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Updated: June 10, 2025
Francis, too, although that evening, through sheer lack of sympathy, he refused to admit it, shared to some extent Hilditch's passionate interest in his fellow-creatures, and notwithstanding the strange confusion of thought into which he had been thrown during the last twenty-four hours, he felt something of the pungency of life, the thrill of new and appealing surroundings, as he sat in his high-backed chair, sipping his wonderful wine, eating almost mechanically what was set before him, fascinated through all his being by his strange company.
"You're by the way of being a collector, aren't you?" Wilmore shook his head. "The fact that he is the father of Oliver Hilditch's widow." Francis sat quite still for a moment. There was a complete change in his expression. He looked like a man who has received a shock. "I forgot that," he muttered.
"Believe me, there isn't such an obstinate person in the world as the man of early middle-age who suddenly discovers the woman he means to marry." "But you can't marry me," she protested. "Why not?" he asked. "Because I was Oliver Hilditch's wife, for one thing." "Look here," he said, "if you had been Beelzebub's wife, it wouldn't make the least difference to me.
The few words which he saw framed there he fancied of reproof remained unspoken. Sir Timothy was waiting for them at the entrance. "I have been asking Mrs. Hilditch's permission to call in Curzon Street," Francis said boldly. "I am sure my daughter will be delighted," was the cold but courteous reply. Margaret herself made no comment.
She looked at him for a moment in blank astonishment. "Heavens!" she exclaimed. "Oliver Hilditch's wife!" "I can't help that," he declared, a little doggedly. "She's had a miserable time, I know. She was married to a scamp. I'm not quite sure that her father isn't as bad a one. Those things don't make any difference." "They wouldn't with you," she said softly.
Wilmore demanded, leaning forward in his chair and gazing at his friend with increasing uneasiness. "A woman who met me outside the Court and told me the story of Oliver Hilditch's life." "A stranger?" "A complete stranger to me. It transpired that she was his wife." Wilmore lit a cigarette. "Believe her?" "There are times when one doesn't believe or disbelieve," Francis answered. "One knows."
"As to Margaret being Oliver Hilditch's widow," Francis replied, "you were responsible for that, and no one else. He was your protege; you gave your consent to the marriage. As to your being her father, that again is not Margaret's fault. I should marry her if Oliver Hilditch had been three times the villain he was, and if you were the Devil himself." "I am getting quite to like you, Mr.
Suddenly Sir Timothy leaned over. He caught hold of Mr. Hilditch's hand which held the hilt of the dagger, and and well, he just drove it in, sir. Then he stood away. Mrs. Hilditch sprang up and would have screamed, but Sir Timothy placed his hand over her mouth. In a moment I heard her say, 'What have you done? Sir Timothy looked at Mr. Hilditch quite calmly.
Oliver Hilditch's good-looks had been the subject of many press comments during the last few days. They were certainly undeniable. His face was a little lined but his hair was thick and brown. His features were regular, his forehead high and thoughtful, his mouth a trifle thin but straight and shapely. Francis gazed at him like a man entranced. The hours seemed to have slipped away.
Ledsam, for the wonderful evidence you tendered at the inquest upon the body of my son-in-law, Oliver Hilditch." Francis turned in his place and looked steadily at this unsought-for companion, learning nothing, however, from the half-mocking smile and imperturbable expression. "Your son-in-law?" he repeated. "Do you mean to say that you are the father of of Oliver Hilditch's wife?"
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