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Here, Raby Penrose Tregaskis which of you'll cut in? Whitmore you'll take a hand, won't you?" "The Parson's tired to-night, and with better excuse than you. He's ridden down from Plymouth." "Hallo, Whitmore what were you doing in Plymouth?" Mr. Whitmore ignored the question. "I'm ready for a hand, Miss Belcher," he announced quietly: "only let it be something quiet a rubber for choice."
January 8, 1866, Doctor Whitmore and his herder, Robert McIntire, were killed in Arizona, four miles north of Pipe Springs by a band of Paiede Paiutes and Navajos, that drove off horses, sheep and cattle. There was pursuit from St. George by Col. D. D. McArthur and company.
The detective determined to ascertain who had advised Collins, who had outlined rules for his safe conduct through the tortuous channels into which he had plunged when he announced his intention of killing Whitmore. "Do you wish to advise with anyone before answering my questions?" asked Britz. "I won't talk I won't do anything without the consent of my lawyer."
Beard had taken charge of his affairs, in fact he had come to the house to live. None of them had seen Mr. Whitmore since the night of his disappearance, nor had they received any word from him. While they had not accepted unequivocally Mr.
Of course, the warden of the prison had never seen Travis, hadn't the slightest idea what he looked like. But in order to be on the safe side, the deputy insisted that Beard get someone who resembled Whitmore, alias Travis, in general appearances. For a week Beard searched and finally lit on Timson.
Chip carefully brushed a fly off Polly's flank with the whip. "I took it for granted. I was sent to meet a Miss Whitmore at the train, and I took the only lady in sight." "You took the right one but I'm not I haven't the faintest idea who you are." "My name is Claude Bennett, and I'm happy to make your acquaintance." "I don't believe it you don't look happy," said Miss Whitmore, inwardly amused.
If it meant a seat in heaven for me, I couldn't offer a guess as to how the assassin got to Whitmore. That man came down to his office yesterday morning, greeting his employés with a smile, distributing the most kindly remarks. It can't be that two or three hours later all those men would join in a conspiracy to shield his murderer.
He leaned forward a little, got a fresh grip on the reins and took the whip. "Hang tight, now I'm going to beat that horse to the Hog's Back." Miss Whitmore, laughing till the tears stood in her eyes, braced herself mechanically. Chip had been laughing also but that was before Banjo struck into the hill road in his wild flight from the terror that rode in the saddle.
The Whitmore case would not take rank among the unsolved murder mysteries of the city. In fact, to Britz it was no longer a mystery. The detective entered Headquarters in a happy frame of mind. He was in control of the situation, had mastered all the complexities of the case.
What was Letcher's game?" "His right name is Leicester, sir. He is Mr. Plinlimmon's cousin or second cousin, rather though Mr. Plinlimmon don't know it." Mr. Whitmore, with his gloss rubbed off, was fast returning to his native style even in speech. You could as little mistake him now for a gentleman as for a priest. "And how does that bear on your pretty plot?"
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