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regarded me quizzically.
    "You're taking a lot for granted, aren't you?" he said quietly. "I imagine she hunted you up as a friend, not in your capacity as a detective, but don't you think it would have been wiser to hear both sides of the case before forming judgment? I can imagine what sort of wild stories Delia's been telling you. She says I'm avoiding her, doesn't she? She says there's something queer about the puppets. In fact, she says they're alive, doesn't she?"
    I heard a furtive scuffling under the work table, and was startled in spite of myself. Jock Lathrop grinned, then whistled shrilly between his teeth. A white rat crept hesitatingly into view from behind a pile of odds and ends.
    "A pet," he announced mockingly. "Is it Delia's belief that I have trained rats to animate my puppets?"
    "Forget Delia's beliefs for the present!" I said angrily. "Whatever they are, you're responsible for them! You've no excuse in the world for mystifying her, terrifying her."
    "Are you so sure I haven't?" he said enigmatically.
    "Good Lord, she's your wife, Jock!" I flung at him.
    His face became serious and his words took on a deeper quality.
    "I know she's my wife," he said, "and I love her dearly. But George, hasn't the obvious explanation of all this occurred to you? I hate to say it, but the truth is that Delia is bothered by – er – neurotic fancies. For some crazy reason, without the slightest foundation she has become obsessed with some sort of deep-seated – and thoroughly unreasonable – jealousy, and she's directing it at the puppets. I can't tell you why. I wish I knew."
    "Even admitting that," I countered quickly, "why do you persist in mystifying her?"
    "I don't," he flatly denied. "If sometimes I keep her out of the workshop, it's for her own good."
    His argument was beginning to make sense. Jock Lathrop's voice had a compelling matter-of-fact quality. I was beginning to feel slightly ridiculous. Then I remembered something.
    "Those scratches on her face–" I began.
    "I've seen them," said Jock. "Again I hate to say it, but the only rational explanation I can see is that they were self-inflicted with the idea of bolstering up her accusations, or perhaps she scratched herself in her sleep. At any rate, people with delusions have been known to do drastic things. They'll go to any lengths rather than discard their queer beliefs. That's honestly what I think."
    Pondering this quiet statement, I was looking around. Here were all the tools of the expert puppet-maker. Molds, paints, varnishes, clay models of heads, unformed papier-mâché, paper clippings, and glue. A sewing machine littered with odds and ends of gay-colored cloth.
    Tacked above a desk were a number of sketches of puppets, some in pencil, some in colors. On a table were two half-painted heads, each atop a stick so that the brush could get at them more easily. Along the opposite wall hung a long array of puppets -princesses and Cinderellas, witches and wizards, peasants, oafs, bearded old men, devils, priests, doctors, kings. It almost made me feel as if a whole doll-world was staring at me and choking back raucous laughter.
    "Why haven't you sent Delia to a doctor?" I asked suddenly.
    "Because she refuses to go. For some time I've been trying to persuade her to consult a psychoanalyst."
    I didn't know what to say. The white rat moved into my line of vision. It occurred to me that a rat could be used to explain the scuffling sounds made by anything else, but I put such an irrational thought out of my mind. More and more I found myself being forced into complete agreement with Lathrop. Delia's suspicions were preposterous. Lathrop must be right.
    "Look here," I continued feebly, "Delia keeps talking about something that happened to you in London. A change. A sudden interest in genealogy."
    "I'm afraid the change was in Delia," he said bitterly. "As for the genealogy business, that's quite correct. I did find out some startling things