United States or Guyana ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
I shall have a cold in my head. Bitter weather. He's dog-tired after yesterday processions, three speeches, kindergarten, lecture on 'the moon, article on cooperation. That's his style." It was also Grodman's style. He never wasted words. "No," Mrs. Drabdump breathed up at him solemnly, "he's dead." "All right; go back. Don't alarm the neighbourhood unnecessarily. Wait for me.
Wimp was a man of taste and culture. Grodman's interests were entirely concentrated on the problems of logic and evidence. Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of workmanship.
Not bludgeoned by the police at the meeting this morning, I hope?" "No, no! He didn't go. He is dead." "Dead?" Grodman's face grew very serious now. "Yes. Murdered!" "What?" almost shouted the ex-detective. "How? When? Where? Who?" "I don't know. I can't get to him. I have beaten at his door. He does not answer." Grodman's face lit up with relief. "You silly woman! Is that all?
In Grodman's eye there danced an amused scorn of Wimp; to the outsider his amusement appeared at the expense of the poet. Having wrought his rival up to the highest pitch, Grodman slyly and suddenly unstrung him. "How lucky for Denzil!" he said, still in the same naive, facetious Christmasy tone, "that he can prove an alibi in this Constant affair." "An alibi!" gasped Wimp. "Really?" "Oh, yes.
Mortlake Reprieved!" Grodman looked wonderingly towards the street. "How do they know?" he murmured. "Those evening papers are amazing," said the Minister, drily. "But I suppose they had everything ready in type for the contingency." He turned to his secretary. "Templeton, have you got down every word of Mr. Grodman's confession?" "Every word, sir."
"And since you know, I may tell you that Grodman's a mean curmudgeon. What does he want with all that money and those houses a man with no sense of the Beautiful? He'd have taken my information, and given me more kicks than ha'pence for it, so to speak." "Yes, he is a shrewd man after all. I don't see anything valuable in your evidence against Mortlake."
Then she rose with a jerk and raced down the stairs without looking behind her, and threw open the door and ran out into the street, only pulling up with her hand violently agitating Grodman's door-knocker.
A man constantly about him, too! "Denzil is a man of genius," said Grodman. "And as such comes under the heading of Suspicious Characters. He has written an Epic Poem and read it to me. It is morbid from start to finish. There is 'death' in the third line. I dare say you know he polished up my book?" Grodman's artlessness was perfect. "No. You surprise me," Wimp replied.
As her husband would have said, Grodman's grins were not Beautiful. But he made no effort to suppress them. Not only had Wimp perpetrated a grotesque blunder, but the journalists to a man were down on his great sensation tableau, though their denunciations did not appear in the dramatic columns. The Liberal papers said that he had endangered Mr.
Grodman's house to tell him he had been unable to do some writing for him because he was suffering from writer's cramp, when Mr. Grodman called to him from the window of No. 11 and asked him to run for the police. No, he did not run; he was a philosopher. He had no stomach for crude sensations.
Word Of The Day