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Updated: May 28, 2025
"And it is a happy event that, by seeing us unexpectedly, your memory has returned. But the reason Mr. Henfrey is here is to resume that conversation which was so suddenly interrupted at the Villa Amette." Mademoiselle was silent for some moments. Her face was averted, for she was gazing out of the window to the distant sea.
You know that Henfrey shot her!" "I tell you I know nothing," retorted the old man. "Why do you come here and disturb me?" he added peevishly. "Because I want to know the truth," Benton answered. "And I mean to!" "Go away!" snapped the wilful old fellow. "I've done with you all all the crowd of you!" "Ah!" laughed Benton. "Then you forget the little matter of the man Morel eh?
She spent the autumn in Paris, and during the summer she was at Deauville. She also went to London for a brief time, I believe." "Did she ever live in London?" asked Hugh eagerly, interrupting Ogier's interrogation. "Yes once. She had a furnished house on the Cromwell Road for about six months." "How long ago?" asked Henfrey.
That is your name, is it not?" he asked, remembering the card he had taken to his mistress. "Yes," Hugh replied. "I have reason to believe that my late father was acquainted with your mistress, and that he called upon her in London." "I believe that a gentleman named Henfrey did call, because when I glanced at the card you gave me last night the name struck me as familiar," the servant said.
She was slightly inclined to be lavish so far as she could afford it; but her Scotch blood kept her just on the right side of prudence, and so gave more grace to her undoubted generosity. This house, which had been chosen by Mrs. Henfrey, was less than a quarter of a mile from John Mortimer's, and was approached by the same sandy lane.
Between his thin lips was a long, thin, Swiss cigar his favorite smoke and with his gold-rimmed pince-nez poised upon his aquiline nose he was reading a document which would certainly have been of considerable interest to Hugh Henfrey and his friend Walter Brock could they have seen it. Upon the pale yellow paper were many lines of typewriting in French a carbon copy evidently.
Henfrey had been drugged, for he was still alive and apparently dazed. I afterwards heard, however, that Howell had pressed the needle of a hypodermic syringe containing a newly discovered and untraceable poison which he had obtained in secret from a certain chemist in Frankfort, who makes a speciality of such things." "And what happened then?" asked Hugh, aghast and astounded at the story.
Henfrey and Miss Christie Grant, and being rebuked by one and advised by the other as to his carving, for he could not manage the joint before him, and was letting it slip about in the dish and splash the white sauce. "You must give your mind to it more," said Mrs. Henfrey, "and try to hit the joints." "It's full of bones," exclaimed Valentine in a deeply-injured voice.
But but it is all so strange!" she cried wildly. "I I I can't think! At last! Yes. I know. I recollect! You!" And she stared at Hugh. "You you are Monsieur Henfrey!" "That is so, mademoiselle." "Ah, messieurs," remarked the elderly doctor, who was standing behind his patient. "She recognized you both after all!
It would be an awful rag if we could do something. We must raise a team of some sort. Henfrey would score so if we didn't. Who's there, d'you think, that can play?" Mansfield considered the question thoughtfully. "They all play, I suppose," he said slowly, "if you can call it playing.
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