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Pet jumped her full length and reared, but Chip was watching for some such performance and had them well under control, even though he was compelled to catch Miss Whitmore from lurching backward upon her baggage behind the seat which would have been bad for the guitar and mandolin, if not for the young woman. The coyote had sprung high in air, whirled dizzily and darted over the hill.
I'll pay you a good price for him, Whitmore, if you won't let him go any other way. We've got a reporter up there that can do him up brown in a special article, and people will come in bunches to see a horse with that kind of a pedigree. Is it Green, here, that knows the horse and what he'll do? You're sure of him, are you, Green?" Andy took time to roll a cigarette.
And oh, but I've something to tell you! I'm the boy, sir, that Mr. Whitmore spoke about the boy that's being searched for " "Look here," Mr. Rogers interrupted, "I'm a Justice of the Peace, you know." "I can't help it, sir begging your pardon. But I was in the house, and I saw things: and if they catch me, I must tell." "Tell the truth and shame the devil," said Mr. Rogers.
Still she was quaint, piquant. Perhaps she would do very well. Angela was thinking all the while that Miss Whitmore was presuming on her old acquaintance with Eugene that she was too affected and enthusiastic. There was another day on which Miriam Finch called.
Mr. Johnson was a native of Middle Haddam, Middlesex County, Connecticut, his mother, who died October 17, 1868, being formerly Miss Mary Whitmore, born at Middletown, Middlesex County, Connecticut, in 1780, and his father, Henry Johnson, born in 1776, and died July 6, 1869.
Of this I am certain, however. Mr. Whitmore came down here to-day expecting to meet death. In fact, he had prepared himself for it by destroying or secreting all his personal papers. More than that I am not prepared to say at present." "Is there anything further that I can do?" "Nothing, coroner, beyond ordering an immediate autopsy." "Very well," replied the coroner, preparing to go.
"And so we don't need any more attention now, eh?" "Betty will do." "Betty?" It was hard, sometimes, for the doctor to remember. "The maid," explained Mrs. Whitmore; "though, for that matter, there might as well be no maid the girls never let her do a thing for me." "No?" returned the doctor easily, sure now of where he stood. "But you don't expect me to interfere in this housekeeping business!"
When he drew a huge, murderous-looking revolver from its scabbard and proceeded calmly to insert cartridge after cartridge, Miss Whitmore was constrained to speech. "Are you going to SHOOT something?" The question struck them both as particularly inane, in view of his actions. "I am," replied he, without looking up.
He's ugly enough, but I don't see how you're to do it, unless first of all you catch Whitmore and then force him to turn cat-in-the-pan, at the risk of his talking too much and with the certainty of dragging Isabel into the exposure. Even so, I doubt you'll get evidence. This man is a deal too shrewd to have done any of the forging himself.
As the banking investigation was occupying pages of space seven weeks ago, Travis's arrest was not even mentioned in most of the papers, while those that took note of it, buried the item on one of the inside pages. "Whitmore, alias Travis, had the ablest lawyer in the city to advise him.
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