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Updated: June 17, 2025
But the spot where he first lay was long venerated. A great fur trader and pioneer named Gurdon Hubbard made this record about the place, which he visited in 1818: "We reached Marquette River, about where the town of Ludington now stands on the Michigan shore.
Then we went through the list, and came across poor Baird's name among the killed. This was the first we had heard of it, the natives all declaring that it was Gurdon who had been killed. Among the wounded we came across Surgeon-Major Robertson severely and Captain Campbell severely.
Presently a light flared out in one of the rooms, and then Gurdon could make out the dome of a large conservatory leading from the garden to the house. "I shall find myself in the hands of the police, if I don't take care," Gurdon said to himself. "What an ass I am to embark on an adventure like this. It isn't as if I had the slightest chance of being of any use to the girl, seeing that I "
That is the story of the Four Finger Mine so far as it goes, though I should not be surprised if we manage to get to the last chapter yet. Now, you are an observant man did you notice anything peculiar in Fenwick's appearance to-night?" Gurdon shook his head slowly. It was quite evident that he had not noticed anything out of the common in the appearance of the millionaire.
He quotes me, refers to me, defends me, apes all my mannerisms, and struts with them proudly as clear legal type and documentary evidence. He has my name, Gurdon "Paul," with the rest: he is my heir.
Common sense prompts me to take it for granted that you are in some wry connected with the foes to whom I have alluded." "I assure you, I am not," Gurdon protested. "I am the enemy of no man. I came here to night " Gurdon stopped in some confusion. How could he possibly tell this man why he had come and what he had in his mind? The thing was awkward almost to the verge of absurdity.
Bates rarely leaves his house, but last night he seems to have gone out unattended, and since then, he has not been seen." "Stop a moment," Gurdon exclaimed eagerly. "I am beginning to see daylight at last. What was the number of the house where this Bates lived? I mean the number of the square." Venner turned to his paper, and ran his eye down the printed column. Then he smiled as he spoke.
"I am afraid your master must have his own way," Gurdon said grimly. "I am feeling pretty well now, thanks to the brandy. If you will take me to your master, I will try to explain matters." The servant led the way into a large, handsome apartment, where a man in evening dress was seated in a big armchair before the fire. He looked round with a peculiar smile as Gurdon came in.
The tall, fair girl with the shining hair had her back to the friends, so they could not see her face, and when she spoke it was in a tone so low that it was not possible to catch anything more than the sweetness of her voice. "I wonder what she is doing with him?" Gurdon said. "At any rate, she is English enough. I never saw a woman with a more thoroughbred air. She is looking this way."
The first place in which a clergyman in English orders ever officiated in Connecticut as a clergyman of the Church of England was here in New London, destined to be the home of our first bishop; and that clergyman was the Rev. Gurdon Saltonstall, minister of the town, who afterwards presided at the discussion in the Library of Yale College in 1722.
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