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Updated: June 20, 2025
Charles Powell in an earnest tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by a laugh of derision and were half prepared to salve his reputation for common sense by joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles Powell in whose start in life we had been called to take a part. He was lucky in his audience. "A very good name," said Marlow looking at him approvingly.
Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he "remembered him very well." Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any way.
Marlow assured me that the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self- reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the youngest would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs.
There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's complete sanity for some considerable time before he died. Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse.
She was really in considerable danger. At the sound of his voice she started back and retreated out of his sight amongst some young Scotch firs growing near the very brink of the precipice. "I sat down on a bank of grass," Marlow went on. "She had given me a turn. The hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer drop, she was so close to the edge. An absurd thing to do.
It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere a mere pinch it must have been, no more." "I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent does away with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in there too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It was the Great de Barral.
Powell stared for a moment. "Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite built." "Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Ferndale." "Know her?" "Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have gone about the seas prying into things considerably." Marlow smiled. "I've seen her, at least once." "The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily.
It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere a mere pinch it must have been, no more." "I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent does away with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in there too. It was not Mr Smith who obtained the poison. It was the Great de Barral.
James Allerdyke from Russia." "True true!" exclaimed Fullaway, clapping a hand to his forehead. "So I had! I'd forgotten that. But, after all, it was purely a private letter from Delkin, and " "No," interrupted Mrs. Marlow. "It was written and signed by Mr. Delkin's secretary. So that the secretary knew of the transaction." Van Koon shook his head and glanced at Allerdyke.
"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow. "I don't suppose it's much," said Mr Powell. "All the same a quick passage is a feather in a man's cap." "True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the by what was his name?" "The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain Anthony." "Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new acquaintance looked over his shoulder.
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