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Ritter fished a cigarette out of his livery and appropriated Rand's lighter. "If we hear her coming, you can grab this." He brushed a couple of Paterson Colts to one side and sat down on the edge of the desk, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. "What's the regular law doing, now that young Jarrett is out?" "I had a long talk with Mick McKenna," Rand said.
He hoped she would not have an opportunity to observe his stooping capabilities before he had finished his various operations at Rosemont. "I certainly hoped not." Mrs. Jarrett relaxed, smiling faintly at Rand. "Pierre likes you, Colonel. I hated the thought that you might have betrayed him. Are you working on the Rivers case, too?" Rand nodded again, turning to Dot Gresham.
I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett, who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man, answered quickly for me, "Oatmeal." I did not know what that dish was, but the ferocious reporter continued his questions. "And what do you eat during the day?" "Mussels." He wrote down phlegmatically, "Mussels during the day."
At one in the morning we left for Louisville. During the journey from Memphis to Louisville we were awakened by the sound of a fight, by oaths and cries. I opened the door of my railway carriage, and recognised the voices. Jarrett came out at the same time.
I saw each of the reporters take Jarrett aside, and when I asked him what the secret was of all these "asides," he answered phlegmatically, "I have made an appointment with them for one o'clock. There will be a fresh one every ten minutes." I looked at him, petrified with astonishment. He met my anxious gaze and said: "Ah oui; il etait necessaire."
"You will tell me after a while," I continued; "I suppose you will tell me after a while." A moment later I asked: "What ship is this?" Doyle stared again. "The steamer City of Prague, bound from Liverpool to New York, three weeks out with a broken shaft. Principal passenger, Mr. Gordon Doyle; ditto lunatic, Mr. William Jarrett.
At the hotel all the artistes were awaiting me, as I had forgotten we were to have a rehearsal of La Princesse Georges at half-past four. I noticed a face that was unknown to me among the members of our company, and on making inquiries about this person found that he was an illustrator who had come with an introduction from Jarrett.
The windows were dark, but Karen was waiting inside the door for him. He entered quickly, mindful of the All-Seeing Eye across the street, and followed her to a back room, where Mrs. Jarrett and Dorothy Gresham were. All three women regarded him intently, as though trying to decide whether he was friend or enemy. There was a long silence before Mrs.
Just in front of me, nearly at my feet, was a rather deep natural basin. "You see," remarked our guide phlegmatically, "that is the pond, but just at present there is no water in it; neither are there any fish. You must come again in three months' time." Jarrett made such a fearful grimace that I was seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter, of that kind of laughter which borders on madness.
Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them. I remember perfectly well that all of them began with, "Well, Mademoiselle, what do you think of London?"
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