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Updated: May 18, 2025
Yet, as far as I've been able to discover, no one in Half Moon Street saw any stranger of either sex go to his chambers that afternoon." "You said that you believed the motive of the crime if crime it really was was jealousy," remarked Fetherston, thoughtfully rubbing his shaven chin. "And I certainly do. Harry was essentially a lady's man.
The truth was, however, that Walter Fetherston was a writer of popular novels, and from their sale alone he derived a handsome income. The mystery stories of Walter Fetherston were world-famous. Wherever the English language was spoken this shrewd-eyed, smiling man's books were read, while translations of them appeared as feuilletons in various languages in the principal Continental journals.
He laughed and talked incessantly without giving me a moment for thought, so that when we reached the ground I was ready for anything. A hare crossed my path. It belonged, I knew, to Lord Fetherston. I fired, knocked it over, and bagged it; and while Doolan was applauding me, a pheasant was put up, and in like manner transferred to my game-bag.
"I don't follow you." "Then let me speak a little more plainly," he replied, his strange, close-set eyes staring into hers until she quivered beneath his cold, hard gaze. "You have recently become acquainted with Walter Fetherston. You met him at Biarritz six months ago, and on Monday last he lunched with you up at Monifieth. After luncheon you met him in the garden of the hotel, and "
George's, Hanover Square, Enid Orlebar became the wife of Walter Fetherston, and among the guests at the wedding were a number of strange men in whose position or profession nobody pretended to be interested. Truth to tell, they were officials of various grades from Scotland Yard, surely the most welcome among the wedding guests.
He knew that when madame arrived in Paris the ghastly truth must, sooner or later, be revealed. AS Fetherston sat there, still chatting with his well-beloved, he felt a hatred of himself for being thus compelled to deceive her to withhold from her the hideous truth of Paul's arrest. After all, silence was best.
The gown was of a peculiar shade of grey, and by her easy, swinging gait and the graceful carriage of her head Walter Fetherston instantly recognised that there before him, all unconscious of his presence, was the girl he believed to be still in Sicily Enid Orlebar! He looked again, to satisfy himself that he was not mistaken.
Fetherston realised instantly that the fine old fellow, whom he had always held in such esteem, was making every effort to atone for his conduct in the past; but surely that was not the moment to refer to it so he ushered the four men into the ill-lit dining-room wherein the others were standing, none knowing how next to act.
Lord Fetherston was a magistrate, and consequently in the Abbey there was a strong room, in which, on occasion, prisoners were locked up before they were carried off to jail. Into this room I was led, and with a heavy heart I heard the key turned in the lock, and found myself alone.
"Then I think that you need seek no farther for the correct solution," replied Trendall quietly, looking into the other's pale countenance. "Your lady friend killed him in order to preserve her own secret." "But what was her secret?" "We have that yet to establish. It must have been a serious one for her to close his lips in such a manner." "But they were good friends," declared Fetherston.
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