One day, with Tom McCarthy as her escort, Norma peddled back to Carl Langer’s studio. Her excuse for coming was to leave an unimportant film to be developed, her real reason to talk to Carl Langer about his estate up in the hills.
“Mr. Langer,” she said, after the film had been listed and stored away, “that’s a fine farm you have back in the hills.”
The photographer started and stared.
“So you have seen it.” He regained his composure instantly.
“He didn’t see me on my bike,” she thought.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I rode up that far on my bike.”
“That farm,” he said, swelling a little with pride, “occupies all my spare time. I am particularly fond of it because it belonged to my father before me.
“You see,” his voice took on a conversational tone, “I was born in Portland. My father was a man of business. This farm was for him, you might say, a sideline. He kept a man to farm it. He spent week-ends there. I, too, enjoyed it when I was a boy. So now, you see—” he smiled, “it brings me great pleasure.”
“That’s quite wonderful,” said Norma. “And did your father also raise black pigeons?”
“Black pigeons?” It seemed to Norma that Carl Langer started again, but once more he made a quick recovery. “Pigeons? Oh! No—this is something I have done. These pigeons, they are quite rare.”