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Updated: April 30, 2025
Against my principles and all my convictions, I have done my best to protect her against the consequences of her ridiculous and inexcusable conduct. I don't know anything about your association, Furley, but I consider you a lot of rotters to allow a girl to take on a job like this." Furley's eyes flashed in sympathy. "It was a cowardly action, Julian," he agreed.
We've wasted the night, but I propose that the telegrams go out at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Hands up for it!" It was a counter-attack which swept everything before it. Every hand in the room except the Bishop's, Furley's, Cross's and Julian's was raised. Fenn led the way towards the door. "We've our work to do, chaps," he said.
She laughed up in his face. "A quite attractive young woman," she declared, "at least I feel sure you will think so when you know me better." It was about half-past ten on the following morning when Julian, obeying a stentorian invitation to enter, walked into Miles Furley's sitting room. Furley was stretched upon the couch, smoking a pipe and reading the paper.
There was a frown on Furley's forehead. He withdrew his pipe from between his teeth. "What did you say you made of it?" he demanded. "`Thirty-eight steeple on barn." "Thirty-eight! That's queer!" "Why is it queer?" There was a moment's silence. Furley glanced at the little clock upon the mantelpiece. It was five and twenty minutes past nine.
His mass of brown hair seemed more unkempt than usual, his hard face sterner than ever by reason of its disfiguring frown. "What the hell do you mean, Julian?" "I mean," Julian replied, "that I have reason to suspect you, Furley, of holding or attempting to hold secret communication with an enemy country." The pipestem which he was holding snapped in Furley's fingers.
There was the sound of the lifting of the outer latch, a knock at the door. The incoming visitors stood upon no ceremony. Mr. Stenson and Catherine showed themselves upon the threshold. Mr. Stenson waved aside all ceremony and at once checked Furley's attempt to rise to his feet. "Pray don't get up, Furley," he begged, shaking hands with him. "I hope you'll forgive such an informal visit.
"Not allowed," was the brief response. "Thank heavens!" Julian exclaimed piously, as a storm of rain blew in through the half-open door. "Good night and good luck, old chap!" Furley's reply was drowned in the roar of wind. Julian secured the door, underneath which a little stream of rain was creeping in.
Tulliver and his family must live more meagrely and humbly, but it would only be till the profits of the business had paid off Furley's advances, and that might be while Mr. Tulliver had still a good many years of life before him. It was clear that the costs of the suit could be paid without his being obliged to turn out of his old place, and look like a ruined man.
He climbed the narrow staircase, looked in at Furley's room and his own, and at the third apartment, in which had been rigged up a temporary bath. The result was unilluminating. He turned and descended the stairs. "Either," he went on, with a very slight frown, "I am not psychic, or whatever may be happening is happening out of doors."
"You think so, do you?" Julian remarked pensively. "Who wouldn't? I hate espionage. So does every Englishman. That's why we are such duffers at the game, I suppose." Julian watched his friend with a slight frown. "How in thunder did you get mixed up with this affair, Furley?" he asked quietly. Furley's bewilderment was too natural to be assumed.
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