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"My dear Brimsdown" was unusual in one so formal as Robert Turold. But the handwriting was his undoubtedly. Mr. Brimsdown had seen it too often to be mistaken. With the growing idea that the whole thing was confounding to sober sense and reason, he read on "Can you postpone all your other engagements and come to Cornwall on receipt of this?
Brimsdown learnt with a feeling which was little less than astonishment that Robert Turold had died without confiding to his brother the proofs, on which so much depended, of the statement he had made on the day of his death. "I cannot understand it," he murmured, putting down his tea-cup as he spoke. Austin had received him in the blue sitting-room, hung with the specimens of Mr.
If he had, it would have intensified his feeling that the letter hinted at some terrible secret hidden behind the thick curtain of his client's strange and sudden death. The hasty postscript suggested a quickened sense of a growing danger which Robert Turold had seen too late to avert. What danger? Mr. Brimsdown could form no idea.
Brimsdown had been unable to make up his mind about that. There were some nice points involved in the decision. In an effort to reach a solution he broached the subject. "Is it still your opinion that Miss Turold is guilty after this letter?" he asked. "Her disappearance lays upon her the obligation of explaining her secret visit to her father on the night of the murder," was the guarded reply.
"The suicide theory disappeared with Robert's daughter," said Austin, glancing at his son, who had taken no part in the conversation. "You think her disappearance suggests guilt?" asked Mr. Brimsdown. "It hardly suggests innocence, does it?" "I would not like to hazard an opinion," responded Mr. Brimsdown, with a thoughtful shake of the head.
That is the object of my call." The fact that she had not seen Mr. Brimsdown before did not lessen the hysterical gratitude with which Mrs. Pendleton received this piece of information. The events of the last forty-eight hours had shaken her badly.
No doubt it was taken from a wreck, like so much of the furniture in old Cornish houses." "You seem to know a lot about old clocks." Mr. Brimsdown, astride his favourite hobby, rode it irresistibly. He discoursed of clocks and their makers, and Barrant listened in silence.
Those members of the secluded domain of high respectability for whom he strived showed their gratitude in a less emotional but more substantial way generally in the mellow atmosphere of after-dinner conferences ... "You had better see my man, Brimsdown. I'll give you a note to him. He'll square this business for you. Safe? None safer." Mr.
"Perhaps he imagined you might persuade him against it," sighed Mrs. Pendleton. "It is all very strange. I do not understand it a bit." Mr. Brimsdown thought it strange, then and afterwards. Next day, after going to the police station and handing Robert Turold's letter to Inspector Dawfield, he sought out the Penzance lawyer who had drawn up the will. Mr.
I am sure that would have been your late master's wish." "I want nothing from him," Thalassa rejoined, "a damned black scoundrel." Mr. Brimsdown was shocked at this savage outburst, but there was something so implacable in the old man's air that the rebuke he wished to utter died unspoken. Thalassa regarded him for a moment in silence, and then went on "Thank'ee for letting me stop on here a bit.
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