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Updated: June 15, 2025
Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. "Hullo, there, Wat! I be come home again!" Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all. Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the guildschool door. "Nick Attwood's home!" he shouted; and his eyes were like two plates. Then the last lane and the smoke from his father's house!
No one will reproach you with your mistakes or call you a confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, the closed street door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, the face of the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day.
Hamilton Fynes?" The clerk pointed to the open door of a small private office. "If you will step this way for one moment, madam," he begged. She tapped the floor with her foot and looked at him curiously. Certainly the people around seemed to be taking some interest in their conversation. "Why should I?" she asked. "Cannot you answer my question here?" "If madam will be so good," he persisted.
As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy appearance on leaving the house arose from the fact that his first trouble having been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, the possession of a document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfortable till this one was safely cashed.
He had at last secured information of where Zoe and Gerard Fynes had stayed while in Montreal; and now he followed clues which would bring him in touch with folk who knew them.
A more unromantic figure than Hamilton Fynes never breathed. Call him a crank and you've finished with him." Penelope sighed once more and looked at the tips of her patent shoes. "It has been so kind of you," she murmured, "to talk to us. And yet, do you know, I am a little disappointed. I was hoping that you might have been able to tell us something more about the poor fellow."
The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to dinner.
"There wasn't much kicking over the traces with poor old Fynes," he said. "He hadn't got it in him." Somerfield scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at Penelope. "Scarcely seems possible, does it," he remarked, "that a man leading such a quiet sort of life should make enemies." "I don't believe he had any," Mr. Coulson asserted. "He didn't seem nervous on the way over, did he?"
Hamilton Fynes, this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in making a record journey, was leaning back in the corner of his seat, his arms folded, his head drooping a little, but his eyes still fixed in that unseeing stare. His body yielded itself unnaturally to the touch. For the main truth the doctor needed scarcely a glance at him. "Is he dead?" the station-master asked.
He had come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he assured her with displeasure, but he gave up the early train. The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this unforeseen but perfectly authorised guardian, the same thought springing up in their minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this too! ... And of course they would be. Poor girl!
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