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Updated: May 20, 2025
I never was so aggravated over the indifference of a girl in my life, and my regard for my former sweetheart, on account of her enthusiasm for a Las Palomas lad, kindled anew within me. But as the third man sped over the course, we hastily returned to watch the final results. After a last trial the man threw down his lance, and, riding up, congratulated Quayle.
The old ranchero and our segundo, together with Dan Happersett, made up a good set of judges on our special fitness for the different contests, and we were finally picked in this order: Enrique Lopez was to rope; Pasquale Arispe was to ride; to Theodore Quayle fell the chance of handling the lance, while I, being young and nimble on my feet, was decided on as the rider in the ten-mile relay race.
Bell tell you my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?" "I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn't it?" "Good heavens, no! Surely you don't think anyone's name could really be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame. My real name is Marson Ashe Marson. And yours?"
Quayle replied, indulgently. "You are always on the side of doing the generous thing, my dear father, when you see it." Here his lordship's grasp upon the head of his walking-stick relaxed sensibly. "Thank you, Ludovic. Very pleasant thing to have one's son say to one, I must say, uncommonly pleasant." Alas! he felt himself to be slipping, slipping.
"Richard, you must have known she could never satisfy you why did you try to marry Constance Quayle?" "To escape." "From whom from me?" "From myself, which is much the same thing as saying from you, I suppose." "And you could not escape?" "So it seems." "But but, dear Richard," she said plaintively, yet with very winning sweetness, "why, after all, should you want so desperately to escape?"
One member of the Quayle family, and that a leading one, had taken his dismissal before it was given and, with a nice mixture of defective moral-courage and good common-sense, had removed himself bodily from the neighbourhood of the scene of action. Lord Shotover was still in London. Along with the payment of his debts had come a remarkable increase of cheerfulness.
Those very words occurred in Gridley Quayle, Investigator The Adventure of the Blue Ruby. "What what do you mean?" he stammered. "I will tell you what I mean. On Saturday night a valuable scarab was stolen from Lord Emsworth's private museum. The case was put into my hands " "Great Scott! Are you a detective?" "Ah!" said Ashe. Life, as many a worthy writer has pointed out, is full of ironies.
Knott!" she answered. "To begin with he'll never ask me, since we like each other very royally ill. And to end with " she carefully avoided sight of Mr. Quayle "I you see I'm not what you call a marrying man." About twenty minutes later the young lady, still booted and spurred, opened the door which leads from the Chapel-Room into Lady Calmady's bedchamber.
Indeed, in "Gridley Quayle, Investigator; the Adventure of the Missing Marquis" number four of the series he had drawn a picture of the home life of a duke, in which a butler and two powdered footmen had played their parts; but he had had no idea that rigid and complicated rules of etiquette swayed the private lives of these individuals.
The day before the appointed time for the delivery, the drover brought up saddle horses and enough picked mares to make his herd number fifteen hundred. The only unpleasant episode of the sale was a difference between Theodore Quayle and my employer. Quayle had cultivated the friendship of the drover until the latter had partially promised him a job with the herd, in case there was no objection.
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