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Updated: June 1, 2025
Courtois lay rather than sat in a large arm-chair near the fireplace. Her husband was reclining on a lounge near the windows at the rear of the apartment. They had taken off his coat and had torn away his shirt-sleeves and flannel vest, when he was to be bled. There were strips of cotton wrapped about his naked arms.
To sum up, I advise you to find Jean de Courtois unless, indeed, he, too, has been killed and you will be in close touch with the origin of the whole ugly business." "Good egg!" cried the irresistible Devar. "It's a pity you were not with us on the Lusitania, Mr. Steingall, or you would realize that when John D. rears up on his hind legs, and talks like that, there is nothing more to be said."
They were about to resume talking when a step was heard on the staircase; and presently Dr. Gendron appeared. "Courtois is better," said he, "he is in a doze, and will recover." "We have nothing more, then, to keep us here," returned M. Plantat. "Let's be off. Monsieur Lecoq must be half dead with hunger." As they went away, M. Lecoq slipped Laurence's letter, with the envelope, into his pocket.
The natives celebrated his return by dancing and singing, and crying out, "Here comes our king." Jean de Courtois hastened to welcome his master, who asked him how everything was going on; he replied, "Sir, all is going on as well as possible."
It was thus that I found out his interviews with Jenny and his relations with Bertha." "Why didn't you divulge them?" "Honor commanded silence. Had I a right to dishonor my friend and ruin his happiness and life, because of this ridiculous, hopeless love? I kept my own counsel after speaking to Courtois about Jenny, at which he only laughed.
Courtois, the owner of the mill, very picturesquely situated a few hundred yards from the meadows of La Verberie, was in treaty, it was said, with Madame Sechard for the sale of his property; and this acquisition would give the finishing touch to the estate and the rank of a "place" in the department.
"But your father's," said Corentin, "was involved in certain mysteries which perhaps you would rather not make public." "Is it anything we need blush for?" said Eve, in alarm. "Oh, no! a sin of his youth," said Corentin, coldly setting one of his mouse-traps. "Monsieur, your father left an elder son " "Oh, the old rascal!" cried Courtois.
One of the Hungarians spoke French, fluently but vilely. Jean de Courtois is admittedly a Frenchman. I am not a detective, Mr. Steingall, but as a plain man of affairs I am forced to the conclusion that there has seldom been a similarly mysterious crime in which certain lines of inquiry thrust themselves more pertinently on the imagination.
"Then," said Schmidt, closing his eyes, "assuming he is the stranger he represents himself as being, he could have no personal connection with the murder of Monsieur Jean de Courtois?" There! Another comet had fallen in 27th Street. Krantz winced, as if the lawyer had struck him. "Mr. de Courtois!" he gasped. "Who says he was murdered?
"This is a very sad event," said he, in a tone which he forced himself to make perfectly disinterested; "but after all, how does it concern us? We must, however, hurry and ascertain whether it is true. I have sent for the brigadier, and he will join us." "Let us go," said M. Courtois; "I have my scarf in my pocket." They hastened off.
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