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Updated: September 2, 2025
Silence fell between the two men from Scotland Yard. Kerry stood awhile, chewing and staring at the ghastly face of Sir Lucien. Then: "Go through all pockets," he directed. Sergeant Coombes placed his notebook and pencil upon the seat of the chair and set to work. Kerry entered the inside room or office. Upon one of the chairs lay a crush-hat, a cane, and an overcoat.
The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, however. "How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all night?"
"Jim!" shrieked Mrs. Coombes, and Mr. Clarence sat petrified, with a dropping lower jaw. "Tea," said Mr. Coombes. "Jol' thing, tea. Tose-stools, too. Brosher." "He's drunk," said Jennie in a weak voice. Never before had she seen this intense pallor in a drunken man, or such shining, dilated eyes. Mr. Coombes held out a handful of scarlet agaric to Mr. Clarence. "Jo' stuff," said he; "ta' some."
"I'm going to Vine Street," said Kerry succinctly; "you're coming with me," turned, and went on his way. Two taxicabs were standing in the yard, and into the first of these Inspector Kerry stepped, followed by Coombes, the latter breathing heavily and carrying his hat in his hand, since he had not yet found time to put it on. "Vine Street," shouted Kerry. "Brisk."
The street contained no dwelling houses, and except for the solitary figure by the door was deserted and silent. Kerry took out his torch and shone a white ring upon the smiling countenance of Detective-Sergeant Coombes. "If that smile gets any worse," he said irritably, "they'll have to move your ears back. Anything to report?" "Sin Sin Wa went to bed an hour ago." "Any visitors?" "No."
He strove to make himself agreeable while riding with her along the hillsides, watching the huntsman trying each patch of gorse in the coombes. She seemed to him splendid and charming, and he wondered if he could love her marry her, and never grow weary of her.
Leslie Coombes should have known better than that; in colonial law, you can find a precedent for almost anything. "How much do you bet, Leslie?" Brannhard asked, a larcenous gleam in his eye. "Don't let him take your money away from you. I found, inside an hour, sixteen precedents, from twelve different planetary jurisdictions." "All right, your Honor," Coombes capitulated.
I've always heard that if you're innocent you're better off before a court-martial and if you're guilty you're better off in a civil court." He saw Leslie Coombes and Leonard Kellogg being seated at a similar table at the opposite side of the bench. Apparently Coombes had also heard that. The seating arrangements at the other tables seemed a little odd too.
Coombes ran for a while on some such glorious close to his disappointed hopes, and that he thought of razors, pistols, bread-knives, and touching letters to the coroner denouncing his enemies by name, and praying piously for forgiveness. After a time his fierceness gave way to melancholia. He had been married in this very overcoat, in his first and only frock-coat that was buttoned up beneath it.
And on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have kept him over to-morrow. The change will do him good." "No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt." "You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want your Sunday clothes." "I'll bring them for you, Joe before you're up," interposed Harry. "And then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know."
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