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Updated: May 18, 2025
Derry, and 1,825 feet at Mullaghmore, attest an originally greatly more extended range of the basaltic sheets; and it is not improbable that at the close of the Miocene epoch they extended right across the present estuary of Lough Foyle to the flanks of the mountains of Inishowen in Donegal in one direction, and to those of Slieve Croob in the other.
As Foyle gazed at her for a moment dumfounded, with a quizzical suggestion and smiling still a little more, she said: "You used to be a little quicker, Nett." The voice appeared to attempt unconcern; but it quivered from a force of feeling underneath. It was so long since she had seen him.
"I will let you pass after you have given me the pistol you are carrying in your muff," he retorted, holding out his hand. Then the tigress broke loose in the delicately brought-up, gently nurtured girl. She withdrew her right hand from her muff and Foyle struck quickly at her wrist. The pistol clattered to the floor and the man closed with her.
The place had been thoroughly searched from attic to cellar, for letters or for the jewels that, if Sir Ralph Fairfield were right, were missing. Much more there would be to do, but for the moment they could go no further. Foyle returned wearily to Scotland Yard to learn that of the finger-prints on the dagger two were too blurred to serve for purposes of identification.
Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?" Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes.
Who is this Harry Goldenburg, anyway? Beyond the fact that he's my double I know nothing of him. That's certainly a coincidence, but why on earth I should conceal anything I know is beyond me." "You're talking nonsense, Mr. Grell, and you know it," said Foyle, with a weary little gesture. "There's too much to be explained away by coincidence.
"I was under the impression that you had that, in fact, you changed a cheque for £200 made payable to bearer." She tried to hide a new feeling of alarm under a smile. "Well, and if I did?" she challenged. "That is, of course, my private business, Mr. Foyle. You surely haven't come to cross-examine me on my habits of personal extravagance?" "Partly," he countered.
They separated at the door of Foyle's room at headquarters, and an impatient detective-sergeant, whose duty it was to weed out callers, promptly headed Heldon Foyle off. "A man's been waiting to see you, sir," he said. "He refused to give his name, but said he had some important information which he would only give to you personally. He wouldn't hear of seeing any one else." "Yes, of course.
It was Sir Almeric Foyle. "Thank you, Sir Almeric," he said; "thank you. Shall it be swords or pistols?" he asked his enemy, coolly. "Swords, if you please," remarked Mallow grimly, for he had a gift with the sword. Dyck nodded again. "As you will. As you will!" It was a morning such as could only be brought into existence by the Maker of mornings in Ireland.
"I'm afraid I dropped off, but I've had rather a wearying time lately. Now, what's the programme? I suppose a bath is out of the question, or" with a glance at his fettered hands "even a wash may be dangerous. Faith, you don't believe in running risks!" Foyle smiled in response to the banter. "Only a fool runs risks when there's nothing to be gained.
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