United States or Suriname ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Already Walter Ryder had infused a new strain into Marcia Macdougal's character terror, the terror that is akin to love, had endowed her with a womanly gravity. Though the other guests had been gone a fortnight or more, Ryder still remained at Boobyalla. Lucy Woodrow was deeply interested in Ryder.
But, once or twice a week, Mike the Angel liked to take off and prowl around Radio Row, just shopping around. Usually, he didn't work too late, but, on this particular afternoon, he'd been in his office until after six o'clock, working on some papers for the Interstellar Commission. So, by the time he got down to Radio Row, the only shop left open was Harry MacDougal's.
On the afternoon of his second day in Melbourne Jim saw Lucy Woodrow once more. She passed in Macdougal's trap as Done and his mate were walking along Swanston Street. She looked very pretty, and was laughing gaily at something her companion had said. The sight of that companion affected Jim in a peculiar way.
The idea of parting with her hurt now, and his pulse stirred impatiently. The admiration in his eyes caused a flush to relieve the pale olive of her cheeks. 'I'll do anything you ask, he said, 'It is a very little thing. This is Mrs. Macdougal's address. I want you to promise to write to me. 'I will.
He was eager to pay Boobyalla another visit, but Mike was deaf to all insinuations, and Jim consoled himself with pretty imaginative pictures in which Lucy was vividly represented sitting on the shady veranda at Macdougal's home stead, spotted with flakes of golden sunshine filtered through the tangle of vine and creeper.
Quest, flat on his stomach, crawled a little way down, took out his electric torch from his pocket and brushed the stuff away. Then he clambered to his feet. "Our search is over," he declared gravely, "and your troubles, Lenora. That is Macdougal's body. He may have slipped in as you did, Laura, or he may have crept there to hide, and starved. Anyhow, it is he."
That she had been christened with an aristocratic and poetical name like Marcia she held to be convincing testimony of her inherent gentility. Not a little of the extra merriment of Mrs. Macdougal's Christmas and the happiness of her New Year was due to the fortunate circumstance that she had a lion to present to her guests in the person of the Honourable Walter Ryder.
He looked again. Then the lights flashed out all around him. There were two detectives in the doorway, their revolvers covering him, Sanford Quest, with Lenora in the background. In the sudden illumination, Macdougal's horror turned almost to hysterical rage. He had wasted his fury upon a dummy! It was sawdust, not blood, which littered the couch! "Take him, men," Quest ordered.
Mrs. Macdougal's guests did not mind Macdougal in the least, however; the eccentricities of Old Dint-the-Tin were well known to the neighbouring squatters, and from their point of view, as visitors at Boobyalla on pleasure bent, he did not count.
"Sure, Harry." Mike turned around, pressed the locking switch, and heard it snap satisfactorily. "Okay, Mike," said Harry MacDougal's voice. "Come on back. I hope ye brought that bottle of scotch I asked for." Mike the Angel made his way back between the towering tiers of bins as he answered. "Sure did, Harry. When did I ever forget you?"
Word Of The Day