“It is all poppycock,” announced Mr. Sage. “The veriest poppycock.” “I had mine told,” said his wife, “when I was nineteen. It said I was going to marry a dark-complexioned man and go on a long journey.” “Well, there you are,” said Mr. Baxter triumphantly. “The Reverend Sage is a brunette and it’s considerably over a hundred miles from Chicago to Rumley. There’s something in it, Serepty. Here’s proof that can’t be denied.” “It’s all as simple as falling off a log,” announced Mr. Sikes, from the door. “She says the only reliable and genuine way to tell a baby’s fortune is by reading its father’s hand. That’s the way it’s been done ever since—er—astronomy was invented.” Mr. Baxter arose. “Bring her in, Joe. Now, don’t kick, Serepty. My mind’s made up. I’m going to have my way for once.” “Like as not she’ll tell you bad news, Oliver,” protested his sister. “I wish you wouldn’t.” “Anyhow,” said Mr. Gooch surlily, “it’s a good way to get the door closed.” CHAPTER IV HIS FORTUNE—GOOD AND BAD Mr. Sikes, taking no chance on having Baxter’s order vetoed by Serepta, rushed from the room. A moment later he returned, followed by two shivering women who stopped just inside the door and apologetically smirked upon the waiting group. One of them, evidently the leader, was a woman of middle-age—swarthy, keen-eyed, sardonic of expression. A thick red shawl covered her hair, drawn close under the chin by a brown, claw-like hand. She wore a man’s overcoat; the tips of a pair of heavy boots peeped out from beneath the bottom of her dirty yellow petticoat. Her companion, much younger and quite handsome in a bold, sullen way, also wore a scarlet shawl about her head; she was dressed very much after the pattern of her senior. “Here we are,” announced Mr. Sikes, with a wave of his hand. “Shut the door,” ordered Mrs. Grimes. The host, with a nervous sort of geniality, beckoned to the strangers. “Better come down to the fire, Queen,” he said. They did not move. The elder woman fixed a curious look upon Mr. Baxter. “I am the queen of the gypsies, Mister, but how came you to know it?” she asked in a hoarse, not unmusical voice. “Always best to be on the safe side,” said Baxter, with his jolliest laugh. “There are so blamed many gypsy queens running around loose these days that—” The gypsy silenced him with an imperious gesture. “There is but one true queen of the gypsies. I am the true queen of all the Romanies. And you, Mister, are the father of a noble, handsome son—a prince.” “Well, by gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Link in astonishment. “That does beat all!” “Don’t tell me there’s nothing in fortune-telling,” said Mr. Baxter, cackling again. “Come up by the fire, Queen. Warm yourself. And you too, Miss.”