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Updated: June 22, 2025
My neighbor, Seth Whitmore, who died about ten years ago, came along from the village and waited for me to come to the end of the row down by the road and he told me that Garfield was shot. We both allowed the corn would be a pretty fair crop and when I gathered the fodder that fall there was a right smart of a corn crop.
"You shall see," I promised; and as the two soldiers picked me up and laid me along a plank, I made signs that they were to carry me as I directed. He nodded, and fell into pace beside my litter. The body of Whitmore lay along the foot of the wall where it had fallen. But when we drew near, it was not at the body that I stared, putting out a hand and gripping Archibald Plinlimmon's arm.
She went closer and laid her hand upon the shimmery mane. The horse snorted nervously and struggled to rise. "He's not used to a woman," said Chip, with a certain accent of pride. "I guess this is the closest he's ever been to one. You see, he's never had any one handle him but me." "Then he certainly is no lady's horse," said Miss Whitmore, good- naturedly.
Whitmore, "were fed upon Gospel food, and it seems extremely improbable that an edition could have been sold." Singularly enough, England's claim to the venerable old lady is of about the same date as Boston's. There lived in a town in Sussex, about the year 1704, an old woman named Martha Gooch.
"Sam!" the merchant called to his office boy. "I shall be very busy with my papers this morning. Permit no one to enter my office and don't bring any visitors' cards." Whitmore placed his hand affectionately on the boy's touseled hair. "Don't forget my instructions!" he said pleasantly. The merchant permitted the glass door of his office to remain open.
And that vengeful passion must not be permitted to expend itself in profitless inward torture. It was a potent force for Britz's dexterous hands to manipulate, a destructive fury that should annihilate Beard if Beard was the slayer of Herbert Whitmore. Like one inspired by a great purpose, Britz moved with the human current down Broadway.
"Norma Whitmore." Eugene was pleased and grateful that she took it so nicely, but Angela was the least big chagrined secretly that he had not told her before. Why hadn't he? Was this someone that he was interested in? Those three years in which she had doubtingly waited for Eugene had whetted her suspicions and nurtured her fears.
The coroner shot a searching glance at Britz. "If none of the suspects was at Whitmore's office, how could any of them have killed Whitmore?" "Mr. Whitmore was not killed in his office," said Britz firmly. "He was shot the night before." The words came like a stunning blow where a verbal counter-argument was expected.
Whitmore was absent for six weeks?" he suddenly asked. "Yes, sir." "Do you know where he was?" "Mr. Beard told me to tell all visitors that Mr. Whitmore was away on a business trip." "Who is Mr. Beard?" "Mr. Whitmore's confidential secretary. He took charge of the business while Mr. Whitmore was away." "Isn't it somewhat unusual that nobody called to see Mr. Whitmore on his return this morning?"
"What's the matter with Mr. Whitmore?" the clerk asked the office boy. The two thrust their faces against the intervening glass, noting that the employer's limbs were rigidly outstretched and that one hand hung limply at his side while the other rested on the desk. They tiptoed into the office, like guilty schoolboys bent on eavesdropping.
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