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"I should be glad, Inspector," he said, "if you would remember that the dead man was a personal acquaintance and that other friends are concerned in this ghastly affair." "Coombes will remember it," replied Kerry frigidly. "He's taking notes." "Look here " began Gray. Seton laid his hand upon the angry man's shoulder. "Pull up, Gray," he said quietly. "Pull up, old chap."
"What's the use of your saying I don't say it when I have just said it?" retorted my uncle somewhat pettishly. "You do talk so foolishly. I tell you the house is haunted. "How did he do it?" asked Mr. Coombes, with eager anxiousness. "Was it difficult?" "I do not know how he did it," replied my uncle; "he did not explain the process.
Coombes saw it was going to be a row, and opened too vigorously, as is common with your timid, nervous men all the world over. "Steady on with that music-stool!" said he; "it ain't made for 'eavy-weights." "Never you mind about weights," said Jennie, incensed. "What was you saying behind my back about my playing?" "Surely you don't 'old with not having a bit of music on a Sunday, Mr.
No, I have not; I'm staying here in Mallorysport until I either find them or am convinced that they aren't in the city. And I am offering a reward of two thousand sols apiece for their return to me. If you'll wait a moment, I'll have descriptions ready for you...." Victor Grego unstoppered the refrigerated cocktail jug. "More?" he asked Leslie Coombes. "Yes, thank you."
He leaned back in the cab, chewing industriously. Coombes, having somewhat recovered his breath, essayed speech. "Is it something big?" he asked. "Sure," snapped Kerry. "Do they send me to stop dog-fights?" Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street.
There was nothing in the pockets of the overcoat, but inside the hat he found pasted the initials L. P. He rolled chewing-gum, stared reflectively at the little window immediately above the table, through which a glimpse might be obtained of the ebony chair, and went out again. "Nothing," reported Coombes. "What do you mean nothing?" "His pockets are empty!" "All of them?" "Every one."
Coombes had fled his home in wrath and indignation, and something like fear, vowing furiously and even aloud that he wouldn't stand it, and so frothing away his energy along the line of least resistance. But never before had he been quite so sick of life as on this particular Sunday afternoon. The Sunday dinner may have had its share in his despair and the greyness of the sky.
All as knows him says it's because he be in such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one foot in the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that be it." "For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I think." "That be very true, sir." "And what does your daughter think?" "I believe she thinks the same.
George deserted his boat and went running heavily after his passenger. "After them!" cried Coombes. "That's Sin Sin Wa!" Around the mazey, rubbish-strewn paths the pursuit went hotly. In sight of Dougal's Coombes saw the swing door open and a silhouette that of a man who carried a bag on his shoulder pass in. George Martin followed, but the Scotland Yard man had his hand upon his shoulder.
"I used bad judgment," Coombes said dispassionately, as though discussing some mistake Hitler had made, or Napoleon. "I thought O'Brien wouldn't try to use one of those presigned writs, and I didn't think Pendarvis would admit, publicly, that he signed court orders in blank. He's been severely criticized by the press about that."
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