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Updated: June 14, 2025
He was still caressing the fire with his regard when Miss Erith came back. She wore a fur coat buttoned to the throat, a fur toque, fur gloves. As he rose she naively displayed a jimmy and two flashlights. "I see," he said, "very nice, very handy! But we don't need these to convict us." She laughed and handed him the instruments; and he pocketed them and followed her downstairs.
The tide served at ten o'clock, and before one they must be off the end of the garden. How far is it from Erith?" "Oh, certainly not four hours' sail," answered Charnock. "But had I not better now write the letter we talked of to the Duke? I can conceal my own hand well enough, and then if Fenwick is asked anything about it, he can swear most positively that it is not his writing." "Oh!
Our people have not come through yet, have they?" "Which people, sir?" "McKay and Miss Erith." "No, not yet." The officer mused for a moment, then: "They wired me from Paris yesterday, so they're all right so far. You'll see to it personally that they get through the Swiss wire, won't you?" "Through or over, sir." The Intelligence Officer displayed his mirthful teeth: "Thanks.
"Then why aren't you afraid of being shot for a burglar, and why do you go so gaily about grand larceny?" The girl's light laughter was friendly and fearless. "Do you live alone?" he inquired after a moment's silence. "Yes. My parents are not living." "You are rather an unusual girl, Miss Erith." "Why?"
But it did not land there; the marksman had not calculated on those erratic gales from the chasm; and the dead pigeon went whirling down into the viewless gulf amid flying vapours mounting from unseen depths. Miss Erith and McKay lay very still. The Hunnish marksman across the hog-back remained erect for a few moments like a man at the traps awaiting another bird.
Like some slim Swiss youth some boy mountaineer and clothed like one, Miss Erith sat at the foot of a tree in the ruddy sunlight studying once more the papers which McKay had discovered that morning among the bloody debris on the shelf of rock. As he came up he knew he had never seen anything as pretty in his life, but he did not say so.
Miss Erith saw him lean over the shadowy, prostrate figure, shake it; then she hurried over too, and saw a man, crouching, fallen forward on his face beside the snowy balustrade. Down on her knees in the snow beside him dropped Miss Erith, calling on Wayland to light a match. "Is he dead, Miss?" "No. Listen to him breathe! He's ill. Can't you hear the dreadful sounds he makes?
Her glance stole involuntarily toward the white butterflies. One had disappeared. The two others, drunk with their courtship, clung to a scented blossom. Gravely Miss Erith lifted her young eyes to the eternal peaks to Thusis, icy, immaculate, chastely veiled before the stealthy advent of the night. Oddly, yet without fear, death seemed to her very near.
And as for life's emotions, the frail, frivolous, ephemeral fury of these white-winged ghosts of daylight, embattled and all tremulous with passion, seemed exquisitely amazing to her here between the chaste and icy immobility of white-veiled peaks and the terrific twilight of the world's depths below. McKay, studying the papers, glanced up at Miss Erith.
Recklow laughed his contempt of Recklow and spat upon the dead leaves. "Stupid one, what then is closest to the Yankee heart? I was sent here to buy this terrible devil Yankee, Recklow. That is how one deals with Yankees. With dollars." "Is that why you are here?" "And to watch for McKay and the young woman with him!" "The Erith woman!" "That is her barbarous name, I believe. What is your number?"
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