Genre Mystery & Crime. Page - 7

ained that you had a vivid dream, in which you saw your cousin stabbed by a stranger whom you did not know, whose face even you never saw. Sir Alan was undoubtedly murdered. The dagger-like attachment to your Japanese sword had been driven into his breast up to the hilt, actually splitting his heart. To deliver such a blow, with such a weapon, required uncommon strength and skill. I think I describe it here as 'un-English.'"Brett referred to his scrap-book. In spite of himself, he felt all

preliminary examination.II The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is animportant establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks,presents very much the appearance of a government department. On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on thestreet, fortified by strong iron bars sufficiently large and closetogether to discourage all burglarious attempts. A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule where three or fouroffice-boys are always in

shoulders. And under the table there were those long, slender, beautiful legs.This was their wedding anniversary. He couldn't even remember which one. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was the waking up every morning and seeing her long, silky hair spread out on the pillow, and her face, childlike in sleep, nestled in her arm. Coffee in the sunroom in the morning, Helene in her violet chiffon negligee, or her fluffy white robe, or her bandanna sunsuit, or, on special occasions, the

es. You have matches and a revolver?"He nodded, quietly showing me first the one, then the other; then with a sheepish air which he endeavored to carry of with a laugh, he cried: "Have you use for 'em? If so, I'm quite willing, to part with 'em for a half-hour." I was more than amazed at this evidence of weakness in one I had always considered as tough and impenetrable as flint rock. Thrusting back the hand with which he had half drawn into view the weapon I had mentioned, I put

was more astonished than I when it passed beyond the narrowcircle for which it had originally been intended.My mind made up on this point, I enquired of a leading Melbournebookseller what style of book he sold most of He replied that thedetective stories of Gaboriau had a large sale; and as, at this time, Ihad never even heard of this author, I bought all his works--eleven orthereabouts--and read them carefully. The style of these storiesattracted me, and I determined to write a book of the

Slinkton. There he was, standing before the fire, with good large eyes and an open expression of face; but still (I thought) requiring everybody to come at him by the prepared way he offered, and by no other.I noticed him ask my friend to introduce him to Mr. Sampson, and my friend did so. Mr. Slinkton was very happy to see me. Not too happy; there was no over-doing of the matter; happy in a thoroughly well-bred, perfectly unmeaning way. 'I thought you had met,' our host observed. 'No,' said

nd we must all know each other. I know I may not be acting according to the present usages of society, but that does not trouble me a little bit."Accordingly, with the utmost good taste, she introduced me to a number of the people who had been invited. I need make no special mention of most of them. Some of the young ladies simpered, others were frank, some were fairly good looking, while others were otherwise, and that is about all that could be said. None had sufficient individuality to

out of sight of Dunedin. I loafed about for a couple of hours, and when the sun got well up some of the other passengers came on deck and joined me. One of them, a little perky sort of fellow, took a good long look at me, and then came over and began talking."Mining, I suppose?" says he. "Yes," I says. "Made your pile?" he asks. "Pretty fair," says I. "I was at it myself," he says; "I worked at the Nelson fields for three months, and spent

moment, and he broke in again hastily."Oh, mummie, don't sit down there, that's my table," he said. "Darling, I'm so sorry," Barbara Rackstraw answered. "Had you got anything on it?" "Well, I was going to put the dinner things," Adrian explained. "I'll just see if the chicken's cooked. Oh, it's lovely!" "How nice!" Barbara said abstractedly. "Is it a large chicken?" "Not a very large one," Adrian admitted.

er of these. There was not even a chair, or a small table, or a bit of tin or crockery. Nothing! The jailer stood by when he ate, then took away the wooden spoon and bowl which he had used.One by one these things sank into the brain of The Thinking Machine. When the last possibility had been considered he began an examination of his cell. From the roof, down the walls on all sides, he examined the stones and the cement between them. He stamped over the floor carefully time after time, but it