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Updated: June 14, 2025
Detective Robson stepped forward, and was sworn. On the 15th of June last, he said, he searched the prisoner's cottage on the Thurwell Court estate.
That terrible oath which, at his bidding, I heard you swear against Sir Geoffrey Kynaston rings ever in my ears!" There were other sentences of a somewhat similar nature. As Mr. Thurwell listened to them he felt his heart sink. What could avail against such evidence as this? There was no hesitation at all on the part of the magistrates.
I should vote for Mr. Brown." "Mr. Brown it shall be, then!" he answered. "Douglas shall write him to-morrow." A fortnight later Mr. Bernard Brown took up his quarters at Falcon's Nest. "I call it perfectly dreadful of those men!" Helen Thurwell exclaimed suddenly. "They're more than an hour late, and I'm desperately hungry!" "It is rank ingratitude!" Rachel Kynaston sighed.
The men quickened their pace, and emptying their guns into the air, soon came within hailing distance. On that particular day of the year there was only one possible greeting, and Helen and her companion contented themselves with a monosyllable. "Well?" Mr. Thurwell was in the front rank, and evidently in the best of spirits. It was he who answered them. "Capital sport!" he declared heartily.
All around Falcon's Nest the country, not yet released from the iron grip of a late winter, lay wasted and desolate; and the heath, which had lost all the glowing touch of autumn, faded into the horizon bare and colorless. Nowhere was there any relief of outline, save where the white front of Thurwell Court stretched plainly visible through a park of leafless trees.
"Then he gave you some references, I suppose?" "Only his bankers and his lawyers." "Do you remember those?" "Yes. The bankers were Gregsons, and the lawyer's name was Cuthbert." Mr. Benjamin made a note of both. "There is nothing more which it occurs to you to tell us, Miss Thurwell?" he asked. "There is one circumstance which seemed to me at the time suspicious," she said slowly.
Then there was a few minutes' expectation, at the conclusion of which Bernard Maddison was brought in between two policemen, very calm and self-possessed, but very pale. Directly he appeared Mr. Thurwell rose and shook hands with him, a friendly demonstration which brought a faint glow into his cheeks.
They were gone, and in their place was a certain air of reserve and thoughtful strength which seems always to cling to those men and women who face the world with a definite purpose before them. Mr. Thurwell knitted his brows, and had nothing to say.
If you knew more of the world, Miss Thurwell, you would understand something of its cramping influence upon all independent thought. I am not a pessimist at least, I try not to be. I do not wish to say that there is more badness than goodness in the world, but there is certainly more littleness than greatness.
Thurwell turned away, and walked to the furthermost corner of the apartment. For his daughter's sake, and for the sake of his own strong liking for this man, he had resolutely shut his eyes upon the damning chain of evidence against him. Now he felt that that he could do so no longer. Nothing but guilt could account for this strange reticence. He was forced to admit it at last.
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