Dear Enemy

Sandy sort of dimly knows that there is something the matter with his

house, and in order to brighten it up a bit in honor of his guests,

he had purchased flowers,--dozens of them,--the most exquisite pink

Killarney roses and red and yellow tulips. The McGurk had wedged them

all together as tight as they would fit into a peacock-blue jardiniere,

and plumped it down in the center of the table. The thing was as big as

a bushel-basket. Betsy and I nearly forgot our manners when we saw

that centerpiece; but the doctor seemed so innocently pleased at

having obtained a bright note in his dining room that we suppressed our

amusement and complimented him warmly upon his happy color scheme.

The moment supper was over, we hastened with relief to his own part of

the house, where the McGurk's influence does not penetrate. No one in a

cleaning capacity ever enters either his library or office or laboratory

except Llewelyn, a short, wiry, bow-legged Welshman, who combines to a

unique degree the qualities of chambermaid and chauffeur.

The library, though not the most cheerful room I have ever seen,

still, for a man's house, is not so bad--books all around from floor to

ceiling, with the overflow in piles on floor and table and mantelpiece;

half a dozen abysmal leather chairs and a rug or so, with another black

marble mantelpiece, but this time containing a crackling wood fire. By

way of bric-a-brac, he has a stuffed pelican and a crane with a frog in

its mouth, also a raccoon sitting on a log, and a varnished tarpon. A

faint suggestion of iodoform floats in the air.

The doctor made the coffee himself in a French machine, and we dismissed

his housekeeper from our spirits. He really did do his best to be a

thoughtful host and I have to report that the word "insanity" was not

once mentioned. It seems that Sandy, in his moments of relaxation, is a

fisherman. He and Percy began swapping stories of salmon and trout, and

he finally got out his case of fishing flies, and gallantly presented

Betsy and me with a "silver doctor" and a "Jack Scott" out of which

to make hatpins. Then the conversation wandered to sport on the Scotch

moors, and he told about one time when he was lost, and spent the night

out in the heather. There is no doubt about it, Sandy's heart is in the

highlands.

I am afraid that Betsy and I have wronged him. Though it is hard to

relinquish the interesting idea, he may not, after all, have committed a

crime. We are now leaning to the belief that he was crossed in love.