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Updated: June 25, 2025
"I have told Zena the whole affair as far as we know it," said Quarles, putting his papers on the table, "and she asks me a foolish question, Wigan. 'Why didn't the butler run for the police instead of Miss Crosland? Have you got any information which will help to answer it?" "It doesn't seem to me very strange that she went," I returned. "I have been busy, but there is not very much to tell.
"A swell mobsman, Wigan, not accustomed to work entirely on his own, I should imagine. As Mr. Crosland says, there may have been others in the house who escaped." "We may get some information from the servants presently," I answered. "I doubt it. In all these burglaries, Wigan, we have considered the possibility of the servants being implicated, and in no case has it led us anywhere.
Crosland entered the tiniest pony-carriage, and set forth for her own residence, with a lad walking at the pony's head, and carrying a lantern. . . . . March 26th. Yesterday was not a very eventful day. After writing in my journal I went out at twelve, and visited, for the first time, the National Gallery.
I can almost hear the good-night song of the blackbird, before he goes to sleep among the golden laburnum boughs; can almost smell the good-night sigh of the flowers, as they nod their sleepy heads and swing lazily in the evening wind. Just across the heath lives another dear friend, Mrs. Crosland, whom my little readers know.
My friend Morrison came to the conclusion that the nurse, as a nurse, was incompetent, and that the room he entered would not have been the one constantly occupied by the invalid. He was exceedingly interested in Mrs. Crosland, seeing in her a woman of extraordinary force of character and intellectual capacity, and he came to the conclusion that there was nothing whatever the matter with her."
He was passing Clarence Lodge, the residence of Mrs. Crosland, when the front door opened suddenly and a girl came running down the drive, calling to him. "The burglars," she said, "and I am afraid my brother hay shot one of them." He certainly had. Poulton found the man lying crumpled up at the bottom of the stairs.
He hasn't been for some time now, but she was speaking of him the other day." "I'll look up my man's card and send it on to you," said Quarles. "You get Mrs. Crosland to see him, never mind Dr. Heathcote." "I didn't know you had suffered from rheumatism," I said to Quarles as we left the house. "Didn't you! Have it now sometimes. Well, Wigan, what do you make of this affair?
His connection with the Crosland family was not professional, but had other aims, and his profession was used merely as a reason for not having a doctor for Mrs. Crosland, who found it convenient to pose as an invalid. A quarrel resulted in Bush's being shot that night. I hazard a guess that it was the old lady who shot him, and that it was her brain which conceived the way out of the difficulty."
Crosland says he fired after he had been fired at, so the man, directly he had fired, must deliberately have turned his head to the right, which at least is remarkable. Further, to hit the wall of the landing in the place he did the man must have stood in the very center of the stairs to fire.
"Quite, sir." "It looks substantial and innocent." The only window which interested Quarles upstairs was that of a small room in the front of the house overlooking the drive, but, as the butler pointed out, no one could have got in there without a ladder. "No, no, I suppose not," and Quarles did not say another word until we saw Mr. Crosland again. Then he immediately inquired about the nephew.
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