As she looked her expression softened slightly, but she said, "I always picked the wrong picture in psychology tests. It's you innocent looking fellows that always turn out to be the crooks." Jerry tried his best to look desperate. The result was too much for Heather Higgins, who laughed. "Hold it," Jerry said. "I want to catch your eyes." He grabbed his brush and made several quick strokes on the canvas. "Why," she said, "it looks like _me_--a little. But I'm not that pretty." "You are. And it'd look more like you if I didn't have to do it from memory." And that was how Heather Higgins reluctantly happened to promise Jerry Masterson she'd return next morning for a sitting. She left, and Jerry was eating dinner when Captain Wully walked in to the whistled measures of _Comin' Through the Rye_. "_Rye!_" said Jerry. "You? Rye?" "I borrowed her old man's Scotch, if that's what you're gettin' at. And if you think I enjoyed eatin' all that candy just to leave a trail--I hope I don't see another piece of candy for three hundred years." "Just to satisfy my curiosity," Jerry pleaded, "where does the plaid skirt come in?" "The MacGreggor tartan? I needed a kilt." "All of a sudden you need a kilt. Why?" "It's a long story. But first--" he reached into a cupboard and produced Jerry's safety razor--"do you mind if I borrow this? And where do you keep the scissors?" It took fifteen minutes to locate the scissors. "We were discussing a kilt," Jerry prompted. "If a body kiss a body, need a body cry," sang Captain Wully's baritone. But, eventually, Captain Wully and the scissors were seated at the table behind a round magnifying mirror. "It begins with Gertrude. You remember how she scooted through the studio this afternoon with a werewolf after her?" "How stupid of me not to realize." "I felt Gertrude needed help. I caught up with the werewolf and gave him a piece of my mind. 'Pretty small potatoes,' I says, 'when a werewolf chases cats. You must be pretty second-rate to have fallen so low. A regular lamb in wolf's clothing.' 'I'll have you know,' he says, 'I'm pretty hot stuff. Related to Dracula on my mammy's side, and to Frankenstein on my pappy's.'" The scissors snipped rapidly, and bits of pink mustache littered the unswept floor. "'A renegade,' I says. 'Your family must be awfully proud of you. Chasing cats!' Ouch--" as the scissors slipped. "I says, 'Where do you live?' And he says, 'Down the road a piece. I'm lapdog for an Indian princess.' 'I think,' I says, usin' my head real quick like, 'I better see you home and see what your mistress has to say about this.'"