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Updated: May 29, 2025
"Come back in an hour or so," he snapped, and tried to close the door. But I had got my toe in the crack. "I'll have to have the piano moved, Mr. Ladley," I said. "You'd better put off what you are doing." I thought he was probably writing. He spent most of the day writing, using the wash-stand as a desk, and it kept me busy with oxalic acid taking ink-spots out of the splasher and the towels.
Friday, as I say, was very quiet. Mr. Ladley moved to the back parlor to let the paper-hanger in the front room, smoked and fussed with his papers all day, and Mr. Holcombe stayed in his room, which was unusual. In the afternoon Molly Maguire put on the striped fur coat and went out, going slowly past the house so that I would be sure to see her.
"Did you see him tie up the boat?" "Yes." "Did you observe any stains on the rope?" "I did not notice any." "What was the prisoner's manner at that time?" "I thought he was surly." "Now, Mrs. Pitman, tell us about the following morning." "I saw Mr. Ladley at a quarter before seven. He said to bring breakfast for one. His wife had gone away.
Jennie Brice went to the train, because that was where she wanted to go. But as Ladley was to protest that his wife had left town, and as the police would be searching for a solitary woman, I went with her. We went in a leisurely manner. I bought her a magazine and a morning paper, asked the conductor to fix her window, and, in general, acted the devoted husband seeing his wife off on a trip.
I could always hear her, she having a theatrical sort of voice one that carries. "But what about the prying she-devil that runs the house?" "Hush, for God's sake!" broke in Mr. Ladley, and after that they spoke in whispers. Even with my ear against the panel, I could not catch a word.
The 9 men turned out of the ship: Henry Hudson, master. John Hudson, his son. Arnold Ladley. John King, quarter master. Michael Butt, married. Thomas Woodhoase, a mathematician, put away in great distress. Adame Moore. Philip Staff, carpenter. Syracke Fanner, married. John Williams, died on 9 October. Slain: Henry Greene. William Wilson. John Thomas. Michell Peerce.
"Then you'll like your soda from the ice-box?" "Soda? For what?" "For your whisky and soda, before you go to bed, sir." "Oh, certainly, yes. Bring the soda. And just a moment, Mrs. Pitman: Mr. Holcombe is a total abstainer, and has always been so. It is Ladley, not Holcombe, who takes this abominable stuff." I said I quite understood, but that Mr. Ladley could skip a night, if he so wished.
Ladley insisted that this was the case, and that on that Sunday afternoon his wife had requested him to take them to Miss Hope; that they had quarreled as to whether they should be packed in a box or in the brown valise, and that he had visited Alice Murray instead. It was on the way there that the idea of finally getting rid of Jennie Brice came to him.
Well, in spite of all that, there seemed no doubt that Jennie Brice had been living three days after her disappearance, and that would clear Mr. Ladley. But what had Mr. Howell to do with it all? Why had he not told the police of the letter from Horner? Or about the woman on the bridge? Why had Mr.
Pitman," he said, "has our friend come back yet?" "She was no friend of mine." "Not she. Ladley. He'll be out this evening, and he'll probably be around for his clothes." I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of. "He may want to stay here," said Mr. Graves. "In fact, I think that's just what he will want." "Not here," I protested. "The very thought of him makes me quake."
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