“Now—now!” the Lieutenant exclaimed mockingly. “No turning to the back of the book.”
“But to make a long story short,” she went on, “this photographer had a beautiful place back up in the hills. Once he took me there in his car. It was a gorgeous estate. Palm trees, rare birds, a fountain fed by springs, and a house built of teakwood.
“Back of the house were dovecotes where many rare varieties of pigeons billed and cooed. Some were jet black, the only black ones I’ve ever seen.
“Dogs! He had a dozen of them. Some of them really looked ferocious. And there were monkeys staring at you from the trees.”
“Regular menagerie.” Norma drawled.
“Yes, just that. And all for a purpose.”
“What came of it?” Norma asked.
“Well,” Miss Warren went on, “he made many pictures for me. We became quite good friends. He helped me and complimented me often.
“For all that he appeared to be a very strange person. He took pictures if it suited his fancy. If not, he refused. Some stuffy old grand dame wanted to sit for a picture and he refused to do the work. Then too he was away for weeks at a time. How he could support his shop and that mansion in the hills with so little real work I could never understand.
“In summer, when it was hot, I went to stay in a very lovely resort high up in the mountains. The resort keeper wrote Herr Photographer, asking him to come up and take some pictures. His reply was: