“I'd give a round sum if I could grow a set of whiskers as readily and as liberally as Turk,” commented Dickey, sadly. “He came out of Phil's room this morning, and I dodged behind a door post, thinking he was a burglar. Turk looks like a wild man from Borneo, and his whiskers are not ten days out. He's letting 'em grow so that he can venture outside the castle without fear of recognition. I'd like to get outside these walls for half a day.” “I detest whiskers,” decided Lady Jane. “So do I, especially Turk's. But they're vastly convenient, just the same. In a couple of days Turk won't know himself when he looks in the mirror. I believe I'll try to cultivate a bunch.” “I'm sure they would improve you very much,” said Lady Jane, aggressively. “What is your idea as to color?” “Well, I rather fancy a nice amber. I can get one color as easily as another. Have you a preference?” “I think pink or blue would become you, Dickey. But don't let my prejudices influence you. Of course, it can't make any difference, because I won't recognize you, you know.” “In other words, if I don't cut my whiskers you'll cut me?” “Dead.” “Lots of nice men have whiskers.” “And so do the goats.” “But a brigand always has a full set--in the opera, at least.” “You are only a brigand's apprentice, and, besides, this isn't an opera. It is a society tragedy.” “Won't you have another egg?” he asked, looking politely at her plate. Then he inquired if Miss Garrison would like to join him in a climb among the rocks. She smiled wistfully and said she would be charmed to do so if she were not too feeble with age when the time came to start. Consumed with a desire to acquaint herself with her surroundings, she begged her companions to take her over the castle from turret to cellar. Later in the day, with Turk carrying the lantern, she was eagerly taking notes in the vast, spooky caves of Craneycrow.