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Updated: June 24, 2025
You think Webster's guilty?" "Think!" He almost shouted his contempt of the inadequate word. "Think! I know! Guilty? The man's black with guilt." "I'm sure of it," she said, curiously skilful in surrendering to him all credit for that vital discovery. "What are you going to do now that you know?" "Make him talk, turn him inside out! Playing sick, is he! I'm going back to Sloanehurst this evening.
And she did everything to make me think so, except declaring it outright. She did that because she knew I hated to think she was in love with him." "All right, Mr. Russell. Now, tell us what happened during your ah shadowing Miss Brace the night she was killed." "I got off the car at Ridgecrest and walked toward Sloanehurst. It was raining then, pretty hard.
"The only place I can get information is at the wrong end Russell!" "What's the matter with me?" the detective asked amiably. "I'll be glad to help if you think I can." "What good's that to me?" He wore his best politician's smile, but there was resentment in his voice. "Your job is keeping things quiet for Sloanehurst. Mr.
He noted, with his customary kindness, in his memorandum to Hendricks: "Sunday's a bad day for this sort of work, but do the best you can. Report tomorrow morning." That arranged, he set out for Sloanehurst, to keep his promise to Lucille he would be there for the inquest. On the way he reviewed matters: "Somehow, I got the idea that the Brace woman knew Russell hadn't killed her daughter.
Appreciating his opportunity, he had determined to bring to light at once everything they knew. He devoted sudden attention now to Webster, whom he knew by reputation a lawyer thirty years of age, brilliant in the criminal courts, and at present striving for a foothold in the more remunerative ranks of civil practice. He had never been introduced to him, however, before meeting him at Sloanehurst.
It was, however, not Russell who figured most prominently in the accounts of the murder published by the Monday morning newspapers. The reporters, resenting the reticence they had encountered at Sloanehurst, and making much of Mrs.
The young lawyer's retirement from the scene, coupled with the Sloane family's retaining the celebrated detective, Jefferson Hastings, as a buffer against any questioning of the Sloanehurst people, has given Society, here and in Virginia, a topic for discussion of more than ordinary interest."
She came out here in the middle of the night, where she knew you were. She was murdered, and by a weapon whose blade may have been fashioned from an article you possessed, an article which is now missing, missing since you came to Sloanehurst this time. You were found bending over the dead body.
He sought the detective's opinion. "Mr. Hastings, you've just heard the stories of everybody here. Do me a favour, will you? Is it worth while for me to go into Washington? Tell me: do you think anybody here at Sloanehurst is responsible for this murder?" "Mr. Crown," the old man answered, "there's no proof that anybody here killed that woman." "Just what I thought," Mr. Crown applauded himself.
If accidents happen and you're seen entering the Walman, what more natural than that you want to ask this woman the meaning of her vague threats against against Sloanehurst? But of money, your real object, not a word! Nobody's to have a hint of it." "Oh, yes; I see the necessity of that." But she was distressed. "Suppose she refuses?"
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