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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Now that it can't be helped, I don't care. I think theatres are stupid, anyway." At 11 o'clock that night somebody tapped lightly on Anthony Rockwall's door. "Come in," shouted Anthony, who was in a red dressing-gown, reading a book of piratical adventures. Somebody was Aunt Ellen, looking like a grey-haired angel that had been left on earth by mistake.
And then my lamps fall on another party present, who, I says to myself, is failin' in a proper affection toward his comin' son-in-law, so I watches my chance and dumps that powder in old man Riddle's coffee see?" Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall's Eureka Soap, looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned.
I wish you would let me go on with this chapter." The story should end here. I wish it would as heartily as you who read it wish it did. But we must go to the bottom of the well for truth. The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie, who called himself Kelly, called at Anthony Rockwall's house, and was at once received in the library.
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