"
"Nothing doing, Kit. Put it under your pillow."
"You better watch out. There's a thirteenth letter in the alphabet; you
might accidentally use it some day. You're going to have a sweet time
to-night, you are!"
"Why?"
"The boys have engaged De Butera to come up to the rooms."
"You mean the fortune teller over at the Stag Hotel?"
"She's not a fortune teller, you poor nervous wreck. She's the
highest-priced spiritualist in the world. Moving tables--spooks--woof!"
"Faugh!" said Hester, rising from her couch and feeling with her little
bare feet for the daintiest of pink-silk mules. "I could make tables
move, too, at forty dollars an hour. Where's my attendant? I want an
alcohol rub."
They did hold seance that night in a fine spirit of lark, huddled
together in the _de-luxe_ sitting room of one of their suites, and
little half-hysterical shrieks and much promiscuous ribaldry under cover
of darkness.
Madame de Butera was of a distinctly fat and earthy blondness, with a
coarse-lace waist over pink, and short hands covered with turquoise
rings of many shapes and blues.
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