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His forefinger indicated an ingenious, but now tangled and twisted, series of minute wires and electro-magnets in the broken wheel before us. Delicate brushes led the current into the wheel. With another blow of his axe, Craig disclosed wires running down through the leg of the table to the floor and under the carpet to buttons operated by the man who ran the game.
In an instant Kennedy had seized with both hands the long flowing hair at the back of the Swami's bald forehead, and he tugged until the mystic yelled with pain and the tears stood in his eyes. With a leap I roused myself from the train of dreams and flung myself between them. At the sound of my voice and the pressure of my grasp, Craig sullenly and slowly relaxed his grip.
"Did he tell her that?" "I am supposing that he did," repeated Craig, declining to place himself in a position which might lead to disclosing how he found out. "Then I should say that he was a great deal cleverer than I gave him credit for being," returned Norton. "Well, it's done now, and can't be undone. Have you found out anything about the de Moches?" "Not very much, I must admit.
He appeared to be considering something, for he rose suddenly, and with a nod of his head to himself, as though settling some qualm of conscience, shoved the letter into his pocket. A moment later the clerk returned. "I've just had Mr. Whitney on the wire," he reported. "I don't think he'll be back at least for an hour." "Is he at the Prince Edward Albert?" asked Craig.
"I am District Attorney Whitney, of Westchester. I see you have been reading up on the case. Quite right." "Quite wrong," answered Craig. "Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Jameson, of the Star. Sit down. Jameson knows what I think of the way the newspapers have handled this case.
Haswell is dead," I read. "Looks to me like asphyxiation by gas or some other poison. Come immediately to his house. Burnham." "You will pardon me," broke in Craig to Prescott, who was regarding us without the slightest trace of emotion, "but Mr. Haswell, the old man to whom I know you referred, is dead, and Dr. Burnham wishes to see me immediately. It was only yesterday that I saw Mr.
"They wouldn't make much out of me at a dollar a throw," he reflected, with a grin. But it wouldn't be fair to Craig, and he abandoned the idea in the next breath. He couldn't stand there any longer, though, and see that man eat. He addressed himself to the closed window before he turned away. "I hope it chokes you," he muttered, venomously.
This statement of his identity, spoken calmly, and smilingly, was such a surprise that I could but stare at the man, half convinced I had misunderstood his words. "You see, Craig," he continued quietly, apparently comprehending my state of mind, "your little game is up.
Fortunately after sending up my card on which I had written Craig's name we were at length allowed to go up to her room. We found the patient reclining in an easy chair, swathed in bandages, a wreck of her former self. I felt the tragedy keenly. All that social position and beauty had meant to her had been suddenly blasted. "You will pardon my presumption," began Craig, "but, Mrs.
Yet, Mallow was no fool. He would scarcely take such risk for so unstable and chancely a thing as revenge of this order. Craig? He hadn't the courage. Strong and muscular as he was, he was the average type of gambler, courageous only when armed with a pack of cards, sitting opposite a fool and his money. But, Craig and Mallow together. . . . He slipped off the label. It was worth preserving.
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