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Updated: May 8, 2025
At Widrington, a porter entered, carrying a kit-bag, an overcoat, and some golf-clubs; and round the door a little group, such as may be seen at any English wayside station, clustered, filling the air with their clean, slightly drawling voices.
As Henry came blithely into the house with a heavy suit-case in one hand and a cumbersome kit-bag in the other, his Aunt Mirabelle marched out like a grenadier from the living-room, and posted herself in the hallway to watch him approach. There was this much to say for Aunt Mirabelle: she was at least consistent, and for twenty years she had worn the same expression whenever she looked at him.
Then he said in a declamatory fashion: "I was mistaken; we are saved again." He loosed her arm. She breathed more easily, tapped the kit-bag, and said: "I 'av brought ze Lady Marion's clo'es." "Good," said the Honourable John Ruffin. "Sit down." She sat down, breathing quickly, gazing earnestly at the Honourable John Ruffin, who folded his arms and wore his best darkling air.
The lawyer paid no heed to her protest, but bade her pack her young mistress's clothes at once. He said that the sooner she was at the hotel, the safer he would feel. He did not get his way without further and louder protests from Eglantine; but in the end he got it. She packed the little kit-bag for Pollyooly with clothes of Lady Marion. The detective carried it.
In fact, Cousin Michael smiled slightly behind one of his great red hands as if in approval of the idea. So, to the evident relief of all, Paul said good-night. He was glad to escape from his strange companions. Hearing the sound of lightly-falling footsteps behind him, Boris Ivanovitch ceased his investigations of Sir Paul's kit-bag and cautiously turned his head.
An officer was standing there in a worn uniform, a very shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old Burberry over his arm. "Okewood!" said the young man and touched the other on the shoulder, "isn't it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see you!" The new-comer turned quickly. "Why, hullo," he said, "if it isn't Maurice Strangwise!
That was what we all felt, but none of us had put it so simply before. "What's this?" the man said, as he was gathering up the rest of the bandages. It was the Simpson-thing, and it did look very funny by daylight, I must say, just a wob of blue flannel tied with a string. I was going to explain, but Jerry said, with his mouth full: "Oh, just something we had," and stuffed it away in the kit-bag.
"Don't get streelin' off too far," Katy said, "Where are ye goin'?" "Oh, down by the shore," I said, which was not quite the whole truth, because of course it was not our shore, but the shore of Wecanicut I meant. Yes, all of it was my fault. Just as we were putting the lunch into the kit-bag Greg came staggering downstairs, trailing along the weirdest lot of stuff he'd collected.
Then, with the unreasoned impetuousness of a charging bull, he turned and flung shoreward down the pier. The cripple, groaning still, crawled to Simpson's feet and sat there. "Pauvre garçon!" repeated Simpson dully. "Pauvre garçon!" Suddenly the boy stopped groaning, swung Simpson's kit-bag on his shoulder, and sidled up the pier.
"I suppose you know, you clever little monkey, that I should have been floating down the Seine with a slit throat and enough lead in me to sink a barrel by this time, if it hadn't been for you," he said, as he pushed the outward semblance of Clodoche into the kit-bag, and began to get into ordinary civilian's dress as expeditiously as possible.
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