see fit. Merely as a suggestion, I would say that the Antiquarian
Society would snap up many of the things. A very few are of no
particular value, except to me. One thing I want done, however. The
Medici boots of ivory leather must either be destroyed or be put for
ever under glass in a _public_ museum. I prefer that they be
destroyed, for they are a dangerous possession. They have gone to the
adulterous rendezvous celebrated in the scandalous verses of Lorenzo
the Magnificent. They have shod the feet of a murderess. They were
cursed by the Church as trappings of the Devil, inciting the wearer to
foul deeds and intrigue.

"I shall not disturb you with all their hideous history, but I repeat,
they are a dangerous possession. I have taken care to keep them under
lock and key, behind plate glass, for more than fifty years. I have
never taken them out. Destroy the Medici boots, before they destroy
you!"

"But he did take them out!" cried Suzanne. "Uncle was holding the
boots when--when Marthe found him there in the museum."

John reread the note, and looked thoughtfully at his young wife. "Yes.
Perhaps he was preparing to destroy them right then. Of course, I
think the poor old fellow took things a bit too seriously--he was very
old, you know, and Marthe says he practically lived in this museum of
his."

"And why call a pair of old boots dangerous? Of course, we all know
the Medicis were plenty dangerous, but the Medici boots--that's
ridiculous, John. Besides----"

Suzanne paused provocatively, her red lips pouting. She looked down at
her trimly shod feet. "Besides, I'd like to try on those Medici
boots--just once. They're lovely, I think."

John was frowning thoughtfully. He scarcely heard her suggestion. He
spoke to Eric, instead, and his voice seemed a bit troubled.

"I believe that Uncle _was_ getting ready to destroy those boots that
very morning he died; else why should he have taken them from their
case--after fifty years?"

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