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Updated: July 17, 2025
"I'll make inquiry as to that, sir," responded Kitteridge, "but I've heard nothing of the sort so far, and all the servants are aware by now that Mr. Herapath isn't in the house. If anybody had heard anything " Before the butler could say more the study door opened and a girl came into the room. At sight of her Selwood spoke hurriedly to Kitteridge. "Have you told Miss Wynne?" he whispered.
The door of the study opened, and Selwood, who was still engaged about the house, came in. He paused on the threshold, staring from one to the other, and made as if to withdraw. But Peggie openly smiled on him. "Come in, Mr. Selwood," she said. "I was just going to ask Kitteridge to find you. I want to see both you and Mr. Tertius."
"You brought Mr. Herapath home at one o'clock?" he said. "Alone?" "He was alone, sir," replied the coachman, who had been staring around him as if to seek some solution of the mystery. "I'll tell you all that happened I was just beginning to tell Mr. Kitteridge here when you come in. I fetched Mr.
No call came to Selwood over that telephone until half-past seven one November morning, just as he was thinking of getting out of bed. And the voice which then greeted him was not Herapath's. It was a rather anxious, troubled voice, and it belonged to one Kitteridge, a middle-aged man, who was Herapath's butler.
"Say, you can learn like a shot when you really want to," said Jerry admiringly. "I don't think that's a nice poem to teach to Andy," said Cathy, who had come in and listened to her small brother. "I'd like to know why not?" asked Jerry. "Poetry should be beautiful," said Cathy dreamily. "Like that poem Miss Kitteridge read us day before yesterday. "Life has loveliness to sell," quoted Cathy.
The butler and the coachman looked at each other then the coachman, a little, sharp-eyed man who was meditatively chewing a bit of straw, opened his tightly-compressed lips. "He did come home, sir," he said. "I drove him home as usual. I saw him let himself into the house. One o'clock sharp, that was. Oh, yes, he came home!" "He came home," repeated Kitteridge. "Look here, sir."
"Mr. Barthorpe Herapath wants both of you," he said curtly. "I suppose he will ask for you presently." Kitteridge let out an anxious inquiry. "The master, sir?" he exclaimed. "Is " "Good heavens!" muttered Selwood. "I of course, you don't know. Mr. Herapath is dead." The two servants started and stared at each other.
"Blah! That stinks," said Jerry. "But I liked it when Miss Kitteridge read us 'Casey at the Bat. That's good poetry." "Not as good as poetry by Sara Teasdale." "It is, too." "It is not." "There's no law that says that everybody has to like the same kind of poetry," said Mrs. Martin from the doorway. "You twins don't have to show dispositions to match the weather.
But Peggie realized that such questions were useless at that time that time was pre-eminently one of action. She put the letter back in the rosewood box, took the box in her arms, and carrying it off to her own room, locked it up in a place of security. And that had scarcely been done when Kitteridge came seeking her and bringing with him a card: Mr.
When the boys laughed at him for saying that China was in Africa, he routed them entirely by his superior knowledge of the animals belonging to that wild country; and when "First class in reading" was called, he marched up with the proud consciousness that the shortest boy in it did better than tall Moses Towne or fat Sam Kitteridge.
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