living room. "All right," he said to
Zarathustra, "we'll go out the front way then."

[Illustration]

He walked around the side of the house, his canine companion trotting
beside him. The side yard turned out to be disappointing. It contained
no roses--green ones, or any other kind. About all it did contain that
was worthy of notice was a dog house--an ancient affair that was much
too large for Zarathustra and which probably dated from the days when
Judith had owned a larger dog. The yard itself was a mess: the grass
hadn't been cut all summer, the shrubbery was ragged, and dead leaves
lay everywhere. A similar state of affairs existed next door, and
glancing across lots, he saw that the same desuetude prevailed
throughout the entire neighborhood. Obviously the good citizens of
Valleyview had lost interest in their real estate long before they had
moved out.

At length his explorations led him to the back door. If there were green
roses anywhere, the trellis that adorned the small back porch was the
logical place for them to be. He found nothing but bedraggled Virginia
creeper and more dead leaves.

He tried the back door, and finding it locked, circled the rest of the
way around the house. Judith was waiting for him on the front porch.
"How nice of you to walk Zarathustra," she said icily. "I do hope you
found the yard in order."

[Illustration]

The yellow dress she was wearing did not match the tone of her voice,
and the frilly blue apron tied round her waist belied the frostiness of
her gray-green eyes. Nevertheless, her rancor was real. "Sorry," he
said. "I didn't know your back yard was out of bounds." Then, "If you'll
give me a list of the places you want evaluated, I'll get started right
away."

"I'll take you around again personally--after we have breakfast."

Again he was consigned to the living room while she performed the
necessary culinary operations, and again she served him by tray. Clearly
she did not want him in the kitchen, or anywhere near it. He was not
much of a one for mysteries, but this one was intriguing him more and
more by the minute.

Breakfast over, she told him to wait on the front porch while she did
the dishes, and instructed Zarathustra to keep him company. She had two
voices: the one she used in addressing Zarathustra contained overtones
of summer, and the one she used in addressing Philip contained
overtones of fall. "Some day," Philip told the little dog, "that chip
she c