The Witchmaster's Key by Franklin W. Dixon

out,” Joe said.
    They passed the Medmenham Book Store again and came to a window filled with amulets,such as bronze necklaces designed to save the wearer from the evil eye. A sign on the door read: WITCHCRAFT EXHIBITION .
    Joe followed Frank through the revolving door. A number of rooms extended before them crowded with shelves and display cases laden with objects similar to those described in Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum catalog.
    An old woman was seated at a small table near the door opposite an empty chair. She had a craggy face, piercing black eyes, and a long crooked nose. The boys noticed she wore a bronze bracelet on her left arm, a red comb in her black hair, and a silk robe studded with shooting stars.
    â€œA fortuneteller,” Frank murmured. “I wonder where she keeps the marked deck.”
    As if reading his mind, the old crone called out, “I am a palmist. I read palms and interpret what I see there. Let me read yours. I never lie.”
    â€œYou might make a mistake,” Joe teased her.
    â€œNever, oh unbeliever. I am the last of a long line of witches. I know the wisdom of the ages. Trust me!”
    â€œThe whole point,” Frank thought, “is that we don’t trust you.” Aloud he said, “Some other time.”
    The palmist glared as the boys strolled past and began to work their way around the witch collection room-by-room. A number of items appeared to be identical with those pictured in Rowbotham’scatalog. One was a silver wand with a gold handle. Another was a crystal ball on a bronze tripod.
    Frank rubbed his chin. “Joe, those could be part of the loot taken from the Griffinmoor museum.”
    â€œYou’re on my wavelength, Frank. I’d say this calls for a conference with the curator. He has some explaining to do.”
    Returning to the first room, they asked the palmist where they could find the curator of the exhibition.
    â€œHe’s out for tea,” she cackled. “So, you must wait. Why not pass the time letting me read your palms. You have nothing to lose, have you?”
    â€œI guess not,” Frank admitted.
    Joe sat down in the empty chair and extended his hand. The woman took it in hers and examined his palm for a long time.
    Suddenly she broke the silence with a loud “Hah! This is very interesting!”
    â€œWhat is?” Joe inquired.
    â€œThis pattern of the lines of your palm. It tells me you have witch ancestry in your blood.”
    â€œNot bloody likely,” Joe quipped.
    â€œDo not scoff, young man. There is more. Let me see. Yes! Yes! Your life line is extremely short. Prepare yourself for sudden death if you proceed on your present course!”
    Joe shivered in spite of himself and said he hadheard enough. Frank took the chair. The palmist surveyed his hand.
    â€œYou are haunted by a witchmaster,” she informed him.
    â€œHas he got a name?” Frank asked.
    â€œThe letters are here in your palm. I can read them.
P-I-C-K-E-N-B-A-U-G-H
. That is correct. His name is John Pickenbaugh.”
    Frank started when he heard the name. The woman clutched his hand tightly.
    â€œYou had better leave England,” she intoned. “You are in grave danger!”
    Frank tried to pull his hand away, but she kept clinging to it. Giving a sudden twist, she pressed something as sharp as a needle into his palm.
    The room swam before his eyes. The face of the palmist became dim. Frank tried to say something to Joe but the words refused to come.
    Abruptly he keeled over!

CHAPTER IX
Jumpy Sleuths
    A S Frank toppled, Joe caught his brother and eased him onto the floor. Frank lay still. His face was deathly pale and his breath came in gasps.
    â€œFrank!” Joe shouted. “Can you hear me?”
    Receiving no reply, he whirled around to confront the palmist. She was gone! The slow turning of the revolving door showed where she had exited during the confusion.
    Desperately Joe hastened out