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Updated: June 4, 2025
She had gone to sleep on the name of Beaumaroy; on it she awoke. It came from Captain Alec's lips. He was standing on the hearthrug with his arm round Cynthia's waist, and his other hand raising one of hers to his lips. He looked admirably handsome strong, protecting, devoted. And Cynthia, in her fragile appealing prettiness, was a delicious foil, a perfect complement to the picture.
But they'll lie low; they'll sit on the cash till the time comes when it's safe to dispose of it; and they'll bilk the Inland Revenue out of the duties. The remarkable thing is that Beaumaroy seems to want them to do it." "That's to make me sorry; that's to prove me wrong, Mr. Naylor." "It may make you sorry, it makes me sorry, for that matter; but it doesn't prove you wrong. You were right.
"Yes, the tall one towards Sprotsfield, the short one back towards Inkston." "Oh, the short stumpy one it was who turned back to Inkston?" Beaumaroy had seated himself on a low three-legged stool, opposite to the big chair where Alec sat, and was smoking his pipe, his hands clasped round his knees. "It doesn't seem to me to come to much, though I'm much obliged to you all the same.
For it was over that implement that Beaumaroy had tripped up. It ought to have been hidden before she was admitted to the cottage. Somebody had been careless, somebody had blundered whether Beaumaroy himself or his servant was immaterial. Beaumaroy had lied, readily and ingeniously, but not quite readily enough.
"I was only going to say that it looks to me as if this man Hooper were, or had been, a soldier. What do you think?" "Never mind, Papa! Go on, Miss Wall. I'm interested." This encouragement came from Gertie Naylor, a pretty girl of seventeen who was consuming much tea, bread, and honey. "And since then the old gentleman and this Mr. Beaumaroy go to town regularly every week on Wednesdays!
Beaumaroy was to start tomorrow for Morocco on the strength of the hieroglyphics! He was to be a forerunner, was Mr. Beaumaroy. Mr. Saffron, his august master, would follow in due course!
Beaumaroy looked up quickly. "What, all about " "Captain Duggle, and the Devil, and the grave, and all that." "Who told you the story?" "Old Mr. Penrose. Do you know him? Lives in High Street, near the Irechesters." "I think I know him by sight. So he entertained you with that old yarn, did he? And that same old yarn probably accounts for the nocturnal examination which you saw going on.
"I want to see him, Beaumaroy," he said brusquely and rather authoritatively. Beaumaroy raised his brows. "I won't take you to his room, or let you go there if I can help it. But if he comes down, well, you can stay and see him. It may get me into a scrape, but that doesn't matter much." "My point of view is " "My dear fellow, I know your point of view perfectly.
Oh, I don't mean that that conscience of yours will be sorry. That'll approve, no doubt, being the extremely conventionalized thing it is. But you yourself, you'll be sorry, or I'm much mistaken in the Radbolts." "It isn't a question of the Radbolts," she insisted, laughing. "Oh yes, it is, and you'll come to feel it so." Beaumaroy was equally obstinate. Mary rose.
And it seemed as though the image began to say some words to her, disconnected words, not making a sentence, but yet having for the image a pregnant meaning, and seeming to her though vaguely and very dimly to be the key to what she had to understand. She was stupid not to understand words so full of meaning just as stupid as Beaumaroy had thought.
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