He didn't answer, just stared at me. I didn't try any more conversation. I sat there and wondered what I'd do if Daughter Penelope refused to see me. That was a funny way to name anybody, I thought. I wondered if all the women at the Vineyard were called Daughter.
The woman came back, saying over her shoulder: “Here he is, Daughter.”
Penelope Grayson was thin and blonde and almost beautiful. She was dressed in white. She should have been beautiful, but she wasn't. There was something strange about her face. It was like the face of a person who is blind. What I mean is she looked at me out of grey eyes that really didn't see me. The woman and the man both watched her.
“I'm Karl Craven,” I said. “Your uncle asked me to talk with you.”
“It's no use,” she said slowly.
The woman went away. The man stayed. I turned to him. “We don't need you.”
“I will remain.”
“Do you want him to stay, Miss Grayson?”
“Yes, please.”
She spoke as though she was in a trance, or doped, or dreaming. She stared back at me steadily enough, but she didn't see me. She wouldn't know me again. Her face was queer, as though it was out of focus. The man looked at me smugly.
“Your uncle wants you to come home,” I said.
“I belong here,” she said.
“He is very worried about you.”
She stood with her dull eyes on me. Her skin was very pale “You must tell him I am happy here.” She looked anything but happy. I didn't understand it.
“He is lonely,” I said. “You're his only relative.
“No longer,” she said. “I am a Daughter of Solomon. I have abandoned my worldly connections.”
I began to feel spooked. It was like talking to a medium. Her voice came out of her mouth, low and soft, but it didn't really seem to have anything to do with her. It was as if she didn't know what she was saying. I wondered if she could be hypnotized.
“Have you anything for me to tell your uncle? I asked.
“I have no message.”
“Will you see him if he comes here?”
“Please tell him I am happy here.”
“Wouldn't you be happy somewhere else?” I asked. “Where your uncle would not worry?”
The man tapped my arm. “Daughter Penelope has talked enough.”
“Please,” she said; “I must go.”
“You are keeping her from her duties,” the man said.
She started to leave. I got in front of her. “Wait,” I said. “Don't you know you're in danger here?”
“I am happy here.”
“She is going now,” the man said.
His face was hard. He took her elbow and started to guide her around me. His eyes were as black as ripe olives. I hit his jaw with a right uppercut. He fell on the brown carpet, got up on one elbow. He was dazed, but he wasn't out. I got my revolver and split his head open with the barrel. That put him flat on the floor. I tucked the revolver in the holster. Penelope Grayson stared at me with her wide drugged-looking eyes.
“Why did you do that?”
“I want to talk with you alone,” I said. “You're in a lot of trouble.”
She was hearing and seeing me now. I had broken through whatever was wrapped around her mind. She was still dreamy and unnatural, but a part of her was listening to me.
“I am in no danger,” she said.
“I have to talk fast, so listen. I am a private detective. I have a partner, Oke Johnson.”
I looked at her eyes, but the name meant nothing to her. I kept it simple, as though I was talking to a child.
“He came to Paulton three weeks ago. At your uncle's request.”
“A short, fat man?”
“Yes. He was to persuade you to go away.”
“He tried, but I am happy here.”
I heard voices outside. Some women were coming towards the house. I grabbed the man by his shoulders and dragged him behind one of the couches. His feet stuck out so I doubled up his legs. There was some blood on the rug, but I put a chair over it. The girl watched me dreamily.
“Yesterday Oke Johnson was murdered,” I said. “Somebody shot him. You understand, murdered him. It's in
