Bart was telling Dorothy something about the process of turning grapes to wine, as was done in a complex of buildings about two miles from the house.
'Some of ourjnechanical equipment is pretty old,' he iSid. 'We are going to have to^replace it.'
Nan said brightly, 'Dick and I are going to replace it. We want to, don't we, Dick?' We. We—showing Johnny for the hundredth time that she was part of this family, belonged here, was gone from Johnny's reach.
Dick said, 'Right. I seem to be marrying a peck of money. We could do the whole thing at one whack. Grandma is going to sell us her interest, cheap. Aren't you. Grandma?'
The old lady sucked coffee. 'It would have gone to your papa,' she said. 'I'll give it to you.'
'I never did see,' said Dick, 'why a wife shouldn't put her money into her husband's business.'
He didn't send this as a question to Johnny directly. But Johnny answered.
'I don't eitlier,' he said amiably. 'That is, of course, if the business has been impartially analyzed by some reliable party. As an investment.' Johnny smiled.
Johrmy had charm, if that was what was wanted.
'Naturally,' Dick said. 'And of course, the investment safeguarded with the usual rights.'
''Of course,' Bart said somewhat dryly. But Johnny saw a look of desolation cross his face. He turned to Blanche, 'Before I forget,' he said suddenly, 'could you and would you tell me, Mrs. Bar tee, the names of the servants here seventeen years ago?'
Blanche brought her wits slowly to his question. She said, 'I can't tell you. I wasn't hving here, then.'
'Mr. Bartee?' Johnny leaned to ask his host.
'I was stationed East at that time,' said Bart, 'in the army.' His reply was mild, unresentful.
So Johnny looked into the gray eyes across the table. 'Dick?' he said easily.
'I doubt if I can remember,' Dick said. 'They came and went.'
So Johnny turned upon the old lady. 'Then you are the one to ask, I guess,' he smiled. 'You'll tell me, won't you?'
''Tell you what?^' She was munching the last bite. For the first time in all the dinner time, she looked at him.
'The names of your servants, seventeen yeai-s ago?'
Nothing seemed to occur to the old lady. Her face was blank. Bart said gently, 'Mother forgets. Perhaps there are some records in my father's papers. Is there anything else?'
The tone of the question betrayed no sarcasm. But Johnny wasn't sure it held none. He thought, O.K. I'll be charming.
So he leaned back and he said pleasantly, 'I'm sorry to talk my shop. But I wonder whether you understand. My job, you see, is to pick up descriptive bits, atmosphere, trifles that make a story more vivid and interesting. And it is a story. None of you, I suppose are, in any sense, writers? If you were, you'd understand. The sort of thing that Grimes turns out, you know, is closely alUed to fiction. I am a picker-up of color.'
'The servants could give you color?' asked Dick.
'I would think so. Perhaps you don't realize,' said Johnny, 'what an unusual old house this is, for instance. Or how romantic your very business sounds to the ordinary reader. Or what a glamorous figure the old gentleman must have been.'
They were listening. One pair of eyes disapproved of his blarney. Dorothy Padgett's blue eyes.
But Johnny went on, 'Or how interesting a character you still are, Mrs. Baitee.'
The old lady bridled. 'I've had a life,' she said. 'I sit in the comer, nowadays. But I've had a life.'
'I would tliink so,' purred Johnny.
'Two husbands. Dead now. My daughter Nelly, dead. Nathaniel—all gone. Christy, too.'
'Christy,' said Johnny softly, 'dead the way she died. The murder of a beautiful young woman in such a house as this. I wish I could make you see how fascinating . . .'
'You're not Hkely to do that,' said Bart dryly.
'I don't think we should talk your shop any more, Mr. Sims,' said Blanche. 'Can't we discuss more cheerful . . . ?'
The old lady said, 'Bart gone. Nathaniel, too.'
Bart, Jr., said to his wife, 'On the contrary, my dear.'' (She looked white.) Bart turned courteously. 'Mr. Sims, you were asked tonight so that we could talk your shop, as you put it. We are interested in your project to the extent that we would like to put you straight. Isn't that what you said, Dick?'
''Right,' said Dick smiling.
'I wish for noting better,' said Johnny promptly.
'Then, tell me,' said Dick easily, 'do you conclude that, in my youth, I killed Christy?'
'Clinton McCauley killed Christy,' the old lady said promptly.
'To whom had you spoken, Sims?' asked Bart,' ignoring his mother, 'l^esides Kate Callahan?'
'I had a very nice chat with your father, Mrs. Bartee,' said Johnny to Blanche.
