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Updated: May 19, 2025
He found Parrish an exacting, but withal a just and a generous master, and he was not long in realizing that, as long as he kept Harkings, Parrish's country place where he spent the greater part of his time, running smoothly according to Parrish's schedule, he could count on a life situation.
Mary gave him a look of indignant surprise. "But it might have incriminated you!" she exclaimed. At that Robin kissed her again. "Will men ever understand women?" he asked, looking into her tranquil grey eyes. Sudden frost had laid an icy finger on the gardens of Harkings.
The polish of manner, the sober dignity of dress, acquired from years of acute observation in the service of the nobility, were to be seen as, at the hour of five, in the twilight of this bleak autumn afternoon, Bude moved majestically into the lounge-hall of Harkings and leisurely pounded the gong for tea. The muffled notes of the gong swelled out brazenly through the silent house.
"A clear case of suicide," he said. "The medical evidence is conclusive on that point. A most amazing affair. I can't conceive what drove him to it. Why did he do it?" "Ah! why?" said Robin. A Red sun glowed dully through a thin mist when, on the following morning, Robin Greve emerged from the side door into the gardens of Harkings. It was a still, mild day.
In order, therefore, to gain his confidence, he willingly satisfied the other's curiosity regarding his visit to Harkings hoping thereby to extract some information as to the whereabouts of the letter on the slatey-blue paper. "There was no letter of this description on the desk, you say, when you and Miss Trevert looked?" asked Jeekes when Bruce had finished his story.
But they did not take in the pleasant prospect of the tall, ivy-framed casements in their mellow setting of warm red brick. He was trying to fix a mental photograph of a letter typewritten on paper of dark slatey blue which he had seen on Hartley Parrish's desk in the library at Harkings on the previous afternoon. Prompted by Bruce Wright, he could now recall the heading clearly.
Don't let them put you off with 'No reply. It's Harkings, and they are expecting me to ring them. I shall be in the writing room." When, twenty minutes later, Mr. Jeekes emerged from the trunk call telephone box in the club vestibule, his mouth was drooping at the corners and his hands trembled curiously.
She led the way out of the library, locking the door behind them, and together they went up to the Chinese boudoir where tea was laid on a low table before a bright fire. In the dainty room with its bright colours they seemed far removed from the tragedy which had darkened Harkings. They had finished tea when a tap came at the door. Bude appeared. He cast a reproachful look at Bruce.
Now the sight of Jeekes had put a great idea into the head of our young friend. He had been more chagrined than he had let it appear to Robin Greve at his failure to recover the missing letter from the library at Harkings.
The result was that he hastily revised an intention half-formed in his mind of taking Jeekes a little way into his confidence regarding Robin Greve's doubts and suspicions about Hartley Parrish's death. But he answered the secretary's question readily enough. "Because Miss Trevert told me you went to the library immediately you arrived at Harkings last night.
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