Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

One With The Russian Postmark,  We Shall Have Found The Murderer.' He

Spoke Like A Madman,  And As He Spoke He Ran Around The Room,  With One

Hand Held Out In Front Of Him As You Have Seen A Mind-Reader At A

Theatre Seeking For Something Hidden In The Stalls. He Pulled The Old

Letters From The Writing-Desk,  And Ran Them Over As Swiftly As A

Gambler Deals Out Cards; He Dropped On His Knees Before The Fireplace

And Dragged Out The Dead Coals With His Bare Fingers,  And Then,  With

A Low,  Worried Cry,  Like A Hound On A Scent,  He Ran Back To The

Waste-Paper Basket And,  Lifting The Papers From It,  Shook Them Out

Upon The Floor. Instantly,  He Gave A Shout Of Triumph,  And,

Separating A Number Of Torn Pieces From The Others,  Held Them Up

Before Me.

"'Look!' He Cried. 'Do You See? Here Are Five Letters,  Torn Across In

Two Places. The Russian Did Not Stop To Read Them,  For,  As You See,

He Has Left Them Still Sealed. I Have Been Wrong. He Did Not Return

For The Letters. He Could Not Have Known Their Value. He Must Have

Returned For Some Other Reason,  And,  As He Was Leaving,  Saw The

Letter-Box,  And,  Taking Out The Letters,  Held Them Together--So--And

Tore Them Twice Across,  And Then,  As The Fire Had Gone Out,  Tossed

Them Into This Basket. Look!' He Cried,  'Here In The Upper Corner Of

This Piece Is A Russian Stamp. This Is His Own Letter--Unopened!'

"We Examined The Russian Stamp And Found It Had Been Cancelled In St.

Petersburg Four Days Ago. The Back Of The Envelope Bore The Postmark

Of The Branch-Station In Upper Sloane Street,  And Was Dated This

Morning. The Envelope Was Of Official,  Blue Paper,  And We Had No

Difficulty In Finding The Other Two Parts Of It. We Drew The Torn

Pieces Of The Letter From Them And Joined Them Together,  Side By

Side. There Were But Two Lines Of Writing,  And This Was The Message:

'I Leave Petersburg On The Night-Train,  And I Shall See You At Trevor

Terrace,  After Dinner,  Monday Evening.'

"'That Was Last Night!' Lyle Cried. 'He Arrived Twelve Hours Ahead Of

His Letter--But It Came In Time--It Came In Time To Hang Him!'"

The Baronet Struck The Table With His Hand.

"The Name!" He Demanded. "How Was It Signed? What Was The Man's

Name?"

The Young Solicitor Rose To His Feet And,  Leaning Forward,  Stretched

Out His Arm. "There Was No Name," He Cried. "The Letter Was Signed

With Only Two Initials. But Engraved At The Top Of The Sheet Was The

Man's Address. That Address Was 'The American Embassy,  St.

Petersburg,  Bureau Of The Naval Attache,' And The Initials," He

Shouted,  His Voice Rising Into An Exultant And Bitter Cry,  "Were

Those Of The Gentleman Who Sits Opposite Who Told Us That He Was The

First To Find The Murdered Bodies,  The Naval Attache To Russia,

Lieutenant Sears!"

A Strained And Awful Hush Followed The Solicitor's Words,  Which

Seemed To Vibrate Like A Twanging Bowstring That Had Just Hurled Its

Bolt. Sir Andrew,  Pale And Staring,  Drew Away,  With An Exclamation Of

Repulsion. His Eyes Were Fastened Upon The Naval Attache With

Fascinated Horror. But The American Emitted A Sigh Of Great Content,

And Sank,  Comfortably,  Into The Arms Of His Chair. He Clapped His

Hands,  Softly,  Together.

"Capital!" He Murmured. "I Give You My Word I Never Guessed What You

Were Driving At. You Fooled Me,  I'll Be Hanged If You Didn't--You

Certainly Fooled Me."

The Man With The Pearl Stud Leaned Forward,  With A Nervous Gesture.

"Hush! Be Careful!" He Whispered. But At That Instant,  For The Third

Time,  A Servant,  Hastening Through The Room,  Handed Him A Piece Of

Paper Which He Scanned Eagerly. The Message On The Paper Read,  "The

Light Over The Commons Is Out. The House Has Risen."

The Man With The Black Pearl Gave A Mighty Shout,  And Tossed The

Paper From Him Upon The Table.

"Hurrah!" He Cried. "The House Is Up! We've Won!" He Caught Up His

Glass,  And Slapped The Naval Attache,  Violently,  Upon The Shoulder.

He Nodded Joyously At Him,  At The Solicitor,  And At The Queen's

Messenger. "Gentlemen,  To You!" He Cried; "My Thanks And My

Congratulations!" He Drank Deep From The Glass,  And Breathed Forth A

Long Sigh Of Satisfaction And Relief.

"But I Say," Protested The Queen's Messenger,  Shaking His Finger,

Violently,  At The Solicitor,  "That Story Won't Do. You Didn't Play

Fair--And--And You Talked So Fast I Couldn't Make Out What It Was All

About. I'll Bet You That Evidence Wouldn't Hold In A Court Of Law--

You Couldn't Hang A Cat On Such Evidence. Your Story Is Condemned

Tommy-Rot. Now,  My Story Might Have Happened,  My Story Bore The Mark-

-"

In The Joy Of Creation,  The Story-Tellers Had Forgotten Their

Audience,  Until A Sudden Exclamation From Sir Andrew Caused Them To

Turn,  Guiltily,  Toward Him. His Face Was Knit With Lines Of Anger,

Doubt,  And Amazement.

"What Does This Mean?" He Cried. "Is This A Jest,  Or Are You Mad? If

You Know This Man Is A Murderer,  Why Is He At Large? Is This A Game

You Have Been Playing? Explain Yourselves At Once. What Does It

Mean?"

The American,  With First A Glance At The Others,  Rose And Bowed,

Courteously.

"I Am Not A Murderer,  Sir Andrew,  Believe Me," He Said; "You Need Not

Be Alarmed. As A Matter Of Fact,  At This Moment I Am Much More Afraid

Of You Than You Could Possibly Be Of Me. I Beg You,  Please To Be

Indulgent. I Assure You,  We Meant No Disrespect. We Have Been

Matching Stories,  That Is All,  Pretending That We Are People We Are

Not,  Endeavoring To Entertain You With Better Detective-Tales Than,

For Instance,  The Last One You Read,  'The Great Rand Robbery.'"

The Baronet Brushed His Hand,  Nervously,  Across His Forehead.

"Do You Mean To Tell Me," He Exclaimed,  "That None Of This Has

Happened? That Lord Chetney Is Not Dead,  That His Solicitor Did Not

Find A Letter Of Yours,  Written From Your Post In Petersburg,  And

That Just Now,  When He Charged You With Murder,  He Was In Jest?"

"I Am Really Very Sorry," Said The American,  "But You See,  Sir,  He

Could Not Have Found A Letter Written By Me In St. Petersburg Because

I Have Never Been In Petersburg. Until This Week,  I Have Never Been

Outside Of My Own Country. I Am Not A Naval Officer. I Am A Writer Of

Short Stories. And To-Night,  When This Gentleman Told Me That You

Were Fond Of Detective-Stories,  I Thought It Would Be Amusing To Tell

You One Of My Own--One I Had Just Mapped Out This Afternoon."

"But Lord Chetney Is A Real Person," Interrupted The Baronet,  "And He

Did Go To Africa Two Years Ago,  And He Was Supposed To Have Died

There,  And His Brother,  Lord Arthur,  Has Been The Heir. And Yesterday

Chetney Did Return. I Read It In The Papers."

"So Did I," Assented The American,  Soothingly; "And It Struck Me As

Being A Very Good Plot For A Story. I Mean His Unexpected Return From

The Dead,  And The Probable Disappointment Of The Younger Brother. So

I Decided That The Younger Brother Had Better Murder The Older One.

The Princess Zichy I Invented Out Of A Clear Sky. The Fog I Did Not

Have To Invent. Since Last Night I Know All That There Is To Know

About A London Fog. I Was Lost In One For Three Hours."

The Baronet Turned,  Grimly,  Upon The Queen's Messenger.

"But This Gentleman," He Protested,  "He Is Not A Writer Of Short

Stories; He Is A Member Of The Foreign Office. I Have Often Seen Him

In Whitehall,  And,  According To Him,  The Princess Zichy Is Not An

Invention. He Says She Is Very Well Known,  That She Tried To Rob

Him."

The Servant Of The Foreign Office Looked,  Unhappily,  At The Cabinet

Minister,  And Puffed,  Nervously,  On His Cigar.

"It's True,  Sir Andrew,  That I Am A Queen's Messenger," He Said,

Appealingly,  "And A Russian Woman Once Did Try To Rob A Queen's

Messenger In A Railway Carriage--Only It Did Not Happen To Me,  But To

A Pal Of Mine. The Only Russian Princess I Ever Knew Called Herself

Zabrisky. You May Have Seen Her. She Used To Do A Dive From The Roof

Of The Aquarium."

Sir Andrew,  With A Snort Of Indignation,  Fronted The Young Solicitor.

"And I Suppose Yours Was A Cock-And-Bull Story,  Too," He Said. "Of

Course,  It Must Have Been,  Since Lord Chetney Is Not Dead. But Don't

Tell Me," He Protested,  "That You Are Not Chudleigh's Son Either."

"I'm Sorry," Said The Youngest Member,  Smiling,  In Some

Embarrassment,  "But My Name Is Not Chudleigh. I Assure You,  Though,

That I Know The Family Very Well,  And That I Am On Very Good Terms

With Them."

"You Should Be!" Exclaimed The Baronet; "And,  Judging From The

Liberties You Take With The Chetneys,  You Had Better Be On Very Good

Terms With Them,  Too."

The Young Man Leaned Back And Glanced Toward The Servants At The Far

End Of The Room.

"It Has Been So Long Since I Have Been In The Club," He Said,  "That I

Doubt If Even The Waiters Remember Me. Perhaps Joseph May," He Added.

"Joseph!" He Called,  And At The Word A Servant Stepped Briskly

Forward.

The Young Man Pointed To The Stuffed Head Of A Great Lion Which Was

Suspended Above The Fireplace.

"Joseph," He Said,  "I Want You