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Updated: June 24, 2025
His words coming like the staccato roar of a machine gun, Hite addressed the three: "George, a telephone call was made from this station," handing him the slip of paper, "find the number in the telephone book. The call was made last night at precisely the time that Flynn's house in Pleasantville was blown up. It might have been made from a station near there.
The upraised hand, the potent silence, the solemn gaze of a hundred eyes was too much for the old man to bear. Slowly he swung back on two legs of his chair, caught the rungs again with the projecting soles, turned his eyes to the ceiling, closed them, and set himself to imagining the station at Pleasantville. The rout was complete. Perry wheeled and faced me.
He had got Pope's records into sensible shape, had opened a small set of books for him, and knew that the inspector must be pleased with the results. Bart had missed the early afternoon train. There was no other running to Pleasantville direct until eleven o'clock that night. He had planned to put in the time strolling about town, when Professor Rigoletto appeared. He was accompanied by a friend.
Adams, it seemed, had found the will and had sent it to Pleasantville addressed to himself, not daring to face the colonel with the important document in his possession, but never living to carry out his plan.
"We'll tie up at Pleasantville landing and learn who he is." "He had ought to have a doctor to look at them cuts of his," said Mrs. Cavendish. It was late afternoon when the landing was reached. Half a score of men were loafing about the woodyard on shore. Mr. Cavendish made fast to a blasted tree, then he climbed the bank; the men regarding him incuriously as he approached.
They picked up 'Chicago' Boyle here near the New Hampshire border; Boyle was in a job in Yonkers some time ago where he got into a house the same way the killer got into Miller's Folly; chimney, rope and climbing irons. Boyle's alibi is fishy, Duke, awfully weak. "A member of this Tontine group, William Flynn, who lives in Pleasantville decided he had to go home.
"I have no time to figure it out," breathed Bart quickly. "The first thing to do is to get the trunk down there." Bart ran back to the wagon. He hurriedly pulled away the grass covering and then the canvas. The trunk was revealed. He had his first full glance at it since it had been delivered to him at the express office at Pleasantville, the afternoon previous.
I'd be awful glad to tip the messenger handsomely to have someone at Pleasantville, where they transfer the hives, open the ventilators for a spell and tip down into the pans some of the honey syrup." "I will do that for you, sir," spoke up Bart "I am in charge of the express office at Pleasantville.
One of them was here with Lem about two weeks ago, but I don't know his name, or where he lives. He don't belong in Pleasantville. Oh, dear!" she concluded, with a sigh of deep depression, "I wish Lem would get back on the road in a steady job, instead of scheming at this thing and that. He'll land us all in the poorhouse yet, for he spends all he gets down at the Corner."
"Too heavy to carry around, you see!" smiled Bart lightly. "Who is this gentleman? Oh, I see good afternoon, Mr. Stuart." "Afternoon," crisply answered the stranger. He was a young limb of the law, employed since the previous year in the office of Judge Monroe, the principal attorney of Pleasantville. Stuart was a butt for even the well-meaning boys of the town.
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