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Updated: May 22, 2025
"There was a letter, too, on the same paper ..." "By Gad!" exclaimed the boy eagerly, "have you got that too?" Robin shook his head. "It was only your story that made me think of it. I had the letter. But I left it where I found it on Parrish's desk in the library ..." "But you read it ... you know what was in it?" Robin shrugged his shoulders.
Albert Edward Jeekes, Hartley Parrish's principal private secretary, lunched with Lady Margaret, Mary and Horace. Dr. Romain seemed not to have got over his embarrassment of the morning, for he did not put in an appearance. Mr.
Greve obtained in Rotterdam, but I have reason to believe that he kept his interest in Hornaway's and his ahem! other activities entirely separate. If this can be definitely established to my own satisfaction and to yours, my dear Miss Trevert, I see no reason why you should not modify your decision at least in respect of Mr. Parrish's interest in Hornaway's."
But they did not take in the pleasant prospect of the tall, ivy-framed casements in their mellow setting of warm red brick. He was trying to fix a mental photograph of a letter typewritten on paper of dark slatey blue which he had seen on Hartley Parrish's desk in the library at Harkings on the previous afternoon. Prompted by Bruce Wright, he could now recall the heading clearly.
Except for the still form lying on the floor and the broken pane of glass in the window, there was nothing to tell of the tragedy which had been enacted there that afternoon. There were no papers to hint at a crisis save the prosaic-looking envelope containing the will, and Parrish's note for Mary. The waste-paper basket, a large and business-like affair in white wicker, had been cleared.
Humphries saw her eyes fill, watched the emotion grip her and shake her in her self-control so that she could not speak when, her reading done, she gave him back the letter. Without asking her permission, he took the sheet of fine, expensive paper with its neat engraved heading and postal directions, and read Hartley Parrish's last message.
It was situated in beautiful country and was within easy reach by car of his town-house in St. James's Square where he lived for the greater part of the week. Last but not least Harkings was the casket enshrining a treasure, the realization of a lifelong wish. This was the library, Parrish's own room, designed by himself and furnished to his own individual taste.
And he read from the telegram: "Mastertons gunsmiths sold last July pair of Browning automatics identical with that found on Parrish to Jeekes who paid with Parrish's cheque." The message was signed "Manderton." At that moment a man wearing a black bowler hat and a heavy frieze overcoat came hurrying out of the hotel. "Mr.
"I liked you, Bruce," said Robin shortly. "Well, I'll tell you now," he said. "When I joined H.P.'s staff after I got out of the Army, I was put under old Jeekes, of course, to learn the work. One of the first injunctions he gave me was with regard to Mr. Parrish's letters. I suppose you know more or less how secretaries of a big business man like Hartley Parrish work.
But, until he could clear himself of the suspicion lurking in Mary Trevert's mind that he, Robin Greve, was in some way implicated in Hartley Parrish's death, the dead man, he felt, would always stand between them. And so ... Robin pitched the stump of his cigarette into a rose bush with a little gesture of resignation.
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