In case you were wondering, the wand of death scene is a chat-up scene:
“What is the wand of death?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?"
“A wand—of death?”
“I don’t understand.”
The delerium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burst out laughing.
A moment later the girl did the same. And simultaneously embarrassment ceased
to be.
“I suppose you think I’m mad?” said Ashe.
“Certainly,” said the girl.
“Well, I should have been if you hadn’t come in.”
“Why was that?”
“I was trying to write a detective story.”
“I was wondering whether you were a writer.”
“Do you write?”
“Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?”
“Never!”
“You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It’s a horrid little
paper—all brown-paper patterns and advice to the lovelorn and puzzles. I do a
short story every week, under various names. A duke or an earl goes with each
story. I loathe it intensely.”
“I am sorry for you troubles,” said Ashe firmly; “but we are wandering from the
point. What is a wand of death?”
“A wand of death?”
“A wand of death.”
The girl frowned reflectively.
“Why, of course; it’s the sacred ebony stick stolen from the Indian temple,
which is supposed to bring death to whoever possesses it. The hero gets hold
of it, and the priests dog him and send him threatening messages. What else
could it be?”
What else indeed!
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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