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Updated: June 7, 2025
"I wish you could remember exactly how the advertisement was worded?" said Varick. It was clear that he felt very much disturbed. "I'm sorry I didn't keep a copy of it; all I can tell you is that it asked for information concerning the past life and career of Lionel Varick, sometime of Redsands and Chichester." "Chichester?" repeated Varick mechanically.
What a curious, uncanny, uncomfortable story that of "poor Milly's" ghost appearing on the little platform of the village school-room! There seems no measure, even in these enlightened days, to what people will say and believe. And then there flashed across her a recollection of the fact that Bubbles had been there, sitting just below Lionel Varick.
Varick had been ill-treated or if not exactly ill-treated, then neglected by her husband, during her last illness. "I wouldn't have told you, but that I think you ought to know that the woman has an inexplicable grudge against you," he had said. "Not inexplicable," Varick had answered quietly.
Such a marriage would be the making of his highly-strung, fine-natured friend. As he hurriedly finished dressing, Panton plumed himself on his cleverness. With all his heart he hoped the day would come when he would be able to say to Varick: "Ages before you thought of her, old chap, I selected Miss Brabazon as your future bride!" He hoped, uneasily, that Sir Lyon was not seriously in the running.
But Dorothy shook her head, saying that she meant to ride the boundary with us; and the children, after vainly soliciting my company, trooped off towards that same grist-mill in the ravine below the bridge which I had observed on my first arrival at Varick Manor. "I am wondering," said Dorothy, "how you mean to pass the morning. You had best steer wide of Sir Lupus until he has breakfasted."
The first evening that my guests were here she held what I believe they call a séance, and as a result Miss Brabazon's uncle, old Burnaby, not only bolted from the room, but left Wyndfell Hall the next morning." "What an extraordinary thing!" "Yes," said Varick, "it was an extraordinary thing. I confess I can't explain Bubbles' gift at all.
"She died murdered poisoned." Mark Gifford uttered the dread words very quietly. "Almost certainly poisoned by her husband, Lionel Varick." A mist came over Blanche Farrow's eyes. She turned suddenly sick and faint. She put out her hand blindly. Gifford took it, and made her sit down on a stone bench.
Varick was a man of moods subject, that is, to fits of exultation and of depression and yet with an amazing power of self-control, and of entirely hiding what he felt from those about him. To-night his mood was one of exultation. He almost felt what Scots call "fey."
"All Ormond, all Ormond, George, like that vixen o' mine, Dorothy. Hey! It's not too often that good blood throws back; the mongrel shows oftenest; but that big chit of a lass is no Varick; she's Ormond to the bones of her. Ruyven's a red-head; there's red in the rest o' them, and the slow Dutch blood.
"Friend," replied Mount, "I wear red quills on my moccasins, you wear bits of sea-shell. That is all the difference between us. Good-bye. Varick Manor is the first house four miles ahead." He wheeled his horse, then, as at a second thought, checked him and looked back at me. "You will see queer folk yonder at the patroon's," he said.
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