certain line, the results of which I would inform him on my

return, and that, unless Ricori objected, I wanted McCann to stay with me the balance of the afternoon.

Ricori sent back word that McCann should follow my orders as though they were his own. He wanted to

speak to me, but that I did not want. Pleading urgent haste, I rang off.

I ate an excellent and hearty lunch. I felt that it would help me hold tighter to the realities-or what I

thought were the realities-when I met this apparent mistress of illusions. McCann was oddly silent and

preoccupied.

The clock was striking three when I set off to meet Madame Mandilip.

CHAPTER XIII: MADAME MANDILIP

I stood at the window of the doll-maker's shop, mastering a stubborn revulsion against entering. I knew

McCann was on guard. I knew that Ricori's men were watching from the houses opposite, that others

moved among the passersby. Despite the roaring clatter of the elevated trains, the bustle of traffic along

the Battery, the outwardly normal life of the street, the doll-maker's shop was a beleaguered fortress. I

stood, shivering on its threshold, as though at the door of an unknown world.

There were only a few dolls displayed in the window, but they were unusual enough to catch the eyes of

a child or a grown-up. Not so beautiful as that which had been given Walters, nor those two I had seen

at the Gilmores', but admirable lures, nevertheless. The light inside the shop was subdued. I could see a

slender girl moving at a counter. The niece of Madame Mandilip, no doubt. Certainly the size of the shop

did not promise any such noble chamber behind it as Walters had painted in her diary. Still, the houses

were old, and the back might extend beyond the limits of the shop itself.

Abruptly and impatiently I ceased to temporize.

I opened the door and walked in.

The girl turned as I entered. She watched me as I came toward the counter. She did not speak. I studied

her, swiftly. An hysterical type, obviously; one of the most perfect I had ever seen. I took note of the

prominent pale blue eyes with their vague gaze and distended pupils; the long and slender neck and

slightly rounded features; the pallor and the long thin fingers. Her hands were clasped, and I could see

that these were unusually flexible-thus carrying out to the last jot the Laignel-Lavastine syndrome of the

hysteric. In another time and other circumstances she would have been a priestess, voicing oracles, or a

saint.

Fear was her handmaiden. There could be no doubt of that. And yet I was sure it was not of me she was

frightened. Rather was it some deep and alien fear which lay coiled at the roots of her being, sapping her

vitality-a spiritual fear. I looked at her hair. It was a silvery ash…the color…the color of the hair that

formed the knotted cords!

As she saw me staring at her hair, the vagueness in her pale eyes diminished, was replaced by alertness.

For the first time she seemed to be aware of me. I said, with the utmost casualness:

"I was attracted by the dolls in your window. I have a little granddaughter who would like one I think."

"The dolls are for sale. If there is one you fancy, you may buy it. At its price."

Her voice was low-pitched, almost whispering, indifferent. But I thought the intentness in her eyes

sharpened.

"I suppose," I answered, feigning something of irritation, "that is what any chance customer may do. But it

happens that this child is a favorite of mine and for her I want the best. Would it be too much trouble to

show me what other, and perhaps better, dolls you may have?"

Her eyes wavered for a moment. I had the thought that she was listening to some sound I could not hear.

Abruptly her manner lost its indifference, became gracious. And at that exact moment I felt other eyes

upon me, studying me, searching me. So strong was the impression that, involuntarily, I turned and

peered about the shop. There was no one except the girl and me. A door was at the counter's end, but it

was lightly closed. I shot a glance at the window to see whether McCann was staring in. No one was

there.

Then, like the clicking of a camera shutter, the unseen gaze was gone. I turned back to the girl. She had

spread a half-dozen boxes on the counter and was opening them. She looked up at me, candidly, almost

sweetly. She said: