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Updated: June 15, 2025
Darrel spoke to the second period in that passage of Lear, the majesty and despair of the old king in voice and gesture. The words were afire with feeling as they came off his tongue, and all looked at him with surprise. "Ah, you have seen me play it," said the stranger. "There's no other Lear that declares himself with that gesture."
The girl will feel worried if I don't write." Then, drawing several postals from his pocket, Dyke Darrel wrote a few lines on one with a pencil, and addressed it to "Miss Nell Darrel, Woodburg." Just then Elliston entered. "When does the next train pass, Harper?" "In twenty minutes. Will you go on it to Chicago?" "Not to Chicago. I shall stop half a hundred miles this side, or more.
It must have been meant for a practical joke," and the detective's thoughts were turned to Harper Elliston. "It might be, of course," admitted the chief of Burlington police, "but it is a joke that I shouldn't relish, and you might make it warm for the perpetrator. I can telegraph and inquire into it if you wish, Mr. Darrel." "Not now.
Most were in rough homespun over white shirts with no cuffs or collar. All gathered about Darrel, who sat smoking outside the door. He rose and greeted each one of the women with a bow and a compliment.
"What is it you want?" demanded the detective shortly. With the word, the man lunged forward. Divining his movement, Dyke Darrel sank suddenly to the steps, and his assailant plunged headlong from the train! It seemed a terrible plunge into eternity. Not for one moment did the detective lose his presence of mind, however. Straightening, he reached up and grasped the bell-cord.
There he went to the Sign of the Dial and built a fire in its old stove. The clocks were now hushed. He found those Darrel had written of and delivered them. Returning, he began to wind the cherished clocks of the tinker old ones he had gathered here and there in his wandering and to start their pendulums.
A low exclamation from the lips of Nell startled both men. "Nell, what is it?" questioned the surprised detective. Harry regarded the girl with a queer smile. Perhaps he knew what had brought the exclamation to the lips of Miss Darrel. "I know a man who has lost a wart," she said, slowly, a deepening pallor coming to her cheeks. "His name?" questioned Dyke Darrel, eagerly.
Written by John Dorrel, a faithful Minister of the Gospell, but published without his knowledge.... 1599. A Discovery of the Fraudulent Practises of John Darrel, Bacheler of Artes ..., London, 1599. The "Epistle to the Reader" is signed "S. H.," i. e., Samuel Harsnett, then chaplain to the Bishop of London.
She seemed to be comparing the face of the picture with that of her visitor. Dyke Darrel was puzzled, and somewhat pleased. "No, you are not my Hubert; he was a nobler looking gentleman by far." "Will you permit me to look at the picture, Miss " "No, no; I dare not trust it out of my hands. I promised him, you know, and I must not disappoint Hubert, for he is very exacting. Hark!"
The noted detective had outwitted him completely. It was humiliating, to say the least. "This is an outrage!" at length the young villain found voice to utter. "I will call on the police for assistance if you do not at once remove these bracelets." "Do so if you like," answered Dyke Darrel, coolly; so icily in fact as to deter the young man from carrying out his threat.
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