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Updated: May 29, 2025
The police have got Fladgate, and Folliot shot Bryce and killed himself just when they were going to take him." "The doctor told you all this?" asked Mary. "Yes," replied Dick. "Just that and no more. He called me in as I was passing Folliot's door. He's coming over as soon as he can. Whew! I say, won't there be some fine talk in the town! Anyway, things'll be cleared up now.
Of late Mark had not had very many letters, and this particular one bore the name of 'Chilton & Fladgate' on the flap of the envelope. The Ashburns were not a literary family, but they knew this as the name of a well-known firm of publishers, and it had roused their curiosity. Mark read the name too.
Fladgate had already bustled away again, and the two were left together in a corner of the room.
And shortly after this conversation Mark left his novel, 'Sweet Bells Jangled, with Chilton and Fladgate, mentioning terms which even to himself seemed slightly exorbitant. He had a note from the firm in the course of a day or two, appointing an interview, and on going up to the publishing office found both of the partners waiting to receive him. Mr.
Fladgate on his Scotch journey." "So he is. I mean, so he ought to be. In fact I expected him home to-day. But now he's in p-p-prison, and I may never see him any m-mo-more." And Mrs. Fladgate wept afresh. "Stuff and nonsense!" retorted Mrs. Quelch. "You've only to send the money they ask for, and they'll be glad enough to get rid of him.
'Excuse me for one moment, said Mark desperately, 'I'm afraid you imagine that that I wrote the book? 'That certainly was my impression, said Mr. Fladgate, with a humorous light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and I came to the not unnatural conclusion that Mr. Ashburn and Mr. Beauchamp were one and the same. Am I to understand that is not the case?
'We shall see, said Mark laughing. 'I must leave you here. I have an appointment with Chilton & Fladgate just by. 'Ay, ay, said the old gentleman, wagging his head; 'publishers, aren't they? Don't tell me your ambition's dead if it's taken you as far as that. But I won't ask any more questions. I shall hope to be able to congratulate you shortly.
Fladgate took care to make him known to many of the leading men in the room, by whom he found himself welcomed with cordial encouragement. Presently, when he had shifted for a moment out of the nearest focus of conversation, his host, who had been 'distributing himself, as the French say, amongst the various knots of talkers, came bustling up to him. 'Er Mr.
Fladgate weeping in the parlour with an open telegram before her. Being a woman who did not stand upon ceremony, she read the telegram, which was dated from Dieppe and ran as follows: "Monsieur Fladgate here detained for to have smuggle cigars. Fine to pay, one hundred franc. Send money and he will be release." "Oh, the men, the men!" ejaculated Mrs. Quelch, as she dropped into an arm-chair.
If he had had a few minutes to think it over he would have invented one for the occasion, but his imagination was not accustomed to such sudden calls, and, on the question being repeated, he desperately gave the name of his next-door neighbour, Mr. Henry Fladgate. "Henri Flodgett," repeated the officer as he wrote it down. "Et vous demeurez? You live where?"
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