Free Puzzle of the Pepper Tree by Stuart Palmer Page A

their eyes met, Miss Withers was sure that he recognized her. Then he turned away.
    “It’s too bad that Mr. Barney Kelsey is not sitting with us,” she said, very softly.
    But none of the others had heard of Barney Kelsey, until sometime that morning the bodyguard of Roswell T. Forrest. There was another who might well have joined the party, but not even Miss Withers was as yet aware of his existence.
    The dinner continued—aided on its way by Phyllis’s high spirits and by the bottled spirits of T. Girard Tompkins, who by now was urging everybody to call him “Tommy.” By unspoken consent they avoided the tragedy of the morning as a topic of conversation.
    During coffee—which was diluted with gin to make what Phyllis fondly believed was a coffee-royal, that effervescent young lady had another idea. She clapped her hands together, so that two waiters came running and the people at the nearby tables bit their forks.
    “Listen,” she cried. “I’ve got a swell idea. We’re all in the same boat, and we might as well have some fun. Suppose we stick together this evening? They have dancing in the Casino—it’s free, too. What do you say?”
    There were vague murmurs. “I don’t see how anybody could object to going—unless he wanted to be an old crab,” Phyllis added.
    She started around the table. T. Girard Tompkins, on her right, evidenced a loud if sodden spirit of camaraderie. He hoped the party would stick together forever. In all his life he’d never met such a fine bunch. He had, he announced, a house in Pasadena. If the sheriff hadn’t got it yet, wouldn’t they all come and live with him …? His voice ran off in a mumble.
    “He’ll go, he says,” translated Phyllis. “If he’s able.” She pointed at Ralph O. Tate. “How about you?”
    Mr. Tate was dubious. “I’ve got to long-distance some of the studio executives and explain why I’ve lost a day’s shooting,” he said. “But maybe I’ll drop in at the Casino afterwards.”
    Phyllis leaned toward Captain Narveson, who still twinkled in comfortable silence. “How about you?”
    “A boat from my whaling ship meets me about midnight,” he told her. “Ay have to be down on the wharf and explain to my son Axel why Ay don’t go till tomorrow. But maybe Ay yust stop in to see you dancing with the young fallers here, eh?”
    The young fellows, in the persons of George and Tony, were of one mind about it. They had no long-distance calls to make and they had no ships to meet and they would just as soon go dancing as anything else.
    Phyllis had got round to the newlyweds. “How about it, Mr. and Mrs. Deving? Hey, I mean you!”
    Kay Deving opened her large, soft eyes very wide. “Who—me?”
    “Haven’t used the name long enough to get used to it, huh? Well, are you coming with us, you two? Bright lights, soft music, and the best dancing floor in California!”
    “Well—if Marvy wants to—” said Kay.
    “Well—if Kay wants to—” said Marvin. They spoke with one breath, and left off, looking rather foolish.
    They began again. “I’m afraid—” said Kay.
    “I don’t think—” said Marvin.
    “Perhaps we’d better go some other night,” finished Kay. She smiled, a little apologetically. “You see, we—we just got married—”
    “And we haven’t even registered and got a room yet—”
    “So maybe you’ll excuse us?”
    T. Girard Tompkins began to chuckle, and a broad remark trembled on the tip of his tongue. But Phyllis kicked him savagely in the ankle.
    “And we’ve been dancing a whole lot lately,” finished the redheaded girl. Miss Withers noticed again the eyes, which without their dark shading goggles of this afternoon were surprisingly luminous and deep. They were brown, with little flecks of a green in them which was sometimes almost yellow—eyes that were an excellent reason, Miss Withers thought, for the adoration which fairly surged toward her from the slick-haired young husband.
    Phyllis was a