cried Seguin

"I! I!" cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: "I've had enough, you know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect hell upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but fighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended that the nurse whom I took the trouble to choose wasn't healthy. Well, then a second nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the child. And now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile creature who will prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it's too exasperating, I won't have it."

Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. "What won't you have? There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have a nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But I won't nurse--I can't. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it's simple enough, and we'll do so at once and risk it."

Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, who had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, full of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they remained there, and saw and heard everything.

"The carriage is waiting," resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to render calm. "Let us make haste, let us go."

Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. "Come, be reasonable," said she. "How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust her?"

"The carriage is waiting for us," he repeated, quivering; "let us go at once."

And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her shoulders, he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which impelled him to the greatest violence, even when people were present, and made him openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd jealousy which had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing child, he would have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of everything, and indeed it was she who was now the obstacle to that excursion he had planned, that pleasure trip which he had promised himself, and which now seemed to him of such supreme importance. And 'twas so much the better if friends were there to hear him. So in the vilest language he began to upbraid his wife, not only reproaching her for the birth of that child, but even denying that the child was his. "You will only be content when you have driven me from the house!" he finished in a fury. "You won't come? Well then, I'll go by myself!"

And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to Santerre, who had remained silent, and without even remembering that Mathieu still stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in consternation at hearing all these things, had not dared to withdraw lest by doing so he should seem to be passing judgment on the scene. Standing there motionless, he turned his head aside, looked at little Andree who was still crying, and at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with fright, pressed one against the other behind the armchair in which their sister was wailing.

‘Poor Pemberton

‘Poor Pemberton,’ she repeated furiously.
‘Who’s Pemberton?’
‘A little puppy of twenty-five. All spots and bounce. He was assistant D.C. at Bamba, but when Butterworth went sick, they left him in charge. Anybody could have told them there’d be trouble. And when trouble comes it’s Henry, of course, who has to drive all night...’
‘I’d better leave now, hadn’t I?’ Wilson said. ‘You’ll want to change.’
‘Oh yes, you’d better go - before everybody knows he’s gone and that we’ve been alone five minutes in a house with a bed in it. Alone, of course, except for the small boy and the cook and their relations and friends.’
‘I wish I could be of some use.’
‘You could be,’ she said. ‘Would you go upstairs and see whether there’s a rat in the bedroom? I don’t want the small boy to know I’m nervous. And shut the window. They come in that way.’
‘It will be very hot for you,’
‘I don’t mind.’
He stood just inside the door and clapped his hands softly, but no rat moved. Then quickly, surreptitiously, as though he had no right to be there, he crossed to the window and closed it. There was a faint smell of face-powder in the room - it seemed to him the most memorable scent he had ever known. He stood again by the door taking the whole room in - the child’s photograph, the pots of cream, the dress laid out by Ali for the evening. He had been instructed at home how to memorize, pick out the important detail, collect the right evidence, but his employers had never taught him that he would find himself in a country so strange to him as this.
Part 1 Chapter 5
THE police van took its place in the long line of army lorries waiting for the ferry. Their headlamps were like a little village in the night. The trees came down on either side smelling of heat and rain, and somewhere at the end of the column a driver sang - the wailing, toneless voice rose and fell like a wind through a keyhole. Scobie slept and woke, slept and woke. When he woke he thought of Pemberton and wondered how he would feel if he were his father - that elderly, retired bank manager whose wife had died in giving birth to Pemberton - but when he slept he went smoothly back into a dream of perfect happiness and freedom. He was walking through a wide cool meadow with Ali at his heels: there was nobody else anywhere in his dream, and Ali never spoke. Birds went by far overhead, and once when he sat down the grass was parted by a small green snake which passed on to his hand and up his arm without fear, and before it slid down into the grass again touched his cheek with a cold, friendly, remote tongue.
Once when he opened his eyes Ali was standing beside him waiting for him to awake. ‘Massa like bed,’ he stated gently, firmly, pointing to the camp-bed he had made up at the edge of the path with the mosquito-net tied from the branches overhead. ‘Two three hours,’ Ali said. ‘Plenty lorries.’ Scobie obeyed and lay down and was immediately back in that peaceful meadow where nothing ever happened. The next time he woke Ali was still there, this time with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘One hour,’ Ali said.

In five minutes she forgot what she was eating

　　In five minutes she forgot what she was eating, so interested wasshe in the chat that went on. It amused her very much to hear AuntPlenty call her forty-year-old nephew "my dear boy"; and UncleAlec was so full of lively gossip about all creation in general, andthe Aunt-hill in particular, that the detested porridge vanishedwithout a murmur.
　　"You will go to church with us, I hope, Alec, if you are not tootired," said the old lady, when breakfast was over.
　　"I came all the way from Calcutta for that express purpose, ma'am.
　　Only I must send the sisters word of my arrival, for they don'texpect me till to-morrow, you know, and there will be a row inchurch if those boys see me without warning.""I'll send Ben up the hill, and you can step over to Myra's yourself;it will please her, and you will have plenty of time."Dr. Alec was off at once, and they saw no more of him till the oldbarouche was at the door, and Aunt Plenty just rustling downstairsin her Sunday best, with Rose like a little black shadow behindher.
　　Away they drove in state, and all the way Uncle Alec's hat wasmore off his head than on, for everyone they met smiled andbowed, and gave him as blithe a greeting as the day permitted.
　　It was evident that the warning had been a wise one, for, in spite oftime and place, the lads were in such a ferment that their elders satin momentary dread of an unseemly outbreak somewhere. It wassimply impossible to keep those fourteen eyes off Uncle Alec, andthe dreadful things that were done during sermon-time will hardlybe believed.
　　Rose dared not look up after a while, for these bad boys ventedtheir emotions upon her till she was ready to laugh and cry withmingled amusement and vexation. Charlie winked rapturously ather behind his mother's fan; Mac openly pointed to the tall figurebeside her; Jamie stared fixedly over the back of his pew, till Rosethought his round eyes would drop out of his head; George fellover a stool and dropped three books in his excitement; Will drewsailors and Chinamen on his clean cuffs, and displayed them, toRose's great tribulation; Steve nearly upset the whole party byburning his nose with salts, as he pretended to be overcome by hisjoy; even dignified Archie disgraced himself by writing in hishymn book, "Isn't he blue and brown?" and passing it politely toRose.
　　Her only salvation was trying to fix her attention upon Uncle Maca portly, placid gentleman, who seemed entirely unconscious ofthe iniquities of the Clan, and dozed peacefully in his pew corner.
　　This was the only uncle Rose had met for years, for Uncle Jem andUncle Steve, the husbands of Aunt Jessie and Aunt Clara, were atsea, and Aunt Myra was a widow. Uncle Mac was a merchant, veryrich and busy, and as quiet as a mouse at home, for he was in sucha minority among the women folk he dared not open his lips, andlet his wife rule undisturbed.
　　Rose liked the big, kindly, silent man who came to her when papadied, was always sending her splendid boxes of goodies at school,and often invited her into his great warehouse, full of teas andspices, wines and all sorts of foreign fruits, there to eat and carryaway whatever she liked. She had secretly regretted that he wasnot to be her guardian; but since she had seen Uncle Alec she feltbetter about it, for she did not particularly admire Aunt Jane.

Until evening Monseigneur continued at prayer

Until evening Monseigneur continued at prayer. When he at last reappeared he was white as wax, distressed,knockoff handbags, anxious, but still resolute. He could do nothing more, but he repeated to his son the terrible word--"Never!" It was God alone who had the right to relieve him from his promise; and God, although implored, gave him no sign of change. It was necessary to suffer.

Some days had passed. Felicien constantly wandered round the little house, wild with grief, eager for news. Each time that he saw anyone come out he almost fainted from fear. Thus it happened that on the morning when Hubertine ran to the church to ask for the sacred oils, he learned that Angelique could not live through the day,replica louis vuitton handbags. The Abbe Cornille was not at the Sacristy, and he rushed about the town to find him, still having a last hope that through the intervention of the good man some Divine aid might come. Then, as he brought back with him the sought-for clergyman, his hope left him, and he had a frightful attack of doubt and anger. What should he do? In what way could he force Heaven to come to his assistance? He went away, hastened to the Bishop's palace, the doors of which he again forced open, and before his incoherent words his father was for a moment frightened. At last he understood. Angelique was dying! She awaited the Extreme Unction, and now God alone could save her. The young man had only come to cry out all his agony, to break all relations with this cruel, unnatural father, and to accuse him to his face of willingly allowing this death. But Monseigneur listened to him without anger: upright and very serious, his eyes suddenly brightened with a strange clearness, as if an inner voice had spoken to him. Motioning to his son to lead the way, he followed him, simply saying at last:

"If God wishes it, I also wish it."

Felicien trembled so that he could scarcely move. His father consented, freed from his personal vow, to submit himself to the goodwill of the hoped-for miracle. Henceforth they, as individuals, counted for nothing. God must act for himself. Tears blinded him. Whilst in the Sacristy Monseigneur took the sacred oils from the hands of the Abbe Cornille,nike shox torch ii. He accompanied them, almost staggering; he did not dare to enter into the chamber, but fell upon his knees at the threshold of the door, which was open wide.

The voice of the Bishop was firm, as he said:

"_Pax huic domui_."

"_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_," the priest replied.

Monseigneur had just placed on the white table, between the two wax-candles, the sacred oils, making in the air the sign of the cross, with the silver vase. Then he took from the hands of the Abbe the crucifix, and approached the sufferer that he might make her kiss it. But Angelique was still unconscious: her eyes were closed, her mouth shut, her hands rigid, and looking like the little stiff figures of stone placed upon tombs. He examined her for a moment, and, seeing by the slight movement of her chest that she was not dead, he placed upon her lips the crucifix. He waited. His face preserved the majesty of a minister of penitence, and no signs of emotion were visible when he realised that not even a quivering had passed over the exquisite profile of the young girl, nor in her beautiful hair,replica gucci wallets. She still lived, however, and that was sufficient for the redemption of her sins.

His aunt

His aunt, Mme. de Marcillac, had been presented at court, and had moved among the brightest heights of that lofty region. Suddenly the young man's ambition discerned in those recollections of hers, which had been like nursery fairy tales to her nephews and nieces, the elements of a social success at least as important as the success which he had achieved at the Ecole de Droit. He began to ask his aunt about those relations; some of the old ties might still hold good. After much shaking of the branches of the family tree, the old lady came to the conclusion that of all persons who could be useful to her nephew among the selfish genus of rich relations, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was the least likely to refuse. To this lady, therefore, she wrote in the old-fashioned style, recommending Eugene to her; pointing out to her nephew that if he succeeded in pleasing Mme. de Beauseant, the Vicomtesse would introduce him to other relations. A few days after his return to Paris, therefore, Rastignac sent his aunt's letter to Mme. de Beauseant. The Vicomtesse replied by an invitation to a ball for the following evening. This was the position of affairs at the Maison Vauquer at the end of November 1819.
A few days later, after Mme. de Beauseant's ball,knockoff handbags, Eugene came in at two o'clock in the morning. The persevering student meant to make up for the lost time by working until daylight. It was the first time that he had attempted to spend the night in this way in that silent quarter. The spell of a factitious energy was upon him; he had beheld the pomp and splendor of the world. He had not dined at the Maison Vauquer; the boarders probably would think that he would walk home at daybreak from the dance, as he had done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete at the Prado, or a ball at the Odeon, splashing his silk stockings thereby,replica gucci handbags, and ruining his pumps.
It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street before drawing the bolts of the door; and Rastignac,fake uggs for sale, coming in at that moment, could go up to his room without making any noise,mont blanc pens, followed by Christophe, who made a great deal. Eugene exchanged his dress suit for a shabby overcoat and slippers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patent fuel, and prepared for his night's work in such a sort that the faint sounds he made were drowned by Christophe's heavy tramp on the stairs.
Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before plunging into his law books. He had just become aware of the fact that the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was one of the queens of fashion, that her house was thought to be the pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And not only so, she was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, one of the most conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. Thanks to the aunt, thanks to Mme. de Marcillac's letter of introduction, the poor student had been kindly received in that house before he knew the extent of the favor thus shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobility to be admitted to those gilded salons; he had appeared in the most exclusive circle in Paris, and now all doors were open for him. Eugene had been dazzled at first by the brilliant assembly, and had scarcely exchanged a few words with the Vicomtesse; he had been content to single out a goddess among this throng of Parisian divinities, one of those women who are sure to attract a young man's fancy.

She needs

She needs,' he nodded at the three musclebound women, 'protectors.'
Aziz was still looking at the perforated sheet. Ghani said, 'All right, come on, you will examine my Naseem right now. Pronto.'
My grandfather peered around the room. 'But where is she, Ghani Sahib?' he blurted out finally. The lady wrestlers adopted supercilious expressions and, it seemed to him, tightened their musculatures, just in case he intended to try something fancy.
'Ah, I see your confusion,' Ghani said, his poisonous smile broadening, 'You Europe-returned chappies forget certain things. Doctor Sahib, my daughter is a decent girl, it goes without saying. She does not flaunt her body under the noses of strange men. You will understand that you cannot be permitted to see her, no, not in any circumstances; accordingly I have required her to be positioned behind that sheet. She stands there, like a good girl.'
A frantic note had crept into Doctor Aziz's voice. 'Ghani Sahib, tell me how I am to examine her without looking at her?' Ghani smiled on.
'You will kindly specify which portion of my daughter it is necessary to inspect. I will then issue her with my instructions to place the required segment against that hole which you see there. And so, in this fashion the thing may be achieved.'
'But what, in any event, does the lady complain of?' - my grandfather, despairingly. To which Mr Ghani, his eyes rising upwards in their sockets, his smile twisting into a grimace of grief, replied: 'The poor child! She has a terrible, a too dreadful stomachache.'
'In that case,' Doctor Aziz said with some restraint, 'will she show me her stomach, please.'
Chapter 2 Mercurochrome
Padma - our plump Padma - is sulking magnificently. (She can't read and, like all fish-lovers, dislikes other people knowing anything she doesn't. Padma: strong, jolly, a consolation for my last days. But definitely a bitch-in-the-manger.) She attempts to cajole me from my desk: 'Eat, na, food is spoiling.' I remain stubbornly hunched over paper. 'But what is so precious,'
Padma demands, her right hand slicing the air updownup in exasperation, 'to need all this writing-shiting?' I reply: now that I've let out the details of my birth, now that the perforated sheet stands between doctor and patient, there's no going back. Padma snorts. Wrist smacks against forehead. 'Okay, starve starve, who cares two pice?' Another louder, conclusive snort... but I take no exception to her attitude. She stirs a bubbling vat all day for a living; something hot and vinegary has steamed her up tonight. Thick of waist, somewhat hairy of forearm, she flounces, gesticulates, exits. Poor Padma. Things are always getting her goat. Perhaps even her name: understandably enough, since her mother told her, when she was only small, that she had been named after the lotus goddess, whose most common appellation amongst village folk is 'The One Who Possesses Dung'.
In the renewed silence, I return to sheets of paper which smell just a little of turmeric, ready and willing to put out of its misery a narrative which I left yesterday hanging in mid-air - just as Scheherazade, depending for her very survival on leaving Prince Shahryar eaten up by curiosity, used to do night after night! I'll begin at once: by revealing that my grandfather's premonitions in the corridor were not without foundation. In the succeeding months and years, he fell under what I can only describe as the sorcerer's spell of that enormous - and as yet unstained - perforated cloth.

‘Very good of you

‘Very good of you,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Appreciate your attitude.’
‘Another glass of port, gentlemen?’
‘Don’t mind if I do. Nothing like this on shore you know. You, Scobie?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I hope you won’t find it necessary to keep us here tonight, major?’
Scobie said, ‘I don’t think there’s any possibility of your get-ting away before midday tomorrow.’
‘Will do our best, of course,’ the lieutenant said
‘On my honour, gentlemen, my hand upon my heart, you will find no bad hats among my passengers. And the crew - I know them all.’
Druce said, ‘It’s a formality, captain, which we have to go through.’
‘Have a cigar,’ the captain said. ‘Throw away that cigar-ette. Here is a very special box.’
Druce lit the cigar, which began to spark and crackle. The captain giggled. ‘Only my joke, gentlemen. Quite harmless. I keep the box for my friends. The English have a wonderful sense of humour. I know you will not be angry. A German yes, an Englishman no. It is quite cricket, eh?’
‘Very funny,’ Druce said sourly, laying the cigar down on the ash-tray the captain held out to him. The ash-tray, pre-sumably set off by the captain’s finger, began to play a little tinkly tune. Druce jerked again: he was overdue for leave and his nerves were unsteady. The captain smiled and sweated. ‘Swiss,’ he said. ‘A wonderful people. Neutral too.’
One of the Field Security men came in and gave Druce a note. He passed it to Scobie to read. Steward, who is under notice of dismissal, says the captain has letters concealed in his bathroom.
Druce said, ‘I think I’d better go and make them hustle down below. Coming, Evans? Many thanks for the port, cap-tain.’
Scobie was left alone with the captain. This was the part of the job he always hated. These men were not criminals: they were merely breaking regulations enforced on the shipping companies by the navicert system. You never knew in a search what you would find. A man’s bedroom was his private life. Prying in drawers you came on humiliations; little petty vices were tucked out of sight like a soiled handkerchief. Under a pile of linen you might come on a grief he was trying to forget. Scobie said gently, ‘I’m afraid, captain, I’ll have to look around. You know it’s a formality.’
‘You must do your duty, major,’ the Portuguese said.
Scobie went quickly and neatly through the cabin: he never moved a thing without replacing it exactly: he was like a care-ful housewife. The captain stood with his back to Scobie look-ing out on to the bridge; it was as if he preferred not to em-barrass his guest in the odious task. Scobie came to an end, closing the box of French letters and putting them carefully back in the top drawer of the locker with the handkerchiefs, the gaudy ties and the little bundle of dirty handkerchiefs. ‘All finished?’ the captain asked politely, turning his head.
‘That door,’ Scobie said, ‘what would be through there?’
‘That is only the bathroom, the w.c.’
‘I think I’d better take a look.’

‘And then

‘And then,’ Scobie said, ‘there’s the sleeplessness.’
The young man sat back behind his desk and tapped with an indelible pencil; there was a mauve smear at the corner of his mouth which seemed to indicate that sometimes - off guard - he sucked it. ‘That’s probably nerves,’ Dr Travis said, ‘apprehension of pain. Unimportant.’
‘It’s important to me. Can’t you give me something to take? I’m all right when once I get to sleep, but I lie awake for hours, waiting ... Sometimes I’m hardly fit for work. And a policeman, you know, needs his wits.’
‘Of course,’ Dr Travis said. ‘I’ll soon settle you. Evipan’s the stuff for you.’ It was as easy as all that. ‘Now for the pain -’ he began his tap, tap, tap, with the pencil. He said, ‘It’s impossible to be certain, of course .... I want you to note carefully the circumstances of every attack... what seems to bring it on. Then it will be quite possible to regulate it, avoid it almost entirely.’
‘But what’s wrong?’
Dr Travis said, ‘There are some words that always shock the layman. I wish we could call cancer by a symbol like H2O. People wouldn’t be nearly so disturbed. It’s the same with the world angina.’
‘You think it’s angina?’
‘It has all the characteristics. But men live for years with angina - even work in reason. We have to see exactly how much you can do.’
‘Should I tell my wife?’
‘There’s no point in not telling her. I’m afraid this might mean - retirement.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You may die of a lot of things before angina gets you -given care.’
‘On the other hand I suppose it could happen any day?’
‘I can’t guarantee anything, Major Scobie. I’m not even absolutely satisfied that this is angina.’
‘I’ll speak to the Commissioner then on the quiet. I don’t want to alarm my wife until we are certain.’
‘If I were you, I’d tell her what I’ve said. It will prepare her. But tell her you may live for years with care.’
‘And the sleeplessness?’
‘This will make you sleep.’
Sitting in the car with the little package on the seat beside him, he thought, I have only now to choose the date. He didn’t start his car for quite a while; he was touched by a feeling of awe as if he had in fact been given his death sentence by the doctor. His eyes dwelt on the neat blob of sealing-wax like a dried wound. He thought, I have still got to be careful, so careful. If possible no one must even suspect. It was not only the question of his life insurance: the happiness of others had to be protected. It was not so easy to forget a suicide as a middle-aged man’s death from angina.
He unsealed the package and studied the directions. He had no knowledge of what a fatal dose might be, but surely if he took ten times the correct amount he would be safe. That meant every night for nine nights removing a dose and keeping it secretly for use on the tenth night. More evidence must be invented in his diary which had to be written right up to the end - November 12. He must make engagements for the following week. In his behaviour there must be no hint of farewells. This was the worst crime a Catholic could commit -it must be a perfect one.

whatever you think of me

“Well, whatever you think of me,” Corky said, “nevertheless, I would like to place an order for another ten foreskins.”
“Hey, get it through your head—I’m not doing business with you anymore. You’re reckless, coming here like this.”
Partly as a profitable sideline, but also partly from a sense of religious duty and as an expression of his abiding faith in the King of Hell, Roman Castevet provided—only from cadavers—selected body parts, internal organs, blood, malignant tumors, occasionally even entire brains to other Satanists. His customers, other than Corky, had both a theological and a practical interest in arcane rituals designed to petition His Satanic Majesty for special favors or to summon actual demons out of the fiery pit. Frequently, after all, the most essential ingredients in a black-magic formula could not be purchased at the nearest Wal-Mart.
“You’re overreacting,” Corky said.
“I’m not overreacting. You’re imprudent, you’re foolhardy.”
“Foolhardy?” Corky smiled, nearly laughed. “All of a sudden you seem awfully prissy for a man who believes plunder, torture, rape, and murder will be rewarded in the afterlife.”
“Lower your voice,” Roman demanded in a fierce whisper, though Corky had continued to speak in a pleasant conversational tone. “If somebody finds you here with me, it could mean my job.”
“Not at all. I’m a visiting pathologist from Indianapolis, and we’re discussing your current manpower shortage and this deplorable backlog of unidentified cadavers.”
[181] “You’ll ruin me,” Roman moaned.
“All I’ve come here to do,” Corky lied, “is to order ten more foreskins. I don’t expect you to collect them while I wait. I just placed the order in person because I thought it would give you a chuckle.”
Although Roman Castevet appeared too emaciated, too juiceless to produce tears, his feverish black eyes grew watery with frustration.
“Anyway,” Corky continued, “there’s a bigger threat to your job than being caught here with me—if someone discovers you people have mistakenly penned up a living man in this place with all these dead bodies.”
“Are you wired on something?”
“I already told you on the phone, a few minutes ago. One of these unfortunate souls is still alive.”
“What kind of mind game is this?” Roman demanded.
“It’s not a game. It’s true. I heard him murmuring ‘Help me, help me,’ so soft, barely loud enough to hear.”
“Heard who?”
“I tracked him down, peeled the shroud back from his face. He’s paralyzed. Facial muscles distorted by a stroke.”
Hunching closer, bristling like the collection of dry sticks in a bindle of kindling, Roman insisted on eye-to-eye conversation, as if he believed the fierceness of his gaze would convey the message that his words had failed to deliver.
Corky blithely continued: “The poor guy was probably comatose when they brought him in here, then he regained consciousness. But he’s awfully weak.”
A crack of uncertainty breached Roman Castevet’s armor of disbelief. He broke eye contact and swept the bunks with his gaze. “Who?”
“Over there,” Corky said brightly, indicating the back of the vault, where the light from the overhead fixture barely reached, leaving the recumbent dead shrouded in gloom as well as in white cotton cloth. [182] “Seems to me I’m saving all your jobs by alerting you to this, so you ought to fill my order for free, out of gratitude.”

“你对我们已经很尽力了

“你对我们已经很尽力了，塞西尔，"道格拉斯夫人说道，
“不管这个事将来结局如何，反正你已经竭尽全力了。”
“不只很尽力，而且过分尽力了，"歇洛克•福尔摩斯庄重地说道，“我对你非常同情，太太，我坚决劝你要信任我们裁判的常识，并且自愿完全把警探当知心人。可能我在这方面有过失，因为你曾通过我的朋友华生医生向我转达过你有隐私要告诉我，我那时没有照你的暗示去做，不过，那时我认为你和这件犯罪行为有直接关系。现在我相信完全不是这么回事。然而，有许多问题还需要说清楚，我劝你还是请道格拉斯先生把他自己的事情给我们讲一讲。”
道格拉斯夫人听福尔摩斯这么一说，惊奇万状，不由得叫出声来。这时我们看到有一个人好象从墙里冒出来一样，正从阴暗的墙角出现并走过来，我和两个侦探也不由得惊叫了一声。
道格拉斯夫人转过身，立刻和他拥抱起来，巴克也抓住他伸过来的那只手。
“这样最好了，杰克，"他的妻子重复说道，“我相信这样最好了。”
“是的，确实这样最好，道格拉斯先生，"歇洛克•福尔摩斯说道，“我断定你会发现这样最好。”
这个人刚从黑暗的地方走向亮处，眨着昏花的眼睛站在那里望着我们。这是一张非同寻常的面孔——一双勇敢刚毅的灰色大眼睛，剪短了的灰白色胡须，凸出的方下巴，嘴角浮现出幽默感来。他把我们大家细细打量了一番，后来，使我惊讶的是，他竟向我走来，并且递给我一个纸卷。
“久闻大名，"他说道，声音不完全象英国人，也不完全象美国人，不过却圆润悦耳，“你是这些人中的历史学家。好，华生医生，恐怕你以前从来没有得到过你手中这样的故事资料，我敢拿全部财产和你打赌。你可以用自己的方式表达它，不过只要你有了这些事实，你就不会使读者大众不感兴趣的。我曾隐藏了两天，用白天的时光，就是在这种困难处境中所能利用的时光，把这些事写成文字的东西。你和你的读者大众可以随意使用这些材料。这是恐怖谷的故事。”
“这是过去的事了，道格拉斯先生，"歇洛克•福尔摩斯心平气和地说道，“而我们希望听你讲讲现在的事情。”
“我会告诉你们的，先生，"道格拉斯说道，“我说话的时候，可以吸烟吗？好，谢谢你，福尔摩斯先生。假如我记得不错的话，你自己也喜欢吸烟。你想想看，要是你坐了两天，明明衣袋里有烟草，却怕吸烟时烟味把你暴露了，那是一种什么滋味啊。”
道格拉斯倚着壁炉台，抽着福尔摩斯递给他的雪茄，说道：“我久闻你的大名，福尔摩斯先生，可从来没想到竟会和你相见。但在你还没有来得及读这些材料以前，"道格拉斯向我手中的纸卷点头示意说，"你将会说，我给你们讲的是新鲜事。”
警探麦克唐纳非常惊奇地注视着这个新来的人。
“啊，这可真把我难住了！"麦克唐纳终于大声说道，“假如你是伯尔斯通庄园的约翰•道格拉斯先生，那么，这两天来我们调查的死者是谁呢？还有，现在你又是从哪儿突然冒出来的呢？我看你象玩偶匣中的玩偶一样是从地板里钻出来的。"①“唉，麦克先生，"福尔摩斯不赞成地摇晃一下食指，“你没有读过那本出色的地方志吗？上面明明写着国王查理一世避难的故事。在那年头要是没有保险的藏身之处是无法藏身的。用过的藏身之地当然还可以再用。所以我深信会在这所别墅里找到道格拉斯先生的。”
“福尔摩斯先生，你怎么捉弄我们这么长时间？"麦克唐纳生气地说道，“你让我们白白浪费了多少时间去搜索那些你本早已知道是荒谬的事情。”
“不是一下子就清楚的，我亲爱的麦克先生。对这案件的全盘见解，我也是昨夜才形成的。因为只有到今天晚上才能证实，所以我劝你和你的同事白天去休息。请问，此外我还能怎①玩偶匣——一种玩具，揭开盖子即有玩具跳起。——译者注样做呢？当我从护城河里发现衣物包袱时，我立即清楚了，我们所看到的那个死尸根本就不是约翰•道格拉斯先生，而是从滕布里奇韦尔斯市来的那个骑自行车的人。不可能再有其他的结论了。所以我只有去确定约翰•道格拉斯先生本人可能在什么地方，而最可能的是，在他的妻子和朋友的帮助下，他隐藏在别墅内对一个逃亡者最适宜的地方，等待能够逃跑的最稳妥的时机。”
“好，你推断得很对，"道格拉斯先生赞许地说道，“我本来想，我已经从你们英国的法律下逃脱了，因为我不相信我怎么能忍受美国法律的裁决，而且我有了一劳永逸地摆脱追踪我的那些猎狗们的机会。不过，自始至终，我没有做过亏心事，而且我做过的事也没有什么不能再做的。但是，我把我的故事讲给你们听，你们自己去裁决好了。警探先生，你不用费心警告我，我决不会在真理面前退缩的。
“我不打算从头开始。一切都在这上面写着，"道格拉斯指着我手中的纸卷说道，“你们可以看到无数怪诞无稽的奇事，这都归结为一点：有些人出于多种原因和我结怨，并且就是倾家荡产也要整死我。只要我活着，他们也活着，世界上就没有我的安全容身之地。他们从芝加哥到加利福尼亚到处追逐我，终于把我赶出了美国。在我结婚并在这样一个宁静的地方安家以后，我想我可以安安稳稳地度过晚年了。
“我并没有向我的妻子讲过这些事。我何必要把她拖进去呢？如果她要知道了，那么，她就不会再有安静的时刻了，而且一定会经常惊恐不安。我想她已经知道一些情况了，因为我有时无意中总要露出一两句来。不过，直到昨天，在你们这些先生们看到她以后，她还不知道事情的真相。她把她所知道的一切情况都告诉了你们，巴克也是这样，因为发生这件案子的那天晚上，时间太仓促，来不及向他们细讲。现在她才知道这些事，我要是早告诉她我就聪明多了。不过这是一个难题啊，亲爱的，"道格拉斯握了握妻子的手，“现在我做得很好吧。
“好，先生们，在这些事发生以前，有一天我到滕布里奇韦尔斯市去，在街上一眼瞥见一个人。虽然只一瞥，可是我对这类事目力很敏锐，并且毫不怀疑他是谁了。这正是我所有仇敌中最凶恶的一个——这些年来他一直象饿狼追驯鹿一样不放过我。我知道麻烦来了。于是我回到家里作了准备。我想我自己完全可以对付。一八七六年，有一个时期，我的运气好，在美国是人所共知的，我毫不怀疑，好运气仍然和我同在。
“第二天一整天我都在戒备着，也没有到花园里去。这样会好一些，不然的话，在我接近他以前，他就会抢先掏出那支截短了的火枪照我射来。晚上吊桥拉起以后，我的心情平静了许多，不再想这件事了。我万没料到他会钻进屋里来守候我。可是当我穿着睡衣照我的习惯进行巡视的时候，还没走进书房，我就发觉有危险了。我想，当一个人性命有危险的时候——在我一生中就有过数不清的危险——有一种第六感官会发出警告。我很清楚地看到了这种信号，可是我说不出为什么。霎时我发现窗帘下露出一双长统靴子，我就完全清楚是怎么回事了。
“这时我手中只有一支蜡烛，但房门开着，大厅的灯光很清楚地照进来，我就放下蜡烛，跳过去把我放在壁炉台上的铁锤抓到手中。这时他扑到我面前，我只见刀光一闪，便用铁锤向他砸过去。我打中了他，因为那把刀子当啷一声掉到地上了。他象一条鳝鱼一样很快绕着桌子跑开了，过了一会，他从衣服里掏出枪来。我听到他把机头打开，但还没来得及开枪，就被我死死抓住了枪管，我们互相争夺了一分钟左右。对他来说松手丢了枪就等于丢了命。
“他没有丢下枪，但他始终让枪托朝下。也许是我碰响了扳机，也许是我们抢夺时震动了扳机，不管怎样，反正两筒枪弹都射在他脸上，我终于看出这是特德•鲍德温。我在滕布里奇韦尔斯市看出是他，在他向我起过来时又一次看出是他，可是照我那时看到他的样子，恐怕连他的母亲也认不出他来了。我过去对大打出手已经习惯了，可是一见他这副尊容还是不免作呕。
“巴克匆忙赶来时，我正倚靠在桌边。我听到我妻子走来了，赶忙跑到门口去阻拦她，因为这种惨象决不能让一个妇女看见。我答应马上到她那里去。我对巴克只讲了一两句，他一眼就看明白了，于是我们就等着其余的人随后来到，可是没有听到来人的动静。于是我们料定他们什么也没有听见，刚才这一切只有我们三人知道。

He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance gowned in a delicious travelling

He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance gowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her head. But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that she would be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree, and given her last orders to the nurse.

"Well, make haste," cried her husband. "You are quite unbearable, you are never ready."

It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business matters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he was willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right of purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and at fixed dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this proposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult--distant shouts, wild hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors.

"Why! what is it? what is it?" he muttered, turning towards the shaking walls.

The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled in her arms.

"There, there, my pet," gasped the mother, "don't cry, she shan't hurt you any more. There, it's nothing, darling; be quiet, do."

Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at once became quiet again. She was a very pretty child, but still so puny, although nearly four months old,Discount UGG Boots, that there seemed to be nothing but her beautiful big eyes in her pale little face.

"Well, what is the matter?" asked Seguin, in astonishment.

"The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across the cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. If I had been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at ten o'clock in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticed that she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs,fake montblanc pens, for I hoped to be able to keep her, since her milk is so good,replica louis vuitton handbags. But do you know what she had drunk? Why, the methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle had remained beside her."

"But what did she say to you?"

"She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in a drunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escape with the little one, while she began barricading herself in the room, where she is now smashing the furniture! There! just listen!"

Indeed, a distant uproar of destruction reached them. They looked one at the other, and deep silence fell, full of embarrassment and alarm.

"And then?" Seguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice.

"Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can't leave Andree in her charge to be killed by her. I have brought the child here, and I certainly shall not take her back. I will even own that I won't run the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girl out of doors,ugg bailey button triplet 1873 boots, after paying her wages."

Chapter 29 THE CATASTROPHE was not an earthquake

Chapter 29
THE CATASTROPHE was not an earthquake, nor a forest fire, nor an avalanche, nor a cave-in. It was not an external catastrophe at all, but an internal one, and as such particularly distressing, because it blocked Grenouille’s favorite means of escape. It happened in his sleep. Or better, in his dreams. Or better still, in a dream while he slept in the heart of his fantasies.
He lay on his sofa in the purple salon and slept, the empty bottles all about him. He had drunk an enormous amount, with two whole bottles of the scent of the red-haired girl for a nightcap. Apparently it had been too much; for his sleep,moncler jackets men, though deep as death itself, was not dreamless this time, but threaded with ghostly wisps of dreams. These wisps were clearly recognizable as scraps of odors. At first they merely floated in thin threads past Grenouille’s nose, but then they grew thicker,shox torch 2, more cloudlike. And now it seemed as if he were standing in the middle of a moor from which fog was rising. The fog slowly climbed higher,fake montblanc pens. Soon Grenouille was completely wrapped in fog, saturated with fog, and it seemed he could not get his breath for the foggy vapor. If he did not want to suffocate, he would have to breathe the fog in. And the fog was, as noted, an odor. And Grenouille knew what kind of odor. The fog was his own odor. His, Gre-nouille’s, own body odor was the fog.
And the awful thing was that Grenouille, although he knew that this odor was his odor, could not smell it. Virtually drowning in himself, he could not for the life of him smell himself!
As this became clear to him, he gave a scream as dreadful and loud as if he were being burned alive. The scream smashed through the walls of the purple salon, through the walls of the castle, and sped away from his heart across the ditches and swamps and deserts, hurtled across the nocturnal landscape of his soul like a fire storm, howled its way out of his mouth, down the winding tunnel,Moncler outlet online store, out into the world, and far across the high plains of Saint-Flour-as if the mountain itself were screaming. And Grenouille awoke at his own scream. In waking, he thrashed about as if he had to drive off the odorless fog trying to suffocate him. He was deathly afraid, his whole body shook with the raw fear of death. Had his scream not ripped open the fog, he would have drowned in himself-a gruesome death. He shuddered as he recalled it. And as he sat there shivering and trying to gather his confused, terrified thoughts, he knew one thing for sure: he would change his life, if only because he did not want to dream such a frightening dream a second time. He would not survive it a second time.
He threw his horse blanket over his shoulders and crept out into the open. It was already morning outside, a late February morning. The sun was shining. The earth smelled of moist stones, moss, and water. On the wind there already lay a light bouquet of anemones. He squatted on the ground before his cave. The sunlight warmed him. He breathed in the fresh air. Whenever he thought of the fog that he had escaped, a shudder would pass over him. And he shuddered, too, from the pleasure of the warmth he feit on his back. It was good, really, that this external world still existed, if only as a place of refuge. Nor could he bear the awful thought of how it would have been not to find a world at the entrance to the tunnel! No light, no odor, no nothing-only that ghastly fog inside, outside, everywhere...

This was actually not an assumption but hard knowledge

This was actually not an assumption but hard knowledge. Fric had on numerous occasions been in a position to observe actors, writers, rock stars, directors, and other famous drunks with a taste for fine wine, and while some could pour it down faster than one bottle every three hours, those aggressive drinkers always passed out.
Okay. Five bottles spread over each sixteen-hour day. Divide fourteen thousand by five. Twenty-eight hundred.
The contents of this cellar ought to keep Ghost Dad shitfaced for twenty-eight hundred days. So then divide 2,800 by 365 ...
[208] Over seven and a half years. The old man could stay blind drunk until Fric had graduated from high school and had run away to join the United States Marine Corps.
Of course, the biggest movie star in the world never drank more than one glass of wine with dinner. He didn’t use drugs at all—not even pot,Discount UGG Boots, which everyone else in Hollywood seemed to think was just a health food. “I’m far from perfect,” he’d once told a reporter for Premiere magazine, “but all my faults and failures and foibles tend to be spiritual in nature.”
Fric had no idea what that meant, even though he’d spent more than a little time trying to figure it out.
Maybe Ming du Lac, his father’s full-time spiritual adviser, could have explained the quote. Fric never dared to ask him for a translation because he found Ming nearly as scary as Mr. Hachette, the extraterrestrial predator disguised as their household chef.
Arriving in the last grotto, the point farthest from the wine-cellar entrance, he heard footsteps again. As before, when he cocked his head and listened intently, he detected nothing suspicious.
Sometimes his imagination went into overdrive.
Three years ago, when he’d been seven, he’d been convinced that something strange and green and scaly crawled out of the toilet bowl in his bathroom every night and waited to devour him if ever he went for a postmidnight pee. For months, when Fric woke in the middle of the night with a bloated bladder, he left his suite and used safe bathrooms elsewhere in the house.
In his own monster-occupied bath, he’d left a cookie on a plate. Night after night, the cookie remained untouched. Eventually he had substituted a chunk of cheese for the cookie, and then a package of lunch meat in place of the cheese. A monster might have no interest in cookies,Fake Designer Handbags, might even turn its nose up at cheese, but surely no carnivorous beast could resist pimento-loaf bologna.
When the bologna went unmolested for a week, Fric used his own bathroom again. Nothing ate him,knockoff handbags.
[209] Now nothing followed him into the final grotto. Nothing but the cool draft and the flicker of light and shadow from fake gas lamps.
The entrance and exit passages more or less divided the grotto in half,cheap designer handbags. To Fric’s right were yet more racks of wine bottles. To his left, stacked floor to ceiling along the wall, were sealed wooden cases of wine.
According to the stenciled names, the cases contained a fine French Bordeaux. In fact they were filled with cheap vino that only gutter-living bums would drink, and the contents had no doubt turned to vinegar decades before Fric had been born.

'What cheer

'What cheer, bright di'mond?' said the Captain.
'I have surely slept very long,' returned Florence. 'When did I come here? Yesterday?'
'This here blessed day,link, my lady lass,' replied the Captain.
'Has there been no night,fake uggs online store? Is it still day?' asked Florence.
'Getting on for evening now, my pretty,fake uggs for sale,' said the Captain, drawing back the curtain of the window. 'See!'
Florence, with her hand upon the Captain's arm, so sorrowful and timid, and the Captain with his rough face and burly figure, so quietly protective of her, stood in the rosy light of the bright evening sky, without saying a word. However strange the form of speech into which he might have fashioned the feeling, if he had had to give it utterance, the Captain felt, as sensibly as the most eloquent of men could have done, that there was something in the tranquil time and in its softened beauty that would make the wounded heart of Florence overflow; and that it was better that such tears should have their way. So not a word spake Captain Cuttle. But when he felt his arm clasped closer, and when he felt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself against his homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it gently with his rugged hand, and understood it, and was understood.
'Better now, my pretty!' said the Captain. 'Cheerily, cheerily, I'll go down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of your own self, arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed'ard Cuttle come and fetch you?'
As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk downstairs, the Captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permitting it, left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the fire in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the greater skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wristbands, and put on his glazed hat, without which assistant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult undertaking.
After cooling her aching head and burning face in the fresh water which the Captain's care had provided for her while she slept, Florence went to the little mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew - in a moment, for she shunned it instantly, that on her breast there was the darkening mark of an angry hand.
Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight; she was ashamed and afraid of it; but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave him everything; hardly thought that she had need to forgive him, or that she did; but she fled from the idea of him as she had fled from the reality, and he was utterly gone and lost. There was no such Being in the world.
What to do, or where to live, Florence - poor, inexperienced girl! - could not yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off, some little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself, and who would grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to their old governess, and perhaps entrust her, in time, with the education of their own daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrowful it would be, thus to become a grey-haired woman, carrying her secret to the grave, when Florence Dombey was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded to her now. She only knew that she had no Father upon earth, and she said so, many times, with her suppliant head hidden from all,replica gucci handbags, but her Father who was in Heaven.

In this manner

In this manner, she would not be introducing a stranger into her home, she would not run the risk of unhappiness. On the contrary, while giving Therese a support, she added another joy to her old age, she found a second son in this young man who for three years had shown her such filial affection,Fake Designer Handbags.

Then it occurred to her that Therese would be less faithless to the memory of Camille by marrying Laurent. The religion of the heart is peculiarly delicate. Madame Raquin, who would have wept to see a stranger embrace the young widow, felt no repulsion at the thought of giving her to the comrade of her son.

Throughout the evening, while the guests played at dominoes, the old mercer watched the couple so tenderly, that they guessed the comedy had succeeded, and that the denouement was at hand. Michaud, before withdrawing, had a short conversation in an undertone with Madame Raquin. Then, he pointedly took the arm of Laurent saying he would accompany him a bit of the way. As Laurent went off, he exchanged a rapid glance with Therese, a glance full of urgent enjoinment.

Michaud had undertaken to feel the ground. He found the young man very much devoted to the two ladies,fake uggs for sale, but exceedingly astonished at the idea of a marriage between Therese and himself. Laurent added, in an unsteady tone of voice, that he loved the widow of his poor friend as a sister, and that it would seem to him a perfect sacrilege to marry her. The former commissary of police insisted, giving numerous good reasons with a view to obtaining his consent. He even spoke of devotedness, and went so far as to tell the young man that it was clearly his duty to give a son to Madame Raquin and a husband to Therese.

Little by little Laurent allowed himself to be won over, feigning to give way to emotion, to accept the idea of this marriage as one fallen from the clouds, dictated by feelings of devotedness and duty, as old Michaud had said,Designer Handbags. When the latter had obtained a formal answer in the affirmative, he parted with his companion, rubbing his hands, for he fancied he had just gained a great victory. He prided himself on having had the first idea of this marriage which would convey to the Thursday evenings all their former gaiety.

While Michaud was talking with Laurent,UGG Clerance, slowly following the quays, Madame Raquin had an almost identical conversation with Therese. At the moment when her niece, pale and unsteady in gait, as usual, was about to retire to rest, the old mercer detained her an instant. She questioned her in a tender tone, imploring her to be frank, and confess the cause of the trouble that overwhelmed her. Then, as she only obtained vague replies, she spoke of the emptiness of widowhood, and little by little came to talk in a more precise manner of the offer of a second marriage, concluding by asking Therese, plainly, whether she had not a secret desire to marry again.

Therese protested, saying that such a thought had never entered her mind, and that she intended remaining faithful to Camille. Madame Raquin began to weep. Pleading against her heart, she gave her niece to understand that despair should not be eternal; and, finally, in response to an exclamation of the young woman saying she would never replace Camille, Madame Raquin abruptly pronounced the name of Laurent. Then she enlarged with a flood of words on the propriety and advantages of such an union. She poured out her mind, repeating aloud all she had been thinking during the evening, depicting with naive egotism, the picture of her final days of happiness, between her two dear children. Therese, resigned and docile, listened to her with bowed head, ready to give satisfaction to her slightest wish.

'What--what do you mean by daring to enter my room

　　'What--what do you mean by daring to enter my room?' she cried.
　　The man held his ground, unmoved. His bearing was a curious blendof diffidence and aggressiveness. He was determined, butapologetic. A hired assassin of the Middle Ages, resolved to dohis job loyally, yet conscious of causing inconvenience to hisvictim, might have looked the same.
　　'I am sorry,' he said, 'but I must ask you to let me have the boy,Mrs Ford.'
　　Cynthia was herself again now. She raked the intruder with thecool stare which had so disconcerted Lord Mountry.
　　'Who is this gentleman?' she asked languidly.
　　The intruder was made of tougher stuff than his lordship. He mether eye with quiet firmness.
　　'My name is Mennick,' he said. 'I am Mr Elmer Ford's privatesecretary.'
　　'What do you want?' said Mrs Ford.
　　'I have already explained what I want, Mrs Ford. I want Ogden.'
　　Cynthia raised her eyebrows.
　　'What _does_ he mean, Nesta? Ogden is not here.'
　　Mr Mennick produced from his breast-pocket a telegraph form, andin his quiet, business-like way proceeded to straighten it out.
　　'I have here,' he said, 'a telegram from Mr Broster, Ogden'stutor. It was one of the conditions of his engagement that if everhe was not certain of Ogden's whereabouts he should let me know atonce. He tells me that early this afternoon he left Ogden in thecompany of a strange young lady'--Mr Mennick's spectacles flashedfor a moment at Cynthia--'and that, when he returned, both of themhad disappeared. He made inquiries and discovered that this younglady caught the 1.15 express to London, Ogden with her. On receiptof this information I at once wired to Mr Ford for instructions. Ihave his reply'--he fished for and produced a second telegram--'here.'
　　'I still fail to see what brings you here,' said Mrs Ford. 'Owingto the gross carelessness of his father's employees, my sonappears to have been kidnapped. That is no reason--'
　　'I will read Mr Ford's telegram,' proceeded Mr Mennick unmoved.
　　'It is rather long. I think Mr Ford is somewhat annoyed. "The boyhas obviously been stolen by some hireling of his mother's." I amreading Mr Ford's actual words,' he said, addressing Cynthia withthat touch of diffidence which had marked his manner since hisentrance.
　　'Don't apologize,' said Cynthia, with a short laugh. 'You're notresponsible for Mr Ford's rudeness.'
　　Mr Mennick bowed.
　　'He continued: "Remove him from her illegal restraint. Ifnecessary call in police and employ force."'
　　'Charming!' said Mrs Ford.
　　'Practical,' said Mr Mennick. 'There is more. "Before doinganything else sack that fool of a tutor, then go to Agency andhave them recommend good private school for boy. On no accountengage another tutor. They make me tired. Fix all this today. SendOgden back to Eastnor with Mrs Sheridan. She will stay there withhim till further notice." That is Mr Ford's message.'
　　Mr Mennick folded both documents carefully and replaced them inhis pocket.
　　Mrs Ford looked at the clock.
　　'And now, would you mind going, Mr Mennick?'
　　'I am sorry to appear discourteous, Mrs Ford, but I cannot gowithout Ogden.'

His prosperity was visible

His prosperity was visible. It showed in the increase of his accounts at the Union, in his indifference to limits in the game of poker, in a handsome pair of horses which he insisted on Edith's accepting for her own use, in an increased scale of living at home, in the hundred ways that a man of fashion can squander money in a luxurious city. If he did not haunt the second-hand book-shops or the stalls of dealers in engravings, or bring home as much bric-a-brac as he once had done, it was because his mind was otherwise engaged; his tailor's bills were longer, and there were more expensive lunches at the clubs, at which there was a great deal of sage talk about stocks and combinations, and much wisdom exhibited in regard to wines; and then there were the little suppers at Wherry's after the theatres, which a bird could have eaten and a fish have drunken, and only a spendthrift have paid for.
"It is absurd," Edith had said one night after their return. "It makes us ridiculous in the eyes of anybody but fools." And Jack had flared up about it, and declared that he knew what he could afford, and she had retorted that as for her she would not countenance it. And Jack had attempted to pass it off lightly, at last, by saying, "Very well then, dear, if you won't back me, I shall have to rely upon my bankers." At any rate, neither Carmen nor Miss Tavish took him to task. They complimented him on his taste, and Carmen made him feel that she appreciated his independence and his courage in living the life that suited him. She knew, indeed, how much he made in his speculations, how much he lost at cards; she knew through him the gossip of the clubs, and venturing herself not too far at sea, liked to watch the undertow of fashionable life. And she liked Jack, and was not incapable of throwing him a rope when the hour came that he was likely to be swept away by that undertow.
It was remarked at the Union, and by the men in the Street who knew him, that Jack was getting rapid. But no one thought the less of him for his pace--that is, no one appeared to, for this sort of estimate of a man is only tested by his misfortunes, when the day comes that he must seek financial backing. In these days he was generally in an expansive mood, and his free hand and good-humor increased his popularity. There were those who said that there were millions of family money back of Jack, and that he had recently come in for something handsome.
But this story did not deceive Major Fairfax, whose business it was to know to a dot the standing of everybody in society, in which he was a sort of oracle and privileged favorite. No one could tell exactly how the Major lived; no one knew the rigid economy that he practiced; no one had ever seen his small dingy chamber in a cheap lodging-house. The name of Fairfax was as good as a letter of introduction in the metropolis, and the Major had lived on it for years, on that and a carefully nursed little income--an habitue of the club, and a methodical cultivator of the art of dining out. A most agreeable man, and perhaps the wisest man in his generation in those things about which it would be as well not to know anything.

It is amply justified to secure an end

　　"It is amply justified to secure an end," he said blandly. "Forexample - I want something - I cannot obtain that somethingthrough the ordinary channel or by the employment of ordinarymeans. It is essential to me, to my happiness, to my comfort, ormy amour-propre, that that something shall be possessed by me. IfI can buy it, well and good. If I can buy those who can use theirinfluence to secure this thing for me, so much the better. If Ican obtain it by any merit I possess, I utilize that merit,providing always, that I can secure my object in the time,otherwise"He shrugged his shoulders.
　　"I see," she said, nodding her head quickly. "I suppose that ishow blackmailers feel."He frowned.
　　"That is a word I never use, nor do I like to hear it employed,"he said. "Blackmail suggests to me a vulgar attempt to obtainmoney.""Which is generally very badly wanted by the people who use it,"said the girl, with a little smile, "and, according to yourargument, they are also justified.""It is a matter of plane," he said airily. "Viewed from mystandpoint, they are sordid criminals - the sort of person that T.
　　X. meets, I presume, in the course of his daily work. T. X., hewent on somewhat oracularly, "is a man for whom I have a greatdeal of respect. You will probably meet him again, for he willfind an opportunity of asking you a few questions about myself. Ineed hardly tell you - "He lifted his shoulders with a deprecating smile.
　　"I shall certainly not discuss your business with any person,"said the girl coldly.
　　"I am paying you 3 pounds a week, I think," he said. "I intendincreasing that to 5 pounds because you suit me most admirably.""Thank you," said the girl quietly, "but I am already being paidquite sufficient."She left him, a little astonished and not a little ruffled.
　　To refuse the favours of Remington Kara was, by him, regarded assomething of an affront. Half his quarrel with T. X. was thatgentleman's curious indifference to the benevolent attitude whichKara had persistently adopted in his dealings with the detective.
　　He rang the bell, this time for his valet.
　　"Fisher," he said, "I am expecting a visit from a gentleman namedGathercole - a one-armed gentleman whom you must look after if hecomes. Detain him on some pretext or other because he is ratherdifficult to get hold of and I want to see him. I am going outnow and I shall be back at 6.30. Do whatever you can to preventhim going away until I return. He will probably be interested ifyou take him into the library.""Very good, sir," said the urbane Fisher, "will you change beforeyou go out?"Kara shook his head.
　　"I think I will go as I am," he said. "Get me my fur coat. Thisbeastly cold kills me," he shivered as he glanced into the bleakstreet. "Keep my fire going, put all my private letters in mybedroom, and see that Miss Holland has her lunch."Fisher followed him to his car, wrapped the fur rug about hislegs, closed the door carefully and returned to the house. Fromthence onward his behaviour was somewhat extraordinary for awell-bred servant. That he should return to Kara's study and setthe papers in order was natural and proper.

“A poor place

“A poor place,” said Ayesha, “yet better than that in which I dwelt those two thousand years awaiting thy coming, Leo, for, see, beyond it is a garden, wherein I sit,” and she sank down upon a couch by the table, motioning to us to take our places opposite to her.
The meal was simple; for us, eggs boiled hard and cold venison; for her, milk, some little cakes of flour, and mountain berries.
Presently Leo rose and threw off his gorgeous, purple-broidered robe, which he still wore, and cast upon a chair the crook-headed sceptre that Oros had again thrust into his hand. Ayesha smiled as he did so, saying —“It would seem that thou holdest these sacred emblems in but small respect.”
“Very small,” he answered. “Thou heardest my words in the Sanctuary, Ayesha, so let us make a pact. Thy religion I do not understand, but I understand my own, and not even for thy sake will I take part in what I hold to be idolatry.”
Now I thought that she would be angered by this plain speaking, but she only bowed her head and answered meekly —“Thy will is mine, Leo, though it will not be easy always to explain thy absence from the ceremonies in the temple. Yet thou hast a right to thine own faith, which doubtless is mine also.”
“How can that be?” he asked, looking up.
“Because all great Faiths are the same, changed a little to suit the needs of passing times and peoples. What taught that of Egypt, which, in a fashion, we still follow here? That hidden in a multitude of manifestations, one Power great and good, rules all the universes: that the holy shall inherit a life eternal and the vile, eternal death: that men shall be shaped and judged by their own hearts and deeds, and here and hereafter drink of the cup which they have brewed: that their real home is not on earth, but beyond the earth, where all riddles shall be answered and all sorrows cease. Say, dost thou believe these things, as I do?”
“Aye, Ayesha, but Hes or Isis is thy goddess, for hast thou not told us tales of thy dealings with her in the past, and did we not hear thee make thy prayer to her? Who, then, is this goddess Hes?”
“Know, Leo, that she is what I named her — Nature’s soul, no divinity, but the secret spirit of the world; that universal Motherhood, whose symbol thou hast seen yonder, and in whose mysteries lie hid all earthly life and knowledge.”
“Does, then, this merciful Motherhood follow her votaries with death and evil, as thou sayest she has followed thee for thy disobedience, and me — and another — because of some unnatural vows broken long ago?” Leo asked quietly.
Resting her arm upon the table, Ayesha looked at him with sombre eyes and answered —“In that Faith of thine of which thou speakest are there perchance two gods, each having many ministers: a god of good and a god of evil, an Osiris and a Set?”
He nodded.
“I thought it. And the god of ill is strong, is he not, and can put on the shape of good? Tell me, then, Leo, in the world that is today, whereof I know so little, hast thou ever heard of frail souls who for some earthly bribe have sold themselves to that evil one, or to his minister, and been paid their price in bitterness and anguish?”

He fell back in confusion

He fell back in confusion. That gentleman had just entered the room in company with Frederick.
Chapter 22 A Sinister Pair
“I beg your pardon,” stammered Sweetwater, starting aside and losing on the instant all further disposition to leave the room.
Indeed, he had not the courage to do so, even if he had had the will. The joint appearance of these two men in this place, and at an hour so far in advance of that which usually saw Mr. Sutherland enter the town, was far too significant in his eyes for him to ignore it. Had any explanation taken place between them, and had Mr. Sutherland’s integrity triumphed over personal considerations to the point of his bringing Frederick here to confess?
Meanwhile Dr. Talbot had risen with a full and hearty greeting which proved to Sweetwater’s uneasy mind that notwithstanding Knapp’s disquieting reticence no direct suspicion had as yet fallen on the unhappy Frederick. Then he waited for what Mr. Sutherland had to say, for it was evident he had come there to say something. Sweetwater waited, too, frozen almost into immobility by the fear that it would be something injudicious, for never had he seen any man so changed as Mr. Sutherland in these last twelve hours, nor did it need a highly penetrating eye to detect that the relations between him and Frederick were strained to a point that made it almost impossible for them to more than assume their old confidential attitude. Knapp, knowing them but superficially, did not perceive this, but Dr. Talbot was not blind to it, as was shown by the inquiring look he directed towards them both while waiting.
Mr. Sutherland spoke at last.
“Pardon me for interrupting you so early,” said he, with a certain tremble in his voice which Sweetwater quaked to hear. “For certain reasons, I should be very glad to know, WE should be very glad to know, if during your investigations into the cause and manner of Agatha Webb’s death, you have come upon a copy of her will.”
“No.”
Talbot was at once interested, so was Knapp, while Sweetwater withdrew further into his corner in anxious endeavour to hide his blanching cheek. “We have found nothing. We do not even know that she has made a will.”
“I ask,” pursued Mr. Sutherland, with a slight glance toward Frederick, who seemed, at least in Sweetwater’s judgment, to have braced himself up to bear this interview unmoved, “because I have not only received intimation that she made such a will, but have even been entrusted with a copy of it as chief executor of the same. It came to me in a letter from Boston yesterday. Its contents were a surprise to me. Frederick, hand me a chair. These accumulated misfortunes — for we all suffer under the afflictions which have beset this town — have made me feel my years.”
Sweetwater drew his breath more freely. He thought he might understand by this last sentence that Mr. Sutherland had come here for a different cause than he had at first feared. Frederick, on the contrary, betrayed a failing ability to hide his emotion. He brought his father a chair, placed it, and was drawing back out of sight when Mr. Sutherland prevented him by a mild command to hand the paper he had brought to the coroner.

“Don’t you find anything

“Don’t you find anything?” he asked. “Isn’t there a roll of bills in that hole?”
“No,” was the gloomy answer, after a renewed attempt and a second disappointment. “There is nothing to be found here. You are labouring under some misapprehension, Sweetwater.”
“But I can’t be. I saw the money; saw it in the hand of the person who hid it there. Let me look for it, constable. I will not give up the search till I have turned the place topsy-turvy.”
Kneeling down in Mr. Fenton’s place, he thrust his hand into the hole. On either side of him peered the faces of Mr. Fenton and Knapp. (Abel had slipped away at a whisper from Sweetwater.) They were lit with a similar expression of anxious interest and growing doubt. His own countenance was a study of conflicting and by no means cheerful emotions. Suddenly his aspect changed. With a quick twist of his lithe, if awkward, body, he threw himself lengthwise on the ground, and began tearing at the earth inside the hole, like a burrowing animal.
“I cannot be mistaken. Nothing will make me believe it is not here. It has simply been buried deeper than I thought. Ah! What did I tell you? See here! And see here!”
Bringing his hands into the full blaze of the light, he showed two rolls of new, crisp bills.
“They were lying under half a foot of earth,” said he, “but if they had been buried as deep as Grannie Fuller’s well, I’d have unearthed them.”
Meantime Mr. Fenton was rapidly counting one roll and Knapp the other. The result was an aggregate sum of nine hundred and eighty dollars, just the amount Sweetwater had promised to show them.
“A good stroke of business,” cried Mr. Fenton. “And now, Sweetwater, whose is the hand that buried this treasure? Nothing is to be gained by preserving silence on this point any longer.”
Instantly the young man became very grave. With a quick glance around which seemed to embrace the secret recesses of the forest rather than the eager faces bending towards him, he lowered his voice and quietly said:
“The hand that buried this money under the roots of this old tree is the same which you saw pointing downward at the spot of blood in Agatha Webb’s front yard.”
“You do not mean Amabel Page!” cried Mr. Fenton, with natural surprise.
“Yes, I do; and I am glad it is you who have named her.”
Chapter 16 The Slippers, the Flower, and what Sweetwater Made
A half-hour later these men were all closeted with Dr. Talbot in the Zabel kitchen. Abel had rejoined them, and Sweetwater was telling his story with great earnestness and no little show of pride.
“Gentlemen, when I charge a young woman of respectable appearance and connections with such a revolting crime as murder, I do so with good reason, as I hope presently to make plain to you all.
“Gentlemen, on the night and at the hour Agatha Webb was killed, I was playing with four other musicians in Mr. Sutherland’s hallway. From the place where I sat I could see what went on in the parlour and also have a clear view of the passageway leading down to the garden door. As the dancing was going on in the parlour I naturally looked that way most, and this is how I came to note the eagerness with which, during the first part of the evening, Frederick Sutherland and Amabel Page came together in the quadrilles and country dances. Sometimes she spoke as she passed him, and sometimes he answered, but not always, although he never failed to show he was pleased with her or would have been if something — perhaps it was his lack of confidence in her, sirs — had not stood in the way of a perfect understanding. She seemed to notice that he did not always respond, and after a while showed less inclination to speak herself, though she did not fail to watch him, and that intently. But she did not watch him any more closely than I did her, though I little thought at the time what would come of my espionage. She wore a white dress and white shoes, and was as coquettish and seductive as the evil one makes them. Suddenly I missed her. She was in the middle of the dance one minute and entirely out of it the next. Naturally I supposed her to have slipped aside with Frederick Sutherland, but he was still in sight, looking so pale and so abstracted, however, I was sure the young miss was up to some sort of mischief. But what mischief? Watching and waiting, but no longer confining my attention to the parlour, I presently espied her stealing along the passageway I have mentioned, carrying a long cloak which she rolled up and hid behind the open door. Then she came back humming a gay little song which didn’t deceive me for a moment. ‘Good!’ thought I, ‘she and that cloak will soon join company.’ And they did. As we were playing the Harebell mazurka I again caught sight of her stealthy white figure in that distant doorway. Seizing the cloak, she wrapped it round her, and with just one furtive look backwards, seen, I warrant, by no one but myself, she vanished in the outside dark. ‘Now to note who follows her!’ But nobody followed her. This struck me as strange, and having a natural love for detective work, in spite of my devotion to the arts, I consulted the clock at the foot of the stairs, and noting that it was half-past eleven, scribbled the hour on the margin of my music, with the intention of seeing how long my lady would linger outside alone. Gentlemen, it was two hours before I saw her face again. How she got back into the house I do not know. It was not by the garden door, for my eye seldom left it; yet at or near half-past one I heard her voice on the stair above me and saw her descend and melt into the crowd as if she had not been absent from it for more than five minutes. A half-hour later I saw her with Frederick again. They were dancing, but not with the same spirit as before, and even while I watched them they separated. Now where was Miss Page during those two long hours? I think I know, and it is time I unburdened myself to the police.

“See this

“See this?”
They hastened towards her and bent down to examine the spot she indicated.
“What do you find there?” cried Mr. Sutherland, whose eyesight was not good.
“Blood,” responded the coroner, plucking up a blade of grass and surveying it closely.
“Blood,” echoed Miss Page, with so suggestive a glance that Mr. Sutherland stared at her in amazement, not understanding his own emotion.
“How were you able to discern a stain so nearly imperceptible?” asked the coroner.
“Imperceptible? It is the only thing I see in the whole yard,” she retorted, and with a slight bow, which was not without its element of mockery, she turned toward the gate.
“A most unaccountable girl,” commented the doctor. “But she is right about these stains. Abel,” he called to the man at the gate, “bring a box or barrel here and cover up this spot. I don’t want it disturbed by trampling feet.”
Abel started to obey, just as the young girl laid her hand on the gate to open it.
“Won’t you help me?” she asked. “The crowd is so great they won’t let me through.”
“Won’t they?” The words came from without. “Just slip out as I slip in, and you’ll find a place made for you.”
Not recognising the voice, she hesitated for a moment, but seeing the gate swaying, she pushed against it just as a young man stepped through the gap. Necessarily they came face to face.
“Ah, it’s you,” he muttered, giving her a sharp glance.
“I do not know you,” she haughtily declared, and slipped by him with such dexterity she was out of the gate before he could respond.
But he only snapped his finger and thumb mockingly at her, and smiled knowingly at Abel, who had lingered to watch the end of this encounter.
“Supple as a willow twig, eh?” he laughed. “Well, I have made whistles out of willows before now, and hallo! where did you get that?”
He was pointing to a rare flower that hung limp and faded from Abel’s buttonhole.
“This? Oh, I found it in the house yonder. It was lying on the floor of the inner room, almost under Batsy’s skirts. Curious sort of flower. I wonder where she got it?”
The intruder betrayed at once an unaccountable emotion. There was a strange glitter in his light green eyes that made Abel shift rather uneasily on his feet. “Was that before this pretty minx you have just let out came in here with Mr. Sutherland?”
“O yes; before anyone had started for the hill at all. Why, what has this young lady got to do with a flower dropped by Batsy?”
“She? Nothing. Only — and I have never given you bad advice, Abel — don’t let that thing hang any longer from your buttonhole. Put it into an envelope and keep it, and if you don’t hear from me again in regard to it, write me out a fool and forget we were ever chums when little shavers.”
The man called Abel smiled, took out the flower, and went to cover up the grass as Dr. Talbot had requested. The stranger took his place at the gate, toward which the coroner and Mr. Sutherland were now advancing, with an air that showed his great anxiety to speak with them. He was the musician whom we saw secretly entering the last-mentioned gentleman’s house after the departure of the servants.

At the Litany George had trouble with an unstable hassock

At the Litany George had trouble with an unstable hassock, and drew the slip of carpet under the pewseat. Sophie pushed her end back also, and shut her eyes against a burning that felt like tears. When she opened them she was looking at her mother’s maiden name, fairly carved on a blue flagstone on the pew floor: Ellen Lashmar. ob. 1796. aetat 27.
She nudged George and pointed. Sheltered, as they kneeled, they looked for more knowledge, but the rest of the slab was blank.
“Ever hear of her?” he whispered.
“Never knew any of us came from here.”
“Coincidence?”
“Perhaps. But it makes me feel better,” and she smiled and winked away a tear on her lashes, and took his hand while they prayed for “all women labouring of child”— not “in the perils of childbirth”; and the sparrows who had found their way through the guards behind the glass windows chirped above the faded gilt and alabaster family tree of the Conants.
The baronet’s pew was on the right of the aisle. After service its inhabitants moved forth without haste, but so as to block effectively a dusky person with a large family who champed in their rear.
“Spices, I think,” said Sophie, deeply delighted as the Sangres closed up after the Conants. “Let ’em get away, George.”
But when they came out many folk whose eyes were one still lingered by the lychgate.
“I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried here,” said Sophie.
“Not now. This seems to be show day. Come home quickly,” he replied.
A group of families, the Clokes a little apart, opened to let them through. The men saluted with jerky nods, the women with remnants of a curtsey. Only Iggulden’s son, his mother on his arm, lifted his hat as Sophie passed.
“Your people,” said the clear voice of Lady Conant in her ear.
“I suppose so,” said Sophie, blushing, for they were within two yards of her; but it was not a question.
“Then that child looks as if it were coming down with mumps. You ought to tell the mother she shouldn’t have brought it to church.”
“I can’t leave ‘er behind, my lady,” the woman said. “She’d set the ’ouse afire in a minute, she’s that forward with the matches. Ain’t you, Maudie dear?”
“Has Dr. Dallas seen her?”
“Not yet, my lady.”
“He must. You can’t get away, of course. M-m! My idiotic maid is coming in for her teeth tomorrow at twelve. She shall pick her up — at Gale Anstey, isn’t it?— at eleven.”
“Yes. Thank you very much, my lady.”
“I oughtn’t to have done it,” said Lady Conant apologetically, “but there has been no one at Pardons for so long that you’ll forgive my poaching. Now, can’t you lunch with us? The vicar usually comes too. I don’t use the horses on a Sunday”— she glanced at the Brazilian’s silver-plated chariot. “It’s only a mile across the fields.”
“You — you’re very kind,” said Sophie, hating herself because her lip trembled.
“My dear,” the compelling tone dropped to a soothing gurgle, “d’you suppose I don’t know how it feels to come to a strange county — country I should say — away from one’s own people? When I first left the Shires — I’m Shropshire, you know — I cried for a day and a night. But fretting doesn’t make loneliness any better. Oh, here’s Dora. She did sprain her leg that day.”