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It is all a little mysterious, perhaps, but nothing to make such a fuss about." The Colonel looked up under the sting of her reproach and tried to smile. "I dare say my wife is right," he said. "I am rather foolish about the matter possibly because it is all linked together with a very painful period of my life. Mr. Travers, my dearest friend, Steven Caruthers, had no children.
Hayne did not reappear in garrison, and she had no cause to talk about him. Officers visiting the house avoided mention of his name. Ladies of the cavalry regiment calling upon Mrs. Rayner and Miss Travers occasionally spoke of him and his devotion to the men and his bravery at the fire, but rather as though they meant in a general way to compliment the Riflers, not Mr.
"Yes," the witness admitted. So far all that Miss Travers had said hung together and seemed eminently credible; but when she was questioned about the chloroform and the handkerchief she became confused. At the outset she admitted that the handkerchief might have been a rag. She was not certain it was a rag. It was something she saw the doctor throw into the fire when she came to her senses.
He had been vaguely aware of cantering hoof-beats in the distance for several minutes. Two men passed, and one of them took off his hat with a low mocking sweep and bowed almost to the saddle. It was old Ben Travers. "What on earth is he doing in town?" muttered Masters in exasperation. No one had told him of the New Year's Day episode, but he knew him for what he was.
It is certainly one of the most remarkable pages in the annals of crime," said Ernest Travers. "Is he attached to Scotland Yard still, or does he work independently?" asked Miles Handford. "I don't know yet. Mannering has already urged me to consult Scotland Yard at once. Indeed, he was going to approach them to-day. Mr. Hardcastle shall certainly be invited to do what he can.
Travers, without stirring in the least, let him hear the words: "I have told him that every day seemed more difficult to live. Don't you see how impossible this is?" D'Alcacer glanced rapidly across the Cage where Mr. Travers seemed to be asleep all in a heap and presenting a ruffled appearance like a sick bird. Nothing was distinct of him but the bald patch on the top of his head.
"If money is the moving power, you may be right," he said; "but if, as I think, the conception is everything, then the credit is wholly yours." "You have been the energizing spirit," Travers retorted. "Well, we will divide the honors. And, after all, it does not matter in the least who has done it, so long as it is done." "Well spoken!" Adam Nicholson said.
Travers near him, with half-veiled eyes, listened impassive like a presiding genius. "I wouldn't question that for a moment," conceded d'Alcacer. "A point of honour is not to be discussed. But there is such a thing as humanity, too. To be delivered up helplessly. . . ." "Perhaps!" interrupted Lingard. "But you needn't feel hopeless. I am not at liberty to give up my life for your own. Mrs.
Berlioz in his book "A Travers Chants" writes in a fine burst of enthusiasm of this scena: "It is impossible for any listener to fail to hear the sighs of the orchestra during the prayer of the virtuous maiden who awaits the coming of her affianced lover; or the strange hum in which the alert ear imagines it hears the rustling of the tree-tops.
"It has nothing to do with it," replied Fisher. "That is what I find utterly confounding and incredible." "And why should that particular hole in the ground have anything to do with it?" "It is a particular hole in your case," said Fisher. "But I won't insist on that just now. By the way, there is another thing I ought to tell you. I said I sent Boyle away in charge of Travers.
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