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Howett; but the statement of the voluble old lady gave no clue which Wessex could perceive to possess the slightest value. Both witnesses having been dismissed, he turned again to Phil Abingdon, who had been sitting watching him with a pathetic light of hope in her eyes throughout his examination of the butler and Mrs. Howett. "The next step is clear enough," he said, brightly.
It was the last straw. She took too many liberties altogether." As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but Harley was no longer listening. "This is not the same table linen?" he asked, suddenly. "Why, no, sir," replied Benson. "Last week's linen will be at the laundry." "It has not gone yet," interrupted Mrs. Howett. "I was making up the list when you brought me Mr.
I understand you were out when Mr. Harley came. May I ask who interviewed him?" "He saw Benson and Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper." "May I also see them?" "Yes, with pleasure. But please tell me" Phil Abingdon looked up at him pleadingly "do you think something something dreadful has happened to Mr. Harley?" "Don't alarm yourself unduly," said Wessex.
"What was it about the part you did read?" "The beginning was all about India. I couldn't understand it. I jumped a whole lot. I hadn't much time and I was afraid Mrs. Howett would find me. Then, further on, I came to 'Fire-Tongue'." "But what did it say about 'Fire-Tongue'?" "I couldn't make it out, sir. Oh, indeed I'm telling you the truth!
You on the left, Howett, and Thomas of Redbridge upon the right. So! Beat high and low among the heather, and a pot of wine to the lucky marksman." As it chanced, however, the searchers had not far to seek. The negro had burrowed down into his hiding-place upon the barrow, where he might have lain snug enough, had it not been for the red gear upon his head.
The first thing that had struck Harley on entering the house had been an overpowering perfume of hyacinths. Now he saw whence it arose; for, conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an enormous device formed of hyacinths. Its proportions dwarfed those of all the others. Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little figure, appeared now from behind the bank of flowers.
A stifled shriek sounded from the doorway, and in tottered Mrs. Howett, the old housekeeper, with other servants peering over her shoulder into that warmly lighted dining room where Sir Charles Abingdon lay huddled in his own chair dead. "Had you reason to suspect any cardiac trouble, Doctor McMurdoch?" asked Harley.
The leading ship proved to be the Fairfax, of fifty-two guns and two hundred and fifty men, carrying the flag of Vice-Admiral Penn. Following her came the Centurion, Captain Lawson, the Adventure, Captain Ball, and two others commanded by Captains Howett and Jordan, with the Assurance, Captain Benjamin Blake, the younger brother of the admiral.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black. "Ah, Mrs. Howett," said Harley; kindly, "please try to forgive me for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a good reason.
Howett," and it was plainly to be seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. "But I have to relate a most inexplicable occurrence inexplicable unless by some divine accident the plan has been prevented from maturing." "What do you mean, Sir Charles?" "I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the servant of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I have been attending."
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