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Updated: May 19, 2025
They reflected contentedly of the meal awaiting, of their pipes, their sleep. The inscrutable ways of Chance Destiny, call it what you will brought about the greatest catastrophe that had so far obtained in the Guernsey ranks. Major Davey moved his party over an area at about 11 in the morning of a warm, sunny Sunday coming in for a spell of shelling extraordinary in intensity.
Who was that mysterious personage whom Smith so evidently dreaded, who had attempted his life, who, presumably, had murdered Sir Crichton? Sir Crichton Davey, during the time that he had held office in India, and during his long term of service at home, had earned the good will of all, British and native alike. Who was his secret enemy? Something touched me lightly on the shoulder.
But is it true that Sir Crichton Davey has been murdered?" I looked into her big, questioning eyes, a harsh suspicion laboring in my mind, but could read nothing in their mysterious depths only I wondered anew at my questioner's beauty.
I had been at work, earlier in the evening, upon the opening chapters of this chronicle, and I had realized how difficult it would be for my reader, amid secure and cozy surroundings, to credit any human being with a callous villainy great enough to conceive and to put into execution such a death pest as that directed against Sir Crichton Davey.
"Surely," thought he, "the Ladybird might have returned by this time." There was no one to tell him that the Ladybird had been driven into Port Davey by stress of weather, and detained there for seventeen days. That night the wind fell, and they had to take to their oars.
"Why, when you've done it," pursued the warder, "you'll be quite a young man still younger than I am. There's Balfour, now; he's got some call to be down in the mouth, for he'll get it as hot as you, and he's an old un, yet he's cheery enough up yonder" and he jerked his head in the direction of the court-house "you may take your 'davey he is. You get V G's."
Yet I had had leisure to review the whole troop of events which had crowded my life since the return of Nayland Smith from Burma. Mentally, I had looked again upon the dead Sir Crichton Davey, and with Smith had waited in the dark for the dreadful thing that had killed him.
"Sure," grinned Denver, "but cut out that 'friend' talk. It makes me kind of nervous." "I'll do it!" promised Bunker, "I'll do anything you ask me. You saved my bacon on them claims. That snooping Dutch Professor tipped them jumpers off that I'd promised my wife not to shoot, but I guess when they see you come rambling up the gulch they begin to feel like Davey Crockett's coon.
My friend's account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary's story of the dying man's cry, "The red hand!"; the hidden perils of the study; the wail in the lane all were fitter incidents of delirium than of sane reality.
This is a great truth that has to be learned in the fire." It was all so exactly as it should be the love affair of Nancy and Raymond that it lacked excitement. There was a moment when Doris and David Martin looked into each other's eyes and sadly smiled; but that was past as it came. "It's all right, Davey!" "Of course, Doris, and Bud wasn't in it after all. It was our desire not his.
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