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Updated: June 20, 2025
Hillyard wondered how in the world he was going to deliver Stella Croyle's message a flimsy thing of delicate sentimentality to this man concerned with life and death, and discharging his responsibilities according to the just rules of his race, without fear and without too much self-questioning.
Hillyard found it a little difficult to concentrate his thoughts on Stella Croyle's message. But he would have delivered it awkwardly in any case. He had seen enough of Harry Luttrell last night to understand that an ocean now rolled between those two. "On the first night of my play, 'The Dark Tower," he began, and suddenly faced around as the ostrich fell back.
"You proceed to direct suspicion at a young girl with the statement that you never saw your mistress after half past nine that night or helped her to undress; and to complete your treachery, you take the key of Mrs. Croyle's door which you found inside her room this morning, and threw it where it may avert inquiry from you and point it against another." Jenny Prask flinched.
Stella Croyle's face and voice softened. "Yes. I can understand that," she said. Hillyard watched her narrowly, but there was no doubt that she was sincere. She had received him with an air of grievance, and a hard accent in her voice. But she was entering now into a comprehension of the regrets which must be troubling him. "I am sorry," she continued. "I never cared very much for women.
"Oh, I do want to know," she cried, and Hillyard's obstinacy broke down. Men have the strangest fancies which compel them to do out of all reason, even the things which they hate to do, and to put aside what they hold most dear. Fancies unintelligible to practical people like women thus Stella Croyle's thoughts ran but to be taken note of very carefully.
She then had supper and went to Mrs. Croyle's room. It was then about half-past nine, so far as she could conjecture. Her mistress, however, was not ready for bed, and dismissed Jenny, saying that she would look after herself. Jenny thereupon retired to her own bedroom and wrote a letter. After writing it, she remembered that she had not put out the distilled water which Mrs.
It was an obligation of honour on Harry to take his commission in it, to bear his part in the recovery." "Yes. I told you, didn't I? Harry Luttrell was cradled in tradition." Hillyard saw Mrs. Croyle's face brighten. Now she had the key to Harry Luttrell. He had joined the Clayfords. And what was his fear at Stockholm? The slovenly soldier!
The elephant was rolling in the grass like a dog, the giraffes crowded about the little door like beggars outside a restaurant. The two friends walked back towards the town in an air shimmering with heat. The Blue Nile glittered amongst its sand-banks like so many ribands of molten steel. They were close upon the house before Luttrell answered Stella Croyle's message.
Jenny was busy with Stella Croyle's hair; and the result satisfied her. "There won't be anybody else to-night, madam," she said. "Won't there, Jenny?" said Mrs. Croyle, incredulously. "There'll be Miss Whitworth." Jenny Prask sniffed disdainfully. "Miss Whitworth! A fair sight I call her, madam, if I may say so. I never did see such clothes!
Stella Croyle's eyes were drawn when she was left alone to that cupboard in which her dressing-bag was stowed away. But she arrested them and covered them with her hands. "This is my last chance," she said to herself aloud in the anguish of her spirit. If it failed, there was nothing in front of her but a loneliness which each year must augment.
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