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Updated: June 2, 2025
His thoughts reverted involuntarily to the gray-haired man "that ordinary, middle-aged person," who had accompanied her the night she had dined at the Gildersleeve, the night that he, Hayden, had returned to her her silver butterfly. Who was this shadowy creature, a sinister and skulking figure always in the background? Doubts and fears assailed him.
Did she mention Mambury?" "She said it exactly as I've said it now to you," Mrs. Gildersleeve persisted with a stony stare. "He's gone down to Devonshire, she said; to the borders of Dartmoor, on a hunt after the records; to a place in the wilds by the name of Mambury. Those were her very words. I could stake my life on each syllable. I give them to you precisely as she gave them to me." Mr.
For though that little episode of private wooing had run its course nominally without the knowledge or consent of either family, Mr. Gilbert Gildersleeve, at least, had none the less been aware for many weeks past of the frequent meetings between Gwendoline and Granville in the dell just beyond the disputed boundary line. And as Mr.
And no wonder it did for these were the words of that unexpected message "Coming home to claim you by the next mail. Guy Waring accompanies me. Next day but one, the Companion of St. Michael and St. George came in to Craighton with evil tidings. He had heard in the village that Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve was ill very seriously ill.
For Elma's sake for the honour of the family Cyril wished him for the present to disappear. Cyril's wish was sacred. He would go to South Africa. The great point was now to avoid meeting Gildersleeve before the ship sailed. So he would pay his bill quietly, put his things in his portmanteau, stop in his room till dusk, and then drive off in a close cab to the landing-stage.
He had, as night drew on, a breathless and excited sense of eluding and escaping them, and dressed with the emotions of the criminal who realizes that the sleuths are hard upon his trail. It is unnecessary to say that he was early at the Gildersleeve, and managed to secure a table which commanded a view of the entire room.
"That dreadful man said he was going away for his holiday to the country at once. He'll be gone to-morrow." "Gone? Gone where?" Mrs. Gildersleeve cried, in the same awestruck voice. "To Devonshire," Gwendoline replied, shutting her eyes hard and still seeing him. Mrs. Gildersleeve echoed the phrase in a startled cry. "To Devonshire, Gwendoline! To Devonshire! Did he say to Devonshire?"
He found Waldron with Colburn, the two conversing tranquilly in their saddles amid hissing bullets and dropping branches. "Move your regiment forward now," the brigade commander was saying; "but halt it in the edge of the wood." "Shan't I relieve Gildersleeve if he gets beaten?" asked the subordinate officer eagerly. "No. The regiments on the left will help him out.
From that moment forth, the landlord's suspicions were never even so much as aroused by the innocent young man with the preoccupied manner, who knew Mr. Gildersleeve. The great Q.C.'s word was guarantee enough for any one but himself. And the great Q.C. himself knew it. Why, a chance word from his lips was enough to protect Guy Waring from suspicion.
Gildersleeve staggered on, erect, yet to all appearance almost incapable of motion, and stumbled down the stairs, and across the hall, and into the drawing-room opposite. The rest Gwendoline neither saw, nor heard, nor guessed at. She crept back into her own room, and, flinging herself on her bed alone as she stood, cried still more piteously and miserably than ever.
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