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Updated: May 1, 2025
"All right. This is Bristow. Read it to me." "Message is dated today, Washington, D. C. 'Mr. Lawrence Bristow, nine Manniston Road, Furmville, N. C. See Encyclopaedia Britannica, volume one, page five hundred and six, second column, line fifteen to line seventeen, and page five hundred and seven, second column, line seventeen to line twenty-three. Signed 'S. S. Braceway, Do you get that?" "No!
"We'll have to know more about how you spent those two hours. Really, we will. If you try to leave town, you'll be arrested. My men have their orders." Greenleaf had forgotten about the ring found in the young man's hotel room, but Bristow hadn't. Morley went slowly down Manniston Road. There was a cold moisture upon his forehead.
At a quarter past nine he caught a glimpse of a big car speeding out Freeman Avenue. He sprang to his feet, hurried down to No. 5, rang the bell, and was inside the living room by the time the machine had climbed up Manniston Road and deposited in front of the door its one passenger. He was a man of sixty-five or sixty-seven years of age, very white of hair, very erect of figure.
"It's George Withers' watch," she said, "and, when I found it, he had not been on this side of Manniston Road, according to the story he told you and the chief of police." Bristow was thinking intently, a frown creasing his forehead. He was wishing that she had not found the watch. He reminded himself of the hysterical condition she had been in the day before.
Far from questioning his work, they ought to thank him for The reverie was interrupted by the telephone bell. He took down the receiver and shouted "Hello!" as if he resented the call. His irritation showed what a tremendous amount of nervous energy he had expended in the last six days. "Western Union speaking," said a man's voice. "Telegram for Mr. Lawrence Bristow, nine Manniston Road."
Greenleaf, going down the walk, met the stranger, special correspondent of a New York paper. They had a short colloquy, the newspaper man looking frequently toward No. 9, and finally they turned and went down Manniston Road. Bristow, leaving his chair to go back to the sleeping porch, saw Miss Kelly come out of No. 5 and hurry in his direction. He waited for her.
"That's all I wanted to know," Withers said quietly, giving the check back to Illington. "I'm much obliged." This time Illington departed, taking himself off with a feeling of having done his duty with promptitude and according to the best business ethics. His visit had prevented Withers' meeting the train, and Fulton had gone directly to Manniston Road.
You lied when you made your statement about the night Mrs. Withers was murdered. Now, come through with that the truth about it!" Morley, utterly bewildered, stared and said nothing. "What did you do that night? Where were you?" Bristow left his chair and, going round the table, stood in front of Morley. "I told you that once. I wasn't anywhere near Manniston Road." "Yes, you were!
The talk's too bitter; worse here among the Manniston Road people than anywhere else." "Well, what of it?" "It wouldn't be the first instance of how easy it is for an innocent man to be well, hurt." "Oh, that sort of thing is out of the question, absurd." "Never mind! I'd stay away. That's what I'd do." It was almost dark when the chief of police took his departure.
On the sleeping porch of No. 5, Manniston Road, Maria Fulton lay awake a long time and tortured herself by reviewing again and again the thoughts that had crushed her during the day. Miss Kelly, on a cot at the foot of the girl's bed, heard her stirring restlessly but could not know in the darkness how her long, slender fingers tore at the bed-covering, nor how her face was drawn with pain.
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