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Copplestone looked over the bill again, rapidly realizing possibilities. "Would Chatfield know that?" he asked reflectively. "It's only likely that he would," replied Gilling. "Even if father and daughter don't quite hit things off in their tastes, it's only reasonable to suppose that Peter would usually know his daughter's whereabouts.
The word towel was indifferently applied, perhaps, for a cloth for use at the table or in the lavatory. Yet there was also the manuturgium, or hand-cloth, a speciality rendered imperative by the mediaeval fashion of eating. In the inventory of the linen at Gilling, in Yorkshire, one of the seats of the Fairfax family, made in 1590, occur: "Item, napkins vj. dozen. Item, new napkins vj. dozen."
Swallow, of course, couldn't wait every minute was precious. He followed the Squire to King's Cross, and heard him book for Northborough." "Northborough!" exclaimed Copplestone, in surprise. "Not Norcaster? Ah, well, Northborough's a port, too, isn't it?" "Northborough is as near to Scarhaven as Norcaster is, you know," said Gilling. "To Northborough he booked, anyhow.
She's a bit of a persuasive tongue, has my wife, and when she heard that these two gentlemen were thinking of going a long journey right away to the far north, it was, I believe she got 'em to go and see the doctor first, for she felt that Mr. Greyle wasn't fit for the exertion." "Did they go?" asked Gilling. "They did! I talked, myself, to the old gentleman," replied the landlord.
We afterwards discovered that several of the finest pieces we had taken had actually been sent to her on approval by Gilling, so, curiously enough, we had touched his property on a second occasion. "It was a difficult affair," Bindo declared. "I had to pretend to make love to Medhurst, or I should never have been able to get a cast of the safe-key.
Not all the sprinkled shells and caravans of bleeding victims can cow the boys of the front line. In this work of lifting clear of horror, tobacco has been a friend to the soldiers of the Great War. "I wouldn't know a good cigarette if I saw it," said Geoffrey Gilling, after a year of ambulance work at Fumes and Coxyde.
"I just slapped you the way we used to slap each other on the campus. What I was going to say was that you have no business being a bachelor. With all your money, and nothing to do but travel and sit around hotels and clubs, no wonder you've grown bilious." "Oh, no; I'm not bilious," Mr. Gilling said uncomfortably. "I'm not bilious at all." "You ought to get married," Mr. Schofield returned.
"An acquaintance of an hour," interposed Gilling, with ready wit. "I have just come to stay at the inn for my health's sake." "Perhaps you'll be kind enough to accompany us?" said Greyle. "The fact is, Mr. Copplestone, we've found Mr. Bassett Oliver's body." "I thought so," remarked Copplestone. "And as soon as the police come up," continued Greyle, "I want you all to see exactly where it is.
"Here we are!" he whispered. "Tower Reaver's Glen sea in the distance. Lone spot, ain't it, gentlemen?" Copplestone and Gilling, who had never seen this part of the coast before, looked out on the scene with lively interest. It was certainly a prospect of romance and of wild, almost savage beauty on which they gazed.
"Why," replied Gilling, "we've got warrants out against both Chatfield and the Squire for the murder of Bassett Oliver! the police here have them in hand. Petherton's seen to that. And if they can only be laid hands on What is it?" he asked turning to a sleepy-eyed waiter who, after a gentle tap at the door, put a shock head into the room. "Somebody want me?"
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