ticularly dark corner. "She kept a fourth spoon, not wanting to part with her entire collection. She . . . she was asphixiated in her garage," he added with apparent irrelevance. "Carbon monoxide gas from her car. An accidental death, of course!" he said quickly, again with that nervous glance into the shadows.
The girl Marcia, her fiance Bob, and her brother Alan looked at one another significantly. The old hunchback was certainly peculiar, to say the least! A borderline mental case, Bob's raised eyebrows suggested. With a glance at his fiancee's disappointed expression, he became brisk and businesslike.
"Well—you have the legal right to sell the spoons, though. And collect your commission," he pointed out shrewdly. "How much?"
"Ah . . . five hundred dollars," Mr. Sproull murmured, then added with a manner of pleading: "That's exorbitant, of course, and I can find you something much more attractive for the price!"
"Exorbitant—you can say that again! For three little spoons?" the blond young man whistled good-humoredly, but uncapped his fountain pen.
"Er ... that's five hundred dollars apiece." Mr. Sproull said hurriedly. "For each spoon. . . . Now, I'm sure you wouldn't care to pay so much for a . . . a whim! Let me just show you . . ."
Bob set his jaw stubbornly, giving the old dealer an oblique look.
"Mr. Sproull, don't you want to make this sale? Look. If you're trying to run up the price," he snapped, "just because my fiancee has taken such a fancy to . . ." He broke off, grinned abruptly, and spread his hands in rueful defeat. "All right, you old pirate! Fifteen hundred it is!" He smiled indulgently at the girl beside him, who was shaking her head violently. "If it's something you really want, darling, you shall have it."
Old Mr. Sproull sighed deeply, with a tone of resignation rather than of satisfaction.
"The price," he said heavily, "is five hundred for the set, if you insist on buying it . . . But I must tell you this, although I am sure you young people will laugh at me—or perhaps be even more intrigued by these . . . these devilish spoons! You see, they . . ." Mr. Sproull gulped. "They are supposed to be cursed."
The two men did laugh, but the girl's face lighted up. She clapped her hands, as pleased as a child with its first jack-o-lantern.
"Oh—a curse! How marvelous! Why didn't you tell us before? Now I simply must have them!"
The old hunchback nodded, and shrugged. "As I predicted," he murmured, then doggedly: "The spoons are mementoes of the funeral of an old Dutch patroon—Schuyler Van Grooten; you'll see his name on the seals—who owned and tenant-farmed about half of the Connecticut Valley in the 1600's. Mrs. Haversham had an old Dutch diary written by one of his ancestors; I was able to translate only a few pages when I called at her home, but . . . It seems there were thirteen spoons originally. Rather a significant unlucky number, as the patroon was secretly murdered by friends and relatives who would inherit his estate. One by one, the story goes, he caused six guilty ones to die—exactly as he himself had died. The remaining owners of the monkey spoons became frightened finally and gave theirs away, thereby escaping his vengeance. But . . ."
"But anybody who owns the spoons inherits the curse? Is that it?" Marcia cried delightedy. "Alan, isn't it exciting? Oh Bob, do give Mr. Sproull a check before somebody comes in and buys our haunted spoons right out from under our noses!"
The antique dealer looked at her, and sighed. He saw the girl's brother bite his lips, frowning. But the blond young man grinned at his fiancee, and wrote out a check for the three monkey spoons. Opening the black velvet box, he presented one of the spoons to Marcia with an exaggerated bow. The second he gave to Alan, holding it over his wrist like a proffered rapier. The third spoon he thrust carelessly into the pocket of his tweed coat.
