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Updated: June 29, 2025
As soon as the sportsman had left him, he bade Dykeman take up the pistols, and walked straight home into the library, where Robert Beaufort, who was no sportsman, generally spent his mornings. He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he stirred the fire with unusual vehemence, "Beaufort, I'm very sorry I asked you to invite Vaudemont. He's a very ill-bred, disagreeable fellow!"
I don't know what it was that Dykeman felt, but Cummings felt my rude elbow in his chest as I pushed him unceremoniously aside, and opened the door he had blocked, remarking, "We go out as we came in. This way, Barbara." It was as I parted with the two of them at the Capehart gate that I drew out and handed Mrs.
"After his father shot himself," Whipple's lowered tone was a plea. "After his father shot himself." "Huh!" snorted Dykeman. "If a man shoots himself, he's been shot, hasn't he? Hell! What's the use of whipping the devil round the stump that way? Boyne, you can stand with us, or you can fight us."
"See here," Cummings got between us and the door. "I can't let you go like this. I feel " "Mr. Dykeman," Barbara turned quietly to her employer, "could we pass out through your room?" "Certainly," the little man was brisk to make a way for us. "I want you to know, Miss Wallace, that I, too, feel I, too, feel "
"Yes," I said, "mighty little time ago the day he promised the testimony you wanted in the Gilbert case." "Anything in what Boyne says, Cummings?" Dykeman asked anxiously. "You know I wouldn't stand for that sort of stuff." The lawyer shook his head, but I didn't believe it was ended between them; Dykeman was the devil to hang on to a point. This would come up again after I was gone.
Dykeman whispered at him. Cummings nodded with that self-conscious, half-tickled, half-sheepish air that men display when it comes to costume. His greeting to me was cool but not surly. What had happened might go as all in the day's work between detective and lawyer. "Just seen Bowman," was my first pass at them.
On the blank silence that followed my last words, there in the big, dignified room with its Circassian walnut and sound-softening rugs, Dykeman, the oldest director, squalled out as though he had been bitten, "All there is to tell! But it can't be! It isn't possib " His voice cracked, split on the word, and the rest came in an agonized squeak, "A man can't just vanish into thin air!" "A man!"
"Boyne's with us of course he's with us," Whipple broke in, his words a good deal more confident than his tone or the look of his face. "Well, then," Dykeman ground out, "when our thief of a teller splits that one hundred and eighty seven thousand with his man Gilbert shut up, Whipple shut up! You can't stop me we're going to know about it. We'll get them both then, and send them across.
Two others, who seemed to have been holding him back, let go all at once, and he lurched a step into the room. Doctor Anthony Bowman. A minute he stood blinking, staring, then he caught sight of his wife and bawled out, "She's here all right. Tol' you she was here. Can't fool me. Saw her go past in the hall." I looked triumphantly at Dykeman and Cummings. Their star witness drunk as a lord!
Dykeman reached for the photographs, spread them out before him, then looked up from them peevishly to say, "For the good Lord's sake! Don't look any more like Clayte than it does like a horned toad. Is that what you've been wasting your time over, Boyne? If you ask me " "I don't ask you anything," retrieving the pictures, planting them deep in an inner pocket. Then I got myself out of the room.
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