Harry Townsend’s Face Grew Livid.
After a minute of silence she shook her head. “What I see I dare not reveal,” she whined. “All black, dark, dark mystery!”
“Oh, stuff!” jeered Mr. Townsend. “Don’t try that dodge on me. Tell what you know.”
Barbara flung down the cards and blew three puffs into the smouldering pot of fire. Ashes and tiny flames shot up from it. She started back, then pointing a finger, she hissed: “Something is moving toward you, curving and coiling and twisting round you. Mercy!” she cried. “It is a green snake, and its fangs have struck into your soul!”
Harry Townsend’s face grew livid. In a moment the look of youth vanished from his face, his lips turned blue, and his eyes narrowed to two fine points.
The Countess Bertouche came forward. “Harry,” she said, “come away. You forget yourself. Don’t listen to such nonsense.”
“Harry!” thought Gladys to herself, angrily. “She certainly presumes on a short acquaintance! Harry, indeed!”
But Barbara had not finished.
“Stay!” she said, holding up a warning finger. “Another messenger appears. It is a beautiful, bright thing, sparkling and darting toward you. Why,” she added, quickly, “it is lighting on your coat. It has flown inside—a beautiful butterfly, born of summer time and flowers. Or”—this time Barbara leaned over and whispered in his ear—“or it may be made of diamonds and come from a jeweler’s shop.”