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Go scrambling about over rocks, and tearing herself to pieces among bushes? Hardly. Besides, one glance had shown her that Professor Merryweather was uncommonly good-looking. She settled herself gracefully in her chair, and gave a pretty little sigh. "Dear child, I am a wretched walker, alas! You know I never was strong, and this winter's gaiety quite finished me.

Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself.

Will you be my friend, and shall we fight great fights together?" "All right," said Will Merryweather, shyly. "We will plan a campaign," cried Hugh, his eyes shining with ardour. "Yes; but now you must come in to your music lesson," said Hildegarde, taking his hand, and frowning at herself for feeling another little pang, as Hugh's face turned toward his new acquaintance.

He was lying at full length on the verandah, his handsome head propped against one of the pillars, framed in a mass of woodbine and trumpet-vine. Mrs. Merryweather looked at him, and thought that with the exception of her Miles and her boys, she had never seen a finer-looking fellow.

And then with a curious gulp and start he saw a little grey cloud wreathe itself slowly from among the rocks and drift in a long, hazy shred over the desert. In an instant he had torn Scott and Mortimer from their slumbers. "Get up, you chaps!" he cried. "I believe Merryweather has been shot by dervishes." "And Reuter not here!" cried the two veterans, exultantly clutching at their notebooks.

On a November morning several weeks later, when the boughs of trees showed almost bare against the sky, Molly Merryweather walked down to Bottom's store to buy a bottle of cough syrup for Reuben, who had a cold. Over the counter Mrs. Bottom, as she was still called from an hereditary respect for the house rather than for the husband, delivered a coarse brown paper.

There were numerous projecting rocks forming small bays in the large bay, and thus completely hiding the different parties from each other. No two boys could have had a more sincere regard for each other than had David Moreton and Harry Merryweather. David was longing to go to sea with Harry, but his father was greatly averse to his going. He was the eldest son, and heir to a large property.

Without stopping to analyze these remarks too closely, Hildegarde said a few more soothing words, and then went straight to the matter in hand. "Mrs. Lankton, can you tell us anything about a game the children have been playing, the game of 'The Highland Gates? We are very much interested in it, Miss Merryweather and I, this is Miss Merryweather, and we want to know what it means."

Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise. "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," said Holmes severely. "You have already imperiled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

We made sure we had been seen or heard, and I think Colonel Ferrers was on the point of stepping forward like a soldier, and apologizing; but I held his arm for a moment, in pure cowardice, and the next moment we saw Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather, arm in arm, gazing calmly at the hedge, and evidently unconscious of any guilty crouchers on the other side.