"Not long, sir," she replied, and her voice trembled. "About as long as the pictures."
"Did your husband buy it in England? It is a strange bird, and I can't find a name for it."
"Lemon didn't buy it, sir. It was give to him."
I hazarded a guess. "By the artist who painted your husband's portrait?"
"Yes, sir."
Turning from the stuffed bird to the fireplace, I received a shock. In the centre of the mantelshelf was the stone figure of a creature, half monster and half man, with a face bearing such a singular resemblance to Mr. Lemon's and the bird's beak that I rubbed my eyes in bewilderment, believing myself to have suddenly fallen under the influence of a devilish enchantment. But rub my eyes as I might, I could not rub away the strange resemblance. It was no delusion of the senses.
"Was that--that figure, Fanny, given to you by the artist who painted your husband's portrait, and who presented him with that stuffed bird?"
"Yes, sir; he give it to Lemon." And then, in a timorous voice, she asked, "Do you see anything odd in it, sir?"
"It is not only that it's odd," I replied; "but, if you will excuse me for saying so, Fanny, there is really something horrible about it."
In a low tone Mrs. Lemon said, "That's egsactly as I feel, sir."