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Updated: June 18, 2025
Hurd's tea-party took for her in an instant the dramatic zest and glamour. "Look here, Mrs. Jellison," she said, going up to her; "I was just going to leave these apples for your grandson. Perhaps you'll take them, now you're here. They're quite sweet, though they look green. They're the best we've got, the gardener says." "Oh, they are, are they?" said Mrs.
Then he took the telegram out of his pocket which had been put into his hands as he reached the hotel, his mouth quivering again with the exultation which he had felt when he had received it. It recalled to his ranging memory all the details of his hurried interview with the little Widrington solicitor, who had already scented a job in the matter of Hurd's defence.
It was the work of a few seconds to efface as far as possible the traces of their raid, to drag some thick and trailing brambles which hung near over the mouth of the hole where there had been digging, to catch up the ferrets and game, and to bid Hurd's lurcher to come to heel.
On the other hand, believing, as he emphatically did, that Hurd's slaying of Westall had been of a kind more deliberate and less capable of excuse than most murders, he would have held it a piece of moral cowardice to allow his own qualms and compunctions as to the rights and wrongs of game-preserving to interfere with a duty to justice and society.
Meanwhile, in the lane outside, Marcella, as she walked home, passed a tall broad-shouldered man in a velveteen suit and gaiters, his gun over his shoulder and two dogs behind him, his pockets bulging on either side. He walked with a kind of military air, and touched his cap to her as he passed. Marcella barely nodded. "Tyrant and bully!" she thought to herself with Mrs. Hurd's story in her mind.
The prosecution have got together extremely strong evidence as to Hurd's long connection with the gang, in spite of the Raeburns' kindness as to his repeated threats that he would 'do for' Westall if he and his friends were interrupted and so on. His own story is wholly uncorroborated; and Dynes's deposition, so far as it goes, is all against it."
Jessop seemed unwilling to speak, but when pressed burst out, "'Twas a measily little kid with ragged clothes and a dirty face." "Tray," said Hurd. "Hum! I wonder how he knew of the murder before it got into the papers?" Hurd's sister was a clever young woman who in her time had played many parts.
Herne's name was new to me but Hurd's commendation was enough to take me down to the obscure theater in the South End where Drifting Apart was playing. The play was advertised as "a story of the Gloucester fishermen" and Katharine Herne was the "Mary Miller" of the piece.
Krill, who was as plump and smiling and smooth-faced and severe as ever, bowed and rubbed her white hands together. At a sign from Maud, Matilda gathered up the fancy work and went out of the room with many backward glances. These were mostly indignant, for she was angry at Hurd's deception. "Do you wish my daughter to stay?" asked Mrs. Krill, smoothly.
The boy is beaten to death, the keeper shot dead at the first brush by a man who has been his life-long enemy, and threatened several times in public to 'do for him. If that is not brutal and deliberate murder, it is difficult to say what is!" Marcella stood still in the misty road trying to command herself. "It was not deliberate," she said at last with difficulty; "not in Hurd's case.
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