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Updated: June 12, 2025
Meanwhile, in turning over the gossip of the town, one of the newspapermen ran across the fact that the Boncour bungalow was owned by the Posts, and that Halsey Post, as the executor of the estate, was a more frequent visitor than the mere collection of the rent would warrant. Mrs.
"I will tell you precisely how is was, Professor Kennedy. When I was called in to see Miss Lytton I found her on the bed. I pried open her jaws and smelled the sweetish odor of the cyanogen gas. I knew then what she had taken, and at the moment she was dead. In the next room I heard some one moaning. The maid said that it was Mrs. Boncour, and that she was deathly sick.
"There are not many people here now, Monsieur, but you should see it on a market day.... Monsieur will take some dessert?" "Cheese and coffee." "Nothing more? It's the season of strawberries." "Nothing more, thank you." When Madame Boncour came back with the cheese, she said: "I had Americans here once, Monsieur. A pretty time I had with them, too. They were deserters.
Meanwhile, in turning over the gossip of the town, one of the newspapermen ran across the fact that the Boncour bungalow was owned by the Posts, and that Halsey Post, as the executor of the estate, was a more frequent visitor than the mere collection of the rent would warrant. Mrs.
Our first visit in Danbridge was to the prosecuting attorney, whose office was not far from the station on the main street. Craig had wired him, and he had kindly waited to see us, for it was evident that Danbridge respected Senator Willard and every one connected with him. "Would it be too much to ask just to see that note that was found in the Boncour bungalow?" asked Craig.
I corrected, "only one, for Miss Lytton was dead when he arrived, according to his latest statement." "Very well, then one. He arrives, Mrs. Boncour is ill, the maid knows nothing at all about it, and Vera Lytton is dead. He, too, smells the ammonia, tastes the headache-powder just the merest trace and then he has two patients, one of them himself.
On the whole, Walter, judging from the newspaper pictures, Alma Willard is quite the equal of Vera Lytton for looks, only of a different style of beauty. Oh, well, we shall see. Vera decided to spend the spring and summer at Danbridge in the bungalow of her friend, Mrs. Boncour, the novelist. That's when things began to happen."
"And do you get paid a great deal, when that is finished?" asked Madame Boncour, the dimples appearing in her broad cheeks. "Some day, perhaps." "You will be lonely now that the Rods have left." "Have they left?" "Didn't you know? Didn't you go to say goodby? They've gone to the seashore.... But I'll make you a little omelette." "Thank you."
Boncour maintained a stolid silence that covered a seething internal fury when the newspaperman in question hinted that the landlord and tenant were on exceptionally good terms. It was after a fruitless day of such search that we were sitting in the reading-room of the Fairfield Hotel. Leland entered. His face was positively white.
Mrs. Boncour was well enough to attend, and even Dr. Waterworth insisted on coming in a private ambulance which drove over from a near-by city especially for him. The time was fixed just before the arrival of the train that was to bring Thurston. It was an anxious gathering of friends and foes of Dr.
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