“Master!” she exclaimed worshipfully. “You come back!”
Mr. Rhett’s face showed no trace of the affection he had felt for his servant. “Celeste,” he said, “you’ve been dabbling in magic again! What’s this nonsense about my wife being ill and going to die?”
“The truth, Master. Antón and I try hard to save her, but no use. She die next month. Maybe sooner.”
“Get this through your head, Celeste. My wife will not die. She will be as well as you are within two days. All your incantations over the doll were wasted. You plotted to no avail. I am home now, and if you persist in your wickedness, I will meet your so-called magic with stronger magic of my own!”
“Celeste sorry,” the old woman whimpered. “Do it only to get money for master.”
“I need no money and want none. You have been very wicked, Celeste, and must be turned over to the police for safe keeping.”
“Oh, no, Master! Not the police!”
“Yes, and now is the time to take you there during this lull in the storm.”
Celeste’s wild eyes darted about the room, searching for a means of escape. With a savage lunge, she reached the door only to find it locked.
As Jerry and Mr. Rhett bore down upon her, she scurried frantically along the outer room wall, coming to the metal paper chute through which packages of freshly-printed papers were tossed for delivery.