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was not seated at his work-bench in the dining-room. He was not making another doll-house. While Sheilah was dressing for Judith's party, he and the 'shay durve' were making their way out into the country in a truck, Felix seated alone on the front seat, the doll-house concealed beneath a burlap covering in the rear of the car.

Felix had told the keeper of the shop, where for so long the doll-house had awaited a purchaser, that a woman who had seen it a year ago had ordered it directly from him. He would call for it sometime with a car, and crate it to her himself. Luckily the shop-keeper had asked no questions. No suspicions had been aroused so far. But it was scarey business. He didn't like it. He would be glad when this night was over. Every little while he kept looking back at the 'shay durve,' crouching there so submissively under the burlap, waiting its doom.

He wished there had been some other way, but there hadn't. Sheilah must never be able to trace the doll-house, or a single piece of its furniture, to any destination. Lucky she was away. And the children, too. He could never have hired a truck, and be