Chapter 27 - Page 2

of one of the tent-poles. Through the
crannies in the canvas he could see almost the whole of the
interior of the tent. Mr. Scogan's bandana-covered head was just
below him; his terrifying whispers came clearly up. Denis looked
and listened while the witch prophesied financial losses, death
by apoplexy, destruction by air-raids in the next war.

"Is there going to be another war?" asked the old lady to whom he
had predicted this end.

"Very soon," said Mr. Scogan, with an air of quiet confidence.

The old lady was succeeded by a girl dressed in white muslin,
garnished with pink ribbons. She was wearing a broad hat, so
that Denis could not see her face; but from her figure and the
roundness of her bare arms he judged her young and pleasing. Mr.
Scogan looked at her hand, then whispered, "You are still
virtuous."

The young lady giggled and exclaimed, "Oh, lor'!"

"But you will not remain so for long," added Mr. Scogan
sepulchrally. The young lady giggled again. "Destiny, which
interests itself in small things no less than in great, has
announced the fact upon your hand." Mr. Scogan took up the
magnifying-glass and began once more to examine the white palm.
"Very interesting," he said, as though to himself--"very
interesting. It's as clear as day." He was silent.

"What's clear?" asked the girl.

"I don't think I ought to tell you." Mr. Scogan shook his head;
the pendulous brass ear-rings which he had screwed on to his ears
tinkled.

"Please, please!," she implored.

The witch seemed to ignore her remark. "Afterwards, it's not at
all clear. The fates don't say whether you will settle down to
married life and have four children or whether you will try to go
on the cinema and have none. They are only specific about this
one rather crucial incident."

"What is it? What is it? Oh, do tell me!"

The white muslin figure leant eagerly forward.

Mr. Scogan sighed. "Very well," he said, "if you must know, you
must know. But if anything untoward happens you must blame your
own curiosity. Listen. Listen." He lifted up a sharp, claw-
nailed forefinger. "This is what the fates have written. Next
Sunday afternoon at six o'clock you will be sitting on the second
stile on the footpath that leads from the church to the lower
road. At that moment a man will appear walking along the
footpath." Mr. Scogan looked at her hand again as though to
refresh his memory of the details of the scene. "A man," he
repeated--"a small man with a sharp nose, not exactly good
looking nor precisely young, but fascinating." He lingered
hissingly over the word. "He will ask you, 'Can you tell me the
way to Paradise?' and you will answer, 'Yes, I'll show you,' and