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Updated: June 21, 2025


What are we to do?" "There is nothing supernatural about the matter, madam," Duvall remarked. "I don't doubt the explanation is simple enough, could we but hit upon it. But so far I confess I am unable to understand it." He went over to the wall which adjoined that of the house next door, and sounded it, inch by inch, with a small hammer he took from his bag of tools.

There is quite thirty feet of space between the two buildings and the windows are at least twenty-five feet from the ground." "What room is above?" "A guest's chamber, unused and locked." Duvall rose and began to stride up and down the room, chewing viciously upon his unlighted cigar. "After you finished questioning the man, what did you do then?"

"Let me see the contents of your purse," Duvall said, indicating a leather bag the Norman woman carried on her wrist. She handed the bag over with an almost imperceptible smile. Duvall examined it but without result. The seal was not inside. Nor did Miss Ford's purse, a silver one, contain anything worthy of his notice. He handed the two back. "Anything else you would like to see?"

His first thought was to make a quick rush at his captor, and after overpowering him, secure the snuff box and dash from the place. His eyes must have shown something of his intention, for Hartmann, stepping back a pace, drew his right hand from his pocket. It contained an ugly-looking magazine pistol. "Don't attempt anything rash, Mr. Duvall. It would be useless.

I'll see you in the morning." He rose. "And for the present, I think it would be best for you to keep what I have told you to yourself." Mr. Baker nodded. "I'll do that," he said, putting out his hand. "For the present, at least. But don't forget, Mr. Duvall, that this is a very vital matter to our company, and we can't afford to take any chances." "I realize that fully. You can depend on me.

"Well, roses don't last, do they?" asked the petulant voice again. "Not very long, anyway." Duvall turned suddenly in an effort to see the face of the speaker, but try as he would, he was unable to do so. Two of the girls sat with their backs to him. He could not manage to catch a glimpse of either of them. Almost as he turned, the three rose and made their way to the street.

"That does not necessarily follow," observed Duvall. "Why not?" "Because the picture might have been obtained from the photographer." "But they are not allowed to dispose of the portraits of others, without the sitter's permission." "I know that, but they sometimes do so, especially in the case of anyone so well known as Miss Morton. She has become a sort of public character.

Shutting off the light of his pocket torch for the moment, in order that, should the entrance lead to another room, its rays might not betray his presence, Duvall grabbed the door knob, and, turning it softly, opened the door. For a moment he had a glimpse of a black cavern, and then, with incredible swiftness, something struck him a heavy blow in the face.

Then there was her friend and benefactress, Miss Alice, looking very beautiful, her face constantly changing from smiles to blushes for the next day was to witness her marriage with the Chevalier Duvall. At her side was seated her lover and affianced husband, his dark, handsome features lighted up with an expression of proud triumph, almost amounting to scorn.

Some two years ago, for instance, my child was kidnapped, in Paris, and held for ransom. The entire police force of the French capital seemed powerless to discover his whereabouts. At last I called in Richard Duvall, and within a few days my boy was returned to me, and the criminals who had abducted him placed under arrest. It was a marvellous, a brilliant piece of work.

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