Free Puzzle of the Pepper Tree by Stuart Palmer

the beauties of the evening. Her glance was turned toward the center of the well-filled dining room.
    There, at a large circle of white linen reminiscent of Arthur of England’s storied Table Round, were dining a number of persons whom she had never thought to see gathered together again—unless in a courtroom.
    Phyllis La Fond was signaling her frantically, and Miss Withers moved in that direction, tacking between the crowded lesser tables like a schooner making way through an island passage.
    “The more the merrier,” called Phyllis, as Miss Withers came within hailing distance. “The Ancient Order of Dragonflies is having its first banquet!”
    There was an empty chair between Tony, the more worried of Tate’s two assistants, and Phyllis herself. Miss Withers sank into it.
    “If this is the Dragonfly Club, I’m afraid I’m not eligible for membership,” she observed.
    Phyllis hastened to reassure the newcomer. “This was my idea,” she confessed. “So I snagged everyone of the bunch who ventured in here. We might as well stick together and have a couple of laughs.”
    “But—”
    “Don’t worry,” Phyllis told her. “You belong as much as any of us. Didn’t you discover that Mr. Forrest was—well, discover that he was dead? Besides, I’ve been telling the others about our trip up to the plane this afternoon—”
    Miss Withers could have cut her throat for that, cheerfully. But Phyllis rattled on, while the schoolteacher bit her tongue.
    “And about how you’re interested in the case and everything. So we’ll make you an honorary member, won’t we, gang?”
    The gang evidenced its individual consent by various monosyllabics. However, Miss Withers could not help but notice that Phyllis’s good-humored raillery at their predicament, combined with the dinner which was proving itself excellent, had put a different complexion on the group. Even Ralph O. Tate was unbending a little. Captain Narveson twinkled from across the table as if he considered this all part of a theatrical performance put on for his especial benefit. Tony and George forgot to match coins, and the general air was one of festivity.
    “Shall we make it by acclamation?” went on Phyllis, still in the role of master of ceremonies. “No—wait, here comes Mr. Tompkins with the bottle. Hurry up, Tommy!”
    Phyllis turned to Miss Withers. “I thought a drink might make the newlyweds feel happier, and Tommy said he had some liquor in his suitcase.”
    Miss Withers nodded. “He wouldn’t have a toothbrush, but he’d have liquor,” she remarked acidly.
    “Well, the liquor probably took out his teeth years ago,” Phyllis came back. Tompkins, who had quite evidently halted on the way to tap one of the square bottles which appeared in either pocket of his coat, was approaching the table.
    Already the waiter was distributing tall glasses half full of ice, and began pouring ginger ale into them. People at other tables turned enviously.
    “A highball with dinner?” inquired Mr. Tate blankly. But he held out his glass all the same.
    “None for me, please,” Miss Withers said.
    “You aren’t supposed to drink this,” Phyllis informed her. “All right, fellow Dragons—or is it Flies? Anyway, a toast to our new honorary member, Miss Hildegarde Martha Withers—good health to her!”
    The others all rose—all except the newlyweds, who had first to be jogged out of their accustomed daze. Ice tinkled in the glasses. …
    Miss Withers sat in her chair, ill at ease and more than a little nervous at the way Phyllis had dragged her out into the limelight.
    “One of you is drinking that toast with a wagon tongue in his cheek,” thought Miss Withers, but she did not say it.
    As she murmured an appropriate sentiment, her eyes, roving through the crowded dining room, fell upon a man who sat, solitary and somber, against the farther window. He had been staring toward the center table, perhaps attracted by Phyllis’s spectacular charms. As