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Updated: June 9, 2025
Cashmore was at the door, and still another man of fifty, a stern-set, blue-chinned, stoutish person in deep and perfect mourning, including black gloves. This person gazed coldly at Priam Farll. "Ah!" ejaculated the mourner. And stepped in, followed by Dr. Cashmore. In achieving the inner mat the mourner perceived a white square on the floor.
The blue-chinned sly clerk, who read the responses, and quavered the Psalms so demurely, and the white-headed, silver-spectacled, upright man, in my Lord Castlemallard's pew, who turned over the leaves of his prayer-book so diligently, saw him as he was, and knew him to be Charles Archer, and one of these at least, as this dreadful spirit walked, with his light burning in the noon-day, dogged by inexorable shadows through a desolate world, in search of peace, he knew to be the slave of his lamp.
"That's one of them," observed Mr. Morgan comprehensively. "Yes," replied the editor, "a dangerous customer. I do not like a blue-chinned man." "I was not much impressed with his diplomatic skill." "No; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. No doubt his information was of the scantiest, and we are not chickens, Morgan." "No," said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh.
The blue-chinned, thick-necked Mortlake arose also. All three turned and gazed curiously at the young occupants of the car, as it slowed down. "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Galloway," cried Peggy. "We were dreadfully sorry to hear of your loss. Have you any clue yet?" There was something curiously cold in the woman's voice, as she replied in the negative. Her husband looked sullen and merely nodded.
"Stopped? stopped, coachman? d' you mean ?" "Ah! stopped by Blue-chinned Jack o' Brockley, or Gallopin' Toby o' Tottenham, or " "Eh what! what! d' you mean there are highwaymen on this road?" "'Ighvaymen!" snorted Mottle-face, winking ponderously at Barnabas, "by Goles, I should say so, it fair bristles vith 'em."
He had not now and this was the more terrible any consciousness of Carfax at all; there was waiting for him, lurking, beast-like, until its inevitable moment, something far more terrible. Meanwhile he made encounters. . . . There was Bunning. The Historical Society in Saul's was held together by the Senior Tutor. This gentleman, a Mr. Gregg, was thin, cadaverous, blue-chinned, mildly insincere.
He was clean-shaven and blue-chinned, with bristling black hair, and keen brown eyes which shone out very brightly from between pouched under-lids and drooping upper ones. He advanced, glancing keenly from one to the other of his visitors, and slowly rubbing together his thin, blue-veined hands. The small boy closed the door behind him, and discreetly vanished. "I am Mr.
Now for battle . . . his dark eyes challenged this shifting cloud of life. He went round to the stable where Bunker was housed, chattered with the blue-chinned ostler, and then, for a moment, was alone with the dog. How much had Bunker seen? How much had he understood? Was it fancy, or did the dog crouch, the tiniest impulse, away from him as he bent to pat him?
And by ten o'clock we were quit of Genoa; the last lean, blue-chinned official had left our decks; the last fruitseller had been beaten off with bucketsful of water and left cursing us from his boat; the last passenger had come aboard at the last moment a fussy graybeard who kept the big ship waiting while he haggled with his boatman over half a lira.
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