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Updated: May 11, 2025
Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to the pseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at him showed Copplestone that something had happened. "Gad! I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gilling hastily. "Been making eyes at you for ten minutes. I say Greyle's off!" "Off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "How do you mean off?"
At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, I guess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran over my antiquarian data another time. It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for the third time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when the chambermaid came to the bedroom door. "This note was just left for you, sir." I tore it open.
By the time Copplestone and the pseudo-curate had reached the plateau of open ground surrounding the ruins it seemed as if half the population of Scarhaven had gathered there. Men, women and children were swarming about the door in the curtain wall, all manifesting an eager desire to pass through. But the door was strictly guarded.
"There's no need for alarm. Do you care to go up, Mr. Gilling?" The pseudo-curate accepted the invitation readily, and he and Copplestone entered the turret. They had climbed half its height before Copplestone spoke. "Well?" he whispered. "What do you think?" "It may be accident," muttered Gilling. "It mayn't." "You think he might have been what? thrown down?"
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