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Updated: June 2, 2025
That night I dreamed of nothing but the scene, over and over again, and the two bars of music were constantly ringing in my ears. As soon as I had breakfasted the next morning I set off to Mr Turnbull's, and told him what had occurred.
"I came to tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for this afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull's death. Where's your partner, Mr. Rochester?" looking around inquiringly. "In Cleveland. Won't I do?" replied Kent, his appointment forgotten in the news that Ferguson had just given him. "No, we didn't come for legal advice," Ferguson smiled; then grew serious. "What's Mr.
We continued there chatting and amusing ourselves till it was late, and then shoved off and pulled down with the stream. The sun had set, and we had yet six or seven miles to return to Mr Turnbull's house, when we perceived a slight, handsome young man in a skiff, who pulled towards us.
Kent," he demanded, "to make it of any value to that bunch?" and as Kent did not answer immediately, he added, "Are you sure it had nothing to do with Jimmie Turnbull's death and Philip Rochester's disappearance?" "Quite sure." Kent's gaze did not waver before his penetrating look.
Turnbull's first movement after sixty motionless seconds was to turn round and look at the large, luxuriant parallelogram of the garden and the long, low rectangular building beyond. There was not a soul or a stir of life within sight. And he had a quite meaningless sensation, as if there never really had been any one else there except he since the foundation of the world.
Ferguson's eyes glowed; the case already whetted his remarkably keen inquisitorial instinct which had gained him place and certain fame in the Washington police force. "Are the Misses McIntyre still in the building?" "They were in the court room just before we brought Turnbull's body here," responded the deputy marshal. "I guess they are still waiting, eh, doctor?"
Wynne was now heard to acknowledge that she could neither approve of Miss Turnbull's conduct, nor frame any apology for it. She confessed that it looked very like what she of all things detested most ingratitude. Her nephew, who had been a cool observant spectator of this evening's performance, was glad that his aunt's mind was now decided by Almeria's conduct.
With ashen face and trembling finger she pointed to Turnbull's body which suddenly confronted her as she walked forward. "Who is it?" she gasped. "Babs, tell me!" And she held out her hand imploringly. Her sister stepped to her side and bent over Turnbull. When she looked up her lips alone retained their color. "Hush!" she implored, giving her sister a slight shake. "Hush! It is Jimmie Turnbull.
Over my dirty trousers and vulgar shirt I put on his smart driving-coat, which buttoned high at the top and thereby hid the deficiencies of my collar. I stuck the cap on my head, and added his gloves to my get-up. The dusty roadman in a minute was transformed into one of the neatest motorists in Scotland. On Mr Jopley's head I clapped Turnbull's unspeakable hat, and told him to keep it there.
His tormentor lay, a humiliated heap, at his feet. Never in Jimmy's life had any one dared to resent his attacks in this way. He could not understand it, and was overcome more by superstition and a fear of Turnbull's reputed supernatural aids than by real fear of his physical powers. Turnbull ordered the bully to stand up, and warned him against experimenting on strangers.
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