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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Yes, sir," said Wade, and for the first time in years his patient smile assumed the proportions of a grin. He did not have to be told that Anne's presence in the house was not to be made known to Braden. All that he was expected to do was to inform the young man that his grandfather wanted to see him in the library,—at once.
Braden shook hands with the man. "How is my grandfather?" "Better, sir," said the other, meaning that his master was more comfortable than he had been during the night. Wade was not as much of an optimist as his reply would seem to indicate. It was his habit to hold bad news in reserve as long as possible, doubtless for the satisfaction it gave him to dribble it out sparingly.
Whatever its exact meaning might have been, its existence made no difference to Bryce's firm opinion that it was Mark Ransford who flung John Brake down St. Wrytha's Stair and killed him. He was as sure of that as he was certain that Braden was Brake. And he was not going to tell the police of his discoveries he was not going to tell anybody.
She had never been entirely free from the notion that her husband's death was the result of premeditated action on the part of his grandson, but in that instance there was more than professional zeal in the heart of the surgeon: there was love and pity and gentleness in the heart of Braden Thorpe when he obeyed the command of the dying man.
I speak frankly, for I know you consider me your friend and well- wisher." "Thank you, Dr. Bates," said Braden, hoarsely. "The advice is not needed, however. I am not a murderer. I could not kill that poor old man upstairs, no matter how dreadfully he suffers. I fear that you have overlooked the fact that I am an advocate, not a performer, of merciful deeds.
Crewe had no means of knowing whether Senator Whitredge had been in conference with Mr. Braden or not. "The senator mentioned your name casually, in some connection," said Mr. Crewe. "He knows," Mr. Braden repeated, with a finality that spoke volumes for the senator's judgment; and he bent over into Mr.
Later on the free wards would be filled with the fragrance of American Beauties, and certain smug gentlemen would never be thanked. No one had sent flowers to Templeton Thorpe, the sick man. There had been a brief conference on the day before between Anne and Braden. The latter went to her with the word that he was to operate, provided she offered no objection.
"Last I heard of him he was back in his room with the house doctor and—" "I mean Braden." "What are you sore about, Anne?" complained Simmy. Her voice had sounded rather querulous to him. "I thought you meant the patient. Brady is up there, too, I guess. Sh! I can't say anything more. A lot of reporters, are coming this way."
"Well, no one here was talkin' railroad. So I, well, I " Braden addressed the ceiling, his fat hands outspread. "No one here was talkin' railroad, no one here was talkin' railroad?" he mimicked. " So I didn't put much stock in your letter." "You didn't, eh?" Braden searched a coat-pocket, found a newspaper clipping and thrust it under Matthews' nose. "Well, read that."
In a day or two George's attitude toward Braden underwent a complete change, but all the warmth of his enthusiastic devotion could not drive out the chill that had entered Thorpe's heart on that never-to-be- forgotten morning. Then there were the frequent and unavoidable meetings of Anne and her former lover.
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