The Mysterious Visitor

heads and said, "No," in unison.
    "It’s probably Uncle Monty’s idea of fun," Mart said, and Trixie could tell that he was even angrier than Jim was. "I don’t like that guy." He tucked Trixie’s cold hand protectively through the crook of his arm. "Anybody but you would have screamed, fainted, or gotten hysterical."
    Brian gave Trixie’s free hand a brotherly squeeze. "For two cents," he said, "I’d say we all might just as well go home. It’s not going to be any fun taking turns keeping Uncle Monty out of everybody’s hair. I don’t dislike him personally, but he’s certainly doing his best to make Di miserable."
    Jim, who had been examining the handle on the folding door, straightened. "I see how the contraption works. A rubber band and a thumbtack is the secret. I’m darned glad it wasn’t Honey who grabbed that handle, Trixie. She’s just beginning to get over her fear of spiders. Something like this would have been a serious setback. I wonder how many more booby traps Uncle Monty’s set around the place."
    "Ah, the place is probably crawling with them," Mart said disgustedly. "As I said before and I’ll say again, I don’t like that guy."
    "Neither do I," Trixie agreed. "I’m becoming
    more and more certain that he’s an impostor." "Now, Trix," Brian said cautiously, "just because he’s different from other people and sort of eccentric in his ways and has a pretty warped sense of humor—"
    "It’s not that," Trixie interrupted. "He doesn’t look anything like Mrs. Lynch. She’s so plump and pretty and really quite tall, with those blue, blue eyes. And he’s so shriveled and little with eyes that always make me think of olive pits." "That doesn’t mean a thing," Mart pointed out. "Aunt Alicia doesn’t look a thing like Moms, and yet they’re sisters."
    "Yes," Trixie said, "but we know that Aunt Alicia looks like our grandfather and Moms looks like our grandmother. If we knew that Mrs. Lynch’s parents both had blue eyes, we’d know for sure that Uncle Monty was an impostor."
    Brian whistled. "You’ve got something there. Blue is recessive, so blue-eyed parents can’t have a brown-eyed child."
    "It’s the Mendelian theory of heredity," Trixie said. "Moms told me all about genes and things when we were working in the garden last summer. She’s crazy about the subject of dominant colors on account of flower seeds, you know. It’s why her flowers almost always win prizes at the Garden Club shows."
    "It’s an interesting subject," Jim said, "but as I recall, Mrs. Lynch’s parents died when she was a baby, so how will you ever find out whether or not they both had blue eyes?"
    "That’s right," Mart said. "Now, take me, for instance. I have a fabulous memory, but I can’t remember a thing that happened to me when I was a babe in arms. In fact, my earliest recollection is my third birthday party, when Trix fell into my cake. My mental picture of her at that time is not that her eyes were blue, but that her eyelashes were plastered with pink frosting." Trixie sniffed. "My earliest recollection is your fourth birthday party, when you scorched your eyelashes trying to blow out all the candles on your cake at once."
    "Children, children," Brian admonished them. "Can’t you let bygones be bygones?"
    "If Mart would stop interrupting," Trixie complained, "I have something important to say." Mart snapped his fingers over her head. "Speak, girl, but bark; don’t growl."
    Trixie took a deep breath. "Last spring, as I’ve already told you, Di invited me out here for lunch. It was all very elaborate with everything from soup to nuts, Jim, and I didn’t have much fun. I realize now that Di didn’t, either, but—"
    "You know what?" Jim interrupted thoughtfully. "Di has a phobia about being rich. We’ve got to cure her of it, just as we have almost cured Honey of her phobia about spiders and snakes."
    "That’s right," Brian agreed. "Being rich is nothing to be ashamed of, and just because this party isn’t going to turn out the way Di planned it is no reason why everyone shouldn’t have a swell time."
    "True, true," said Mart. "Personally, I prefer ham and turkey to hamburgers and franks, and as for a couple of dozen waiters hanging around to clean up the mess afterward, why, that strikes me as a good idea. Isn’t there an old saying that nothing is quite so dull as dishwater? Last summer when Brian and I were junior counselors at camp, we must have washed fifty million dishes. Speaking