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As an expert authority, and that is tailoring. The girl went first and I followed, Mr. Treadgold coming last. Scarcely had I set foot on the lawn when I heard the smash of glass. He has the most extraordinary eye for the tiniest details—he says it is his training as a tailor.

Mrs. Brinckman, on her way to succour her husband, stopped. “Why, those are Claud’s shoes he couldn’t find!” she exclaimed. I don’t know how I got through the evening. Wayne and Linda left early, but the rest of us played bridge steadily until past midnight.

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“I can’t say—yet. Maybe a dope or smuggling ring—anyway, something criminal, I expect. But isn’t that Manderton’s voice in the hall? Not a word to him of this for the present.” “I believe it’s a telegraphic address. In that case, the entry would mean that the party could be reached telegraphically on Sunday evenings up to ten o’clock.” He never finished the sentence but, snatching up the sheet of foolscap again, stared at it like a man possessed.

Edith produced her knitting, Treadgold and Brinckman discussed radio advertising and I picked up a magazine. Then there were voices in the house and Marcia Murray, in a man’s camel-hair overcoat over her white tussore suit, came out on the porch. With her, to my unbounded astonishment, was young Hayden. Mr. Treadgold answered with the serious air he always employs towards children.

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“Recently, the peace of our small community has been troubled by a series of alarming incidents. On three occasions within the past fortnight a mysterious stranger brandishing a dagger has pounced out upon unaccompanied ladies.” It was while he was living in the United States that his interest in crime developed from the purely theoretical to the practical. The New World is always readier than the Old to try an experiment, and it is intelligible that Mr. Treadgold’s first successes as an independent crime investigator should have been registered on the other side of the Atlantic. Of these probably the most sensational was his feat in solving, in the course of a fishing trip to Quebec, the baffling series of crimes known as the St. Florentin murders. Joining Mike for the evening, award-winning BOBBY ALU tells his stories through rhythm, voice and ukulele, on his taylor made island drum kit. Another truly unique performance, offering a fresh sound powered by Pacific beats, catchy songs and powerful log drumming, with hints of soul and reggae.

  • Coins can be bought, according to Ante Up.
  • Madame always wore the ring, but whether she was wearing it when she went out on Tuesday she couldn’t say.
  • It struck me as rather a dog-in-the-manger attitude on Marcia’s part.
  • “I can’t stay here gossiping all day. I’ve got to get out to the Dot-and-Carry for the first show.” She practically pushed us out of the door.
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But she had overheard the maid tell the taxi-man to take her to the P.L.M. station. “But that’s where Aldini left his luggage!” Danesworth cried eagerly. “The police have got to act,” the young man cried hotly. “Stool or not, we’ll make them run this rat to earth.” “If he’s working for the police, he’s scarcely likely to have kidnapped Gemma,” Danesworth struck in. “A full length portrait, ‘pon my word. Now we know why Hablard was so discreet this morning.”

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I located the rubbish pit behind the conservatories, but Mr. Treadgold was not there. I went into the house and up to his room. A towel was spread on the centre table, flecked with a lot of little specks of what seemed to be vulcanite, on it a pot of gum—what the Americans call mucillage—with a brush. I was still there when Guy Brinckman put his head in at the door. “I’ve got some fresh needles…” he began, then saw me. “Where’s Mr. Treadgold?” he demanded.

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Black eyes, hair like the raven’s wing, ivory skin—the young beggar had taste. “You might be Russian, in spite of the surname,” I laughed, offering a chair. Kit, a remarkable linguist, had many foreign friends.