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Updated: June 2, 2025
The letter-lock was a warden who kept its own secret and could not be bribed; the mysterious word was an ingenious realization of the "Open sesame!" in the Arabian Nights. But even this was as nothing. A man might discover the password; but unless he knew the lock's final secret, the ultima ratio of this gold-guarding dragon of mechanical science, it discharged a blunderbuss at his head.
The woman had evidently torn it from her murderers arm in her desperate struggle for her life. The lad Hewling upon discovering the body of the murdered woman, was horror stricken by the sight and ran towards Mr. Lock's house, badly frightened and calling lustily for help. Mr. Lock, his son Wilbert and Mike Noonan, an employ, came running from the house. When they had seen the body, Mr.
But the freight door switch went flat beside the other, and the freight door rose with massive swiftness. The heavy body smashed against it, went sliding back to the floor as the door slammed shut and the screen section showing the cargo lock turned dark. "Got it got it got it!" Gefty heard himself whispering exultantly. He switched on the lock's interior lights.
"Had I no better gang to the house to put things to rights?" said Jenny, confounded with this unexpected apparition. "We want nothing but the pass-key," said Miss Bellenden; "Gudyill will open the windows of the little parlour." "The little parlour's locked, and the lock's, spoiled," answered Jenny, who recollected the local spmpathy between that apartment and the bedchamber of her guest.
Born of farmer folk in Oxford County, Maine, his early life had been spent on the soil in and about Lock's Mills with small chance of schooling. Later, as a teamster, and finally as shipping clerk for Amos Lawrence, he had enjoyed three mightily improving years in Boston.
In an old orchard in the confines proper of the Fort, about midway between the Highland and Alexandria pikes, on the farm of James Lock, and near the fence which acts as a boundary line for Mr. Lock's farm, was found by James Hewling, a young man, on Saturday morning, Feb. 1., 1896, the decapitated body of a young woman of venus-like form, the headless body lying with the neck in a pool of blood.
"It's a good thing I knew that lock's defects," she whispered, "or we should never have got in this way," and she turned the handle and walked into the kitchen. With their hands on their swords Redmond and Daimur followed her. It was quite dark in the kitchen, the only light coming from a solitary candle on a high shelf, which threw long shadows everywhere.
As he did so Tom Shocker closed the door and locked it. Dave heard the click of the lock's bolt and wheeled around. "What did you do?" he demanded sharply. "I guess I've got you now, Dave Porter!" cried another voice, and now Dave recognized the tones of Nat Poole. "You played me a scurvy trick by putting me aboard the freight train. I guess it's about time I paid you back; don't you think so?"
I had very little hope that, even on the chance of my arriving while he was away, he would have left the door open. Nevertheless I tried the handle, and to my surprise it yielded. "That must be because the lock's broken and only a bolt remains," I thought. "So he had to take the risk. All the better. This looks as if he'd be back any minute.
The plan was for Torbert to advance with Merritt's division of cavalry from Summit Point, carry the crossings of the Opequon at Stevens's and Lock's fords, and form a junction near Stephenson's depot, with Averell, who was to move south from Darksville by the Valley pike.
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