Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 12, 2025
"Sit down. Where is that dashed waiter? Oh, you there, Griggs. Come along with some whisky and soda." Crabbe sat down in a deep chair by the fire, and stretched his feet to the flame. Duckford said nothing; only pulled at his cigar and patiently waited for what he knew was soon coming. "Do you know but, no, of course you don't," he began presently.
"Bless my soul, boy, you haven't been seeing the Angels of Mons or the Agincourt Bowmen over there in Flanders, have you?" asked Duckford, regarding Crabbe with a keen eye, and scenting something savouring of the mysterious, the super-natural. "Do you believe in these stories? I mean superstitions?" Captain Crabbe shook his head. "Not greatly," he said smiling.
I am not inquisitive as a rule; but, somehow your manner has warned me that you have something singularly interesting to tell." Crabbe remained silent a short time. Then, looking at Duckford very earnestly, he answered: "Well, perhaps I may tell you my story, though I would not tell it to all these heretics around me. Indeed, only two or three other people have ever heard it.
"But can you imagine how it can be that a man could pass all his force into a bronze statue and make it live.... You've heard these literary men and artists talk about putting their souls into their work, Duckford?" Duckford pursed his lips. "Everything lives even a bronze statue," he said seriously. "If it was not so it would atrophy, it would crumble and disappear. Look at the case of "
I hate ah! more than I can convey to any living soul even to think about it. But to you it may be of special interest." "You know that I look upon all such things from the point of a simple, unbiassed inquirer," returned Duckford. "Come along, Crabbe." "A good cigar in front of the card room fire, and your story, eh?" Duckford led the way up to the snug card room where a cheerful fire was blazing.
But, taking the circumstances into consideration, the whole train of events points to the fact that Ombos had in some occult way passed his ethereal body into that statue, and for that very reason he was unable to rest quietly in his grave." "You will continue to live in the house at Abbot's Ely, of course," said Duckford. Crabbe shook his head. "Never!
"A member of your family in England?" asked Duckford, who was a firm believer in the good old-fashioned second sight of the Scotch Highlanders. Barton answered in his peculiarly quiet way. "No, it was myself. The appearance of seeing an image of one's self is not altogether unusual, I believe. But, of course, such a thing is really all nonsense ... a matter of nerves."
"I I'm afraid I have run off the track of my story a bit," he stammered, "but I may as well tell you all of it." "Take a drink of whiskey;" said Duckford slowly, "and take your own time." "Margot looked at me, her lips quivering. 'You've not found much "copy" I'm afraid, she answered despondently. "'Now, I said, meeting her eyes, "copy" matters not at all ... you are all that matters.
"But I am not one of those who thoughtlessly laugh at that which is out of the common, merely because it cannot be explained on ordinary grounds. Not since I have spent nearly twelve months over in France, at any rate. Are you interested in the weird?" "I'd be a fool if I wasn't," said Duckford, selecting a cigar from his case. "What's your story about I see you have one to tell.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking