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Updated: June 1, 2025
Chantry's gaze left the window, met the shrewd grey eyes beneath the other's drooping lids. "It may be a day and it may be ten years," he said. Unconsciously Landor settled deeper into his seat. His jaws closed tight on the stump of the stogie. Unwaveringly he returned the other's gaze. "You have a more definite idea than that, though," he pressed. "Tell me, and let's have it over with."
I stripped off Doctor Chantry's unendurable bandages, and put on my clothes, for there were brambles along the path. The lodges and the dogs were still, and I crept like a hunter after game, to avoid waking them. Our village was an irregular camp, each house standing where its owner had pleased to build it on the lake shore.
Ferguson certainly knew how. I can." "Ferguson hadn't much imagination." "A coroner doesn't take imagination. He takes a little hard, expert knowledge." "I dare say." But Chantry's mind was wandering through other defiles. "Odd, that he should have snatched his life out of the very jaws of what-do-you-call-it, once, only to give it up at last, politely, of his own volition."
One of Chantry's hands, itself not over clean, dusted the ash off his vest absently. "When was it, this last time?" he questioned. "Yesterday," impassively. "I'd started for here to meet my nephew when the thing struck me; and when I managed to get home I sent How over instead." He halted reminiscently. "I wrote the boy to come a couple of weeks ago that's when it caught me first."
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