"Jean Marie Stine - Future Eves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stine Jean Marie)

big canvas during the preceding evening; yet, from where the second white space
had been the day before, now glared a new wolf's head, the leader of the pack.
Moreover, the paint was quite wet. Only one white space now remained.
"The window?" questioned Minna in an awed voice.
"Was open when I came down." Miss Wormersley spoke tartly. How the prosaic
lady hated mysteries.
"But you locked it yourself," said the girl, "the last thing before we went to bed and
Bertram had already gone up ahead of us."
Miss Wormersley nodded and held up a warning finger.
The artist shuffled into the room. He looked at the women first and then he saw the
second finished head.
"I knew it," he groaned dropping onto the couch. "Somebody else is painting my
picture."
"But how could they, dear? It can't be all spoiled." Minna would have tried to soothe
away his fears, but Miss Wormersley had no time now for optimistic raving as she
called it. She thrust a wire hairpin vigorously into the tight knob at the back of her
head and called the maid.
Lisbeth appeared at once stepping softly and glancing fearfully at the artist's dejected
head and Minna's round eyes.
"Did you open that window this morning?"
"No, 'em."
"Or at any other time?"
"No, Miss Wormersley."
"Did you hear any noises in the night?"
"No 'em," hesitatingly.
"Sure?"
"No 'em, onlyтАУ"
"What?"
"I hear Miss Sayre," timidly indicating Minna, "go to her room about two o'clock."
Miss Wormersley turned sharply towards Minna.
"I couldn't sleep," explained the girl, "and I did get up and put a cold cloth on the
back of my neck, but I don't know what time that was."
The elder woman's tone softened a little as she turned back to the maid. "Did you
hear anything else, Lisbeth?"
"Only Mr. Bertram snoring like he always does when he's overtired."
"That will do." Miss Wormersley looked helplessly at her nephew, then wonderingly
at the girl he was engaged to marry. Minna seemed to slowly realize that Bertram's
aunt was not satisfied with her explanation. She jumped up and laid her hand
anxiously on Miss Wormersley's arm.
"You don't think I did it? That I'd meddle with Bert's wonderful picture, do you?"
"Oh, I don't know what to think." Much as Miss Wormersley had grown to care for
the girl it was almost easier for her to suspect Minna of meddling and so have a
straight explanation, than to grope among mysterious doings. She began
mechanically wiping the dust from the smooth parts of the furniture. She always
carried a dust-cloth in the pocket of her black sateen apron, and now in a moment of
intense perplexity her nervousness drove her to an occupation that was second
nature to her. She moved from chair to chair, to table, to couch arms, and window
sill. Nobody spoke. Then she started absentmindedly about the room again, dusting
the same articles a second time. She felt Minna's frightened eyes following her, but
with every labored breath which she heard her nephew draw, her heart hardened