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Updated: June 11, 2025
Tad waited long enough to observe that the guide lost nearly every time, the stolid-faced red men raking in his coins with painful regularity. "It's a wonder he has a cent left. But they're not playing for very large amounts, as near as I can tell."
Breton." Then he nodded from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. "This is Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, from the Yard," he said to Spargo. "He's come to take charge of this case." "Oh?" said Spargo blankly. "I see what," he went on, with sudden abruptness, "what shall you do about Breton?" "Get him to come and look at the body," replied Rathbury. "He may know the man and he mayn't.
"You'll be at it, full blast, in two or three days. Where's McGraw?" A big, fat, stolid-faced man ploughed forward between the crowded tables. As he came up, he held out a pudgy hand, and grunted: "Huh! Glad t' see you." Griffith shook hands, and motioned toward Blake. "My friend Mr. Blake. Trying to get him to take charge here nominally as Assistant Engineer in case I have to go to Florida."
"Now we are beginning to come at something," cried Stillman, well pleased. "In all probability the assassin entered by way of the scuttle." He turned as though for the approval of the stolid-faced man. "Eh, Curran? What do you think of that?" "It looks very like it, Mr. Stillman." "At all events," spoke the coroner, "we will now examine the rooms." He advanced and tried the door of the show room.
The meeting was largely attended, and every one, children especially, waited for the exercises in excited curiosity and interest. Will sat on the platform with the superintendent, pastor, and others in authority, and close by sat the band of stolid-faced Indians.
Ashton-Kirk was about to go down when there came a tramping on the stairs. The big figure of the headquarters detective was first; after him came a nervous, important looking young man and a stolid-faced old one. With a large gesture Osborne laid his hand upon Ashton-Kirk's shoulder. "Mr. Stillman," said he to the nervous looking young man, "this is Mr. Ashton-Kirk. I guess you've heard of him."
Millions upon millions of huge, drab-clad, stolid-faced workmen stood at their posts of duty, performing over and over again their routine movements as the material of their labors shuttled by in endless streams.
Each evening these forlorn remnants were wont to forsake their stolid-faced wives and yammering offspring and pick their way through the solitary stump-dotted street, past windowless, deserted buildings which were the saloons and dance-halls of better days, to foregather around the huge stove in the rear of Hod Burrage's general store, which was decrepit Hilarity's sole remaining enterprise, and there to brag and maunder over the dead town's former glory.
The gilded, cone-shaped towers of Buddhist temples rising above steep roofs tiled in orange, red, or blue, their eaves hung with hundreds of tiny bells which tinkle musically in every breeze. The scarlet splotches of spreading fire-trees against whitewashed walls. Shaven-headed priests in yellow robes offering flowers and food to stolid-faced images of brass and clay.
She took an envelope from the desk and returning to the drawing-room slipped the duplicate mortgage within it and sealed it carefully. When, a few minutes later, a tall, dark, stolid-faced young man appeared, with a large dressmaker's box, she placed the envelope in his hand. "For Mr. Blaine," she whispered. "See that it reaches him immediately."
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