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"Positive of that?" "I can PROVE it." "You can?" "Yes, I can. You go over to my coalyard at West Lake street, and ask my partner, Weaver. He will tell you where I was at that time." "Is he your partner?" "Yes." "Strange, very strange. He said he bought you out last October." "You've been there, have you?" "That is what he said." "He lies." "Or you do."
The coalyard, if not particularly pleasant, was not unwholesome; there was sunshine in every room, and finally, the rent was eighteen dollars. They must entertain their friends elsewhere. She did not know then that what really won him was her youth and beauty; the new brilliant colour, the blue, blue eyes, the revived strength and charm of the whole, lovely woman.
You shall have no trouble about it, I will speak to the Rev. Mr. Coalyard myself I know him. When shall it be? speak, dearest!" I gasped out "to-morrow," and buried my blushing face on her shoulder. For a moment her soft arms were twined around me a moment only, for we were on the open lake drive.
The city directory readily gave them the address of Wittrock's coalyard, and securing this room a constant watch had been kept on the spotted house. Nothing suspicious had been noted during the day; customers had passed in and out, and Sam had even bought a half ton of coal which was carried to his room.
The two men who ran the coalyard, whose names were found to be Weaver and Haight, were well spoken of in the neighborhood and did not look to be the sort of stuff out of which train robbers were manufactured. While buying the coal Sam had purposely called Weaver "Mr. Wittrock." "That isn't my name," said Weaver, "Me and my pardner bought out Wittrock last October."
It is distressing to see this interesting gem of fourteenth-century architecture amid the incongruous surroundings of a coalyard. You can find considerable remains of the domestic buildings of the Grey Friars' Monastery near the footbridge across the Severn, and also of the home of the Austin Friars in a builder's yard at the end of Baker Street.
Dan continued: "Jim Cummings isn't his right name any more'n it's mine. His name is Fred Wittrock, and he lives in Chicago." "Where?" "At West Lake street." "Will you swear to that?" "Yes, I will; he runs a coalyard there. He ana a man named Weaver. I had nothing to do with robbing the car.
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