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Updated: June 4, 2025
From the foothills of these mountains, they saw a great arm of the ocean "a mediterranean sea," they termed it, according to Mr. Doyle's account, "with a fair and extensive valley bordering it, rich and fertile a paradise compared with the country they had been passing over." They rushed back to the seashore, waving their hats and shouting.
"I'll ask you a question," said old Anthony. "Is it true that my daughter has been hurt?" "My wife is indisposed. I presume we are speaking of the same person." "You infernal scoundrel," shouted Anthony, and raising his cane, brought it down with a crack on Doyle's head. The chauffeur was half-way up the walk by that time, and broke into a run.
Conan Doyle's detective stories would probably never have been written had not Poe first composed "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"; and the stories of horror and fear so common to-day are possible because Poe wrote "William Wilson," "The Black Cat," and other stories of the same kind. Have you ever learned to scan poetry?
It crackled under foot. The air had a stinging bite. Yet how sweet, pure, cold to breathe! Doyle's cheery: "Come and get it," was welcome call to breakfast. Lee and Pups drove the horses into one of the old corrals. In an hour, while the frost was yet hard and white, we were ready to start. Then Doyle somewhat chilled our hopes: "Twenty years ago there was a bad road out of here.
As soon as she saw him she abandoned the pursuit of the corks, crept out from underneath the table, and stood looking at the Major. She expected him to order a drink of some sort. Most people who entered Doyle's commercial room ordered drinks. The Major was slightly embarrassed. Mary Ellen evidently expected him to say something to her, and he did not know what to say.
Connie Myers' reputation, the fact that he was found in disguise at Doyle's house, was, barring any incriminating evidence, quite enough to let Hagan out. There would only remain in the minds of the police the question of who, beside Connie Myers, had been in old Doyle's house that night? And now Jimmie Dale smiled a little whimsically.
The captain, however, allowed a gleam of admiration to soften his grim features as he stared fixedly at saucy Flo. Patsy marked this fleeting change of expression at once and said hastily: "I think. Maud, dear, the captain is waiting to be questioned." At this he cast a grateful look in Miss Doyle's direction and bowed to her.
As soon as the party had passed about half a mile, Captain Thompson and his brave followers started through the wood, and kept parallel with Doyle's party, and almost in sight, reconnoitering the movements of the enemy until they reached McIntyre's farm, seven miles from Charlotte.
Mary Ellen was on her hands and knees under the table which stood in the middle of the room. She was collecting the corks which had offended Doyle's eye. There were more than three of them. She had four in her left hand, and was stretching out to grasp two more when the Major entered the room.
Captain Thompson and his men were expert riflemen, and well acquainted with every place in the vicinity. At this place they lay concealed about an hour, when they heard the wagons and Doyle's party passing by them and up the main road.
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