I. An Inheritance
II. Al Fresco
III. In the Cellar
IV. Modus Vivendi
V. An Odd Song
VI. Master and Maid
VII. Conservation and Conversation
VIII. The Knees of the Gods
IX. Rex, Regis
X. Clelia
XI. A Pyjama Party
XII. Royalty
XIII. In the Rain
XIV. The Mysterious Mr. Smith
XV. A Traveling Circus
XVI. The Countess
XVII. More Mystery
XVIII. The Gangsters
XIX. Confidences
XX. A Local Storm
XXI. Sus Scrofa
XXII. Particeps Criminis
XXIII. Thusis
XXIV. Raoul
XXV. The Duchess of Naxos
*THE LAUGHING GIRL*
*I*
*AN INHERITANCE*
There was a red-headed slattern sweeping the veranda--nobody else
visible about the house. All the shutters of the stone and timber
chalet were closed; cow-barn, stable, springhouse and bottling house
appeared to be deserted. Weeds smothered the garden where a fountain
played above a brimming basin of gray stone; cat-grass grew rank on the
oval lawn around the white-washed flag-pole from which no banner
flapped. An intense and heated silence possessed the place. Tall
mountains circled it, cloud-high, enormous, gathered around the little
valley as though met in solemn council there under the vast pavilion of
sky.
From the zenith of the azure-tinted tent hung that Olympian lantern
called the sun, flooding every crested snow-peak with a nimbus of pallid
fire.
In these terms of belles-lettres I called Smith's attention to the
majesty of the scene.
"Very impressive," remarked Smith, lighting a cigarette and getting out
of the Flivver;--"I trust that our luncheon may impress us as
favorably." And he looked across the weedy drive at the red-headed
slattern who was now grooming the veranda with a slopping mop.
"Her ankles might be far less ornamental," he observed. I did not look.
Ankles had long ceased to mean anything to me.
After another moment's hesitation I handed Smith his suit-case, picked
up my own, and descended from the Flivver. The Swiss officer at the
wheel, Captain Schey, and the Swiss officer of Gendarmerie beside him,
Major Schoot, remained heavily uninterested in the proceedings. To
think of nothing is bovine; to think of nothing at all, and do that
thinking in German, is porcine. I inspected their stolid features: no
glimmer of human intelligence illuminated them. Their complexions
reminded me of that moist pink hue which characterizes a freshly cut
boiled ham.
Smith leisurely examined the buildings and their surroundings, including
the red-headed girl, and I saw him shrug his shoulders. He was right;
it was a silly situation and a ridiculous property for a New Yorker to
inherit. And the longer I surveyed my new property the more worried I
became.
I said in English to Major Schoot, one of the ample, pig-pink gentlemen
in eye-glasses and the uniform of the Swiss Gendarmerie: "So this is
Schwindlewald, is it?"
He blinked his pale little eyes without interest at the low chalet and
out-buildings; then his vague, weak gaze flickered up at the terrific
mountains around us.
"Yes," he replied, "this is now your property, Mr. O'Ryan."
"Well, I don't want it," I said irritably. "I've told you that several
times."
"Quite right," remarked Smith; "what is Mr. O'Ryan going to do with a
Swiss hotel, a cow-barn, a bottling factory, one red-headed girl, and
several large mountains? I ask you that, Major?"