“Books! Books!” shrilled the magpie.
Drew raised his brows and swung upon the bird.
“Books! Books!” repeated the pet. “Books, books, books!”
“Fine bird,” said Drew with thought. “But what is behind the cases, Mr. Stockbridge? I don’t want to move them if the walls are all right.”
A glass clicked against the silver tray as the Magnate answered hastily:
“All right! They’re all right. I was here when they were filled. I just ordered so many feet of books. Six hundred feet, I think it was. I never look at them. All that I ever read is the magazines and the financial items in the newspapers.”
“The pictures—paintings,” Drew said.
“Pictures! Pictures!” repeated the magpie.
“Shut up!” snarled Stockbridge. “Keep quiet, Don!”
The bird ruffled its feathers and leaped to a top perch. It peered from there at Drew, with its head cocked sideways.