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Updated: May 29, 2025
In domestic difficulties Wimp was helpless. He could not tell even whether the servant's "character" was forged or genuine. Probably he could not level himself to such petty problems. He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to do quadratics, and has to solve equations of the second degree by the calculus. "How much money do you want?" he asked.
"Pass him in." And in the twinkling of an eye Denzil had eagerly slipped inside. But during the brief altercation Wimp had come up. Even he could not make his face quite impassive, and there was a suppressed intensity in the eyes and a quiver about the mouth. He went in on Denzil's heels, blocking up the doorway with Grodman.
Wimp did not move. "Tom Mortlake," went on Denzil, looking disappointed, "had a sweetheart." He paused impressively. Wimp said, "Yes?" "Where is that sweetheart now?" "Where, indeed?" "You know about her disappearance?" "You have just informed me of it." "Yes, she is gone without a trace. She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constant's murder." "Murder? How do you know it was murder?" "Mr.
It was a painting for which he had sat to her while alive, and she had stifled yet pampered her grief by working hard at it since his death. The fact added the last touch of pathos to the occasion. Crowl's face was hidden behind his red handkerchief; even the fire of excitement in Wimp's eye was quenched for a moment by a teardrop, as he thought of Mrs. Wimp and Wilfred.
Wimp let out as much at the Christmas dinner? "What's past is past," he said gruffly. "But if Tom Mortlake hangs, you go to Portland." "How can I help Tom hanging?" "Help the agitation as much as you can. Write letters under all sorts of names to all the papers. Get everybody you know to sign the great petition. Find out where Jessie Dymond is the girl who holds the proof of Mortlake's innocence."
"No!" said Denzil in a disappointed tone, and fearing he was going to be robbed. "Not when Mortlake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was a sort of rival organiser, unpaid! A kind of blackleg doing the work cheaper nay, for nothing." "Did Mortlake tell you he was jealous?" said Wimp, a shade of sarcastic contempt piercing through his tones. "Oh, yes!
I shall be with you again to-morrow." But the blood of the Break o' Day boys was at fever heat. A hurtling mass of men struggled confusedly from their seats. In a moment all was chaos. Tom did not move. Half-a-dozen men headed by Peter scaled the platform. Wimp was thrown to one side, and the invaders formed a ring round Tom's chair. The platform people scampered like mice from the centre.
Wilfred Wimp the little boy who stole the jam was in great form at the Christmas dinner. The only drawback to his enjoyment was that its sweets needed no stealing. His mother presided over the platters, and thought how much cleverer Grodman was than her husband. When the pretty servant who waited on them was momentarily out of the room, Grodman had remarked that she seemed very inquisitive.
Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes, excited to the last degree. "Boys!" Peter roared on, "you all know me. I'm a plain man, and I want to know if it's likely a man would murder his best friend." "No!" in a mighty volume of sound. Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake's popularity. He stood on the platform, pale and anxious as his prisoner.
Grodman perceived the humour of the situation, and wore a curious, sub-mocking smile. "On the day I was born," said Wimp's grand-mother-in-law, "over a hundred years ago, there was a babe murdered." Wimp found himself wishing it had been she. He was anxious to get back to Cantercot. "Don't let us talk shop on Christmas Day," he said, smiling at Grodman.
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