Free Nothing Can Rescue Me by Elizabeth Daly Page B

was probably by no means a languor of the spirit—belonged to the Southern legend. But he had an ironic humour; it showed in the tone of his drawl, the droop of his eyelids and his mouth. He was one of the handsomest young men Gamadge had ever seen. His face and his long hands were slightly tanned, his tweeds and shoes of English cut and by no means new.
    He had been talking, or trying to talk, to Miss Wing; but the secretary seemed to wish to ignore him; he was forced to address the back of her head.
    â€œ...allergic to it,” he went on, as Gamadge turned away. “Completely allergic to it. So at the dance I said: ‘My dear girl, you’ll have to take it off.’ She took it off, and caught the most fearful cold, and was in bed for a week. I warned her—I can’t be within a mile of Angora, but she would wear the thing. I don’t mind other furs so much, but I always feel the effects of a long session with disguised rabbit.”
    Gamadge glanced at Miss Wing; she was still oblivious of Percy, or seemed to be, and he addressed his further remarks to Mrs. Mason: “I wish you’d call these creatures off, I really do. Somebody’s been giving them bacon, and they’re getting it on my shoes.” He looked down at the griffons, which were pawing him.
    â€œNow, Glen, they’re so devoted to you!”
    â€œAnd I’m devoted to them, when they don’t dribble. They remind me of a monkey I once had; Susie, do you remember Tinkabella?”
    Miss Burt also seemed to be annoyed with Mr. Percy. She glanced away from Mason long enough to say: “No, I certainly do not,” and then looked back at Mason again.
    Gamadge met the dark, glinting eyes. “You are fond of Barrie?” he inquired with gentle interest.
    â€œBarrie?”
    â€œYour pet’s name is somewhat reminiscent...”
    Percy, with a stricken look, warded off the suggestion with a long, bronzed hand. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t misjudge me like that. I never dreamed of such a—I am completely allergic to Peter Pan.”
    Luncheon was announced. Gamadge, finding himself at the end of the procession with this young man who wished to be thought a silly ass, wasted no time.
    â€œYou perhaps know that I’m here on business, Mr. Percy,” he said.
    â€œGlad you are here,” said Percy civilly, “no matter why. I did understand that you were to be consulted about the poltergeist.”
    â€œI’m trying to get you people sorted out.”
    â€œMorally or intellectually?” Percy smiled at Gamadge.
    â€œJust your relationships at first. Do I gather that you are here as a friend of Miss Burt’s?”
    â€œSusie and I are old friends, sure enough; but it would be more accurate to say that I’m here because her parents and my parents were great friends. When I was left alone in the world Mrs. Burt used to look more or less after me; not financially, of course—we all had money then. Excuse my mentioning the word; I’m completely allergic—” he stopped, and added as they went into the glittering, mirrored dining-room: “I don’t know why I keep on using that repulsive phrase. I’ve been saying nothing else all day.”
    â€œPerhaps you’re like me,” said Gamadge. “I always become inane when I have something on my mind.”
    The black eyes swivelled towards him. “Whatever else you do to us,” he implored, “don’t psychoanalyse us. I’m com—I mean it’s a game I have no confidence in.”
    â€œI have no qualifications for playing it,” said Gamadge.
    As he stood waiting to take his place between Miss Burt and Evelyn Wing he caught a glimpse of Corinne Hutter starting out on her walk. She came around the back of the house and passed the west and then the north windows; doubtless on her way to the old trail, up the hill that sheltered the Hutter place and gave