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Updated: May 13, 2025
"I am Inspector Beedel," said the man on his right side. "You are charged with the attempted murder of your wife, Millicent Creake." "You are mad," retorted the miserable creature, falling into a desperate calmness. "She has been struck by lightning." "No, you blackguard, she hasn't," wrathfully exclaimed his brother-in-law, jumping up. "Would you like to see her?"
"Yes, Louis?" prompted Carrados, with laughter in his voice. "I remember that I must telephone to a client before Beedel comes," concluded Mr. Carlyle, rising in some haste. At the door he almost ran into the subdued director, who was wringing his hands in helpless protest at a new stroke of calamity. "Mr. Carrados," wailed the poor old gentleman in a tremulous bleat, "Mr.
And the camera, with half-a-dozen of its specially sensitized films already snapped over the last few pages, by her side!" "That child!" "Yes. She is twenty-seven and has kicked hats off tall men's heads in every capital from Petersburg to Buenos Ayres! Get through to Scotland Yard and ask if Inspector Beedel can come up." The manager breathed heavily through his nose.
The lieutenant changed his seat and the two burly forms took places side by side. In less than five minutes the car stopped again, this time in a grassy country lane. "Now we have to face it," announced Carrados. "The inspector will show us the way." The car slid round and disappeared into the night, while Beedel led the party to a stile in the hedge.
Carrados dropped the near window as a man in glistening waterproof stepped from the shelter of a lich-gate and approached. "Inspector Beedel, sir," said the stranger, looking into the car. "Quite right, Inspector," said Carrados. "Get in." "I have a man with me, sir." "We can find room for him as well." "We are very wet." "So shall we all be soon."
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