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Updated: May 25, 2025
Weeks they seem centuries pass, and I yet await trial. * "George Delwyn Ploat, the writer of the above remarkable story, was hanged in the jailyard at A for the wilful and brutal murder of Doctor Ambrose Matthai, a retired practitioner of that place.
"'Suspiciously small, you mean, said I gloomily, not at all reconciled to my wife's choice of abode. But as my feeble protest was treated with silence I held my peace. 'Anything for a quiet life' has ever been a favorite conceit with me. "Mrs. Ploat had taken an old-fashioned house in Queen Anne Street, large enough for a family of twenty persons.
Richlun, sayss I, 've goin' to make pettent prate!" "What?" asked the Doctor, frowning with impatience and venturing to interrupt at last. "Pet-tent prate!" The listener frowned heavier and shook his head. "Pettent prate!" "Oh! patent bread; yes. Well?" "Yes," said Reisen, "prate mate mit a mutcheen; mit copponic-essut kass into udt ploat pefore udt is paked.
My wife and sister-in-law are going up to the old home in a few days. Suppose you come over and spend a night with me while they are away. "The doctor chuckled, 'You are a queer fellow, Mr. Ploat; a queer fellow, and no mistake. You say you are run down, played out, can't sleep. Take more exercise, sir; give up late suppers, drink less, stop smoking.
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