Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Dope by Sax Rohmer (highly recommended books .txt) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Dope by Sax Rohmer (highly recommended books .txt) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
“But—Mrs. Irvin—”
“Is in God's guid keepin'—”
“You don't think she's dead!”
“She is wairse than dead. Her sins have found her out.” The fey light suddenly left her eyes, and they became filled with tears. She turned impulsively to her husband. “Oh, Dan! Ye must find her! Ye must find her! Puir weak hairt—dinna ye ken how she is suffering!”
“My dear,” he said, putting his arms around her, “What is it? What is it?”
She brushed the tears from her eyes and tried to smile. “'Tis something like the second sight, Dan,” she answered simply. “And it's escapit me again. I a'most had the clue to it a' oh, there's some horrible wickedness in it, an' cruelty an' shame.”
The clock on the mantel shelf began to peal. Kerry was watching his wife's rosy face with a mixture of loving admiration and wonder. She looked so very bonny and placid and capable that he was puzzled anew at the strange gift which she seemingly inherited from her mother, who had been equally shrewd, equally comely and similarly endowed.
“God bless us all!” he said, kissed her heartily, and stood up. “Back to bed you go, my dear. I must be off. There's Mr. Irvin to see in the morning, too.”
A few minutes later he was swinging through the deserted streets, his mind wholly occupied with lover-like reflections to the exclusion of those professional matters which properly should have been engaging his attention. As he passed the end of a narrow court near the railway station, the gleam of his silver mounted malacca attracted the attention of a couple of loafers who were leaning one on either side of an iron pillar in the shadow of the unsavory alley. Not another pedestrian was in sight, and only the remote night-sounds of London broke the silence.
Twenty paces beyond, the footpads silently closed in upon their prey. The taller of the pair reached him first, only to receive a back-handed blow full in his face which sent him reeling a couple of yards.
Round leapt the assaulted man to face his second assailant.
“If you two smarts really want handling,” he rapped ferociously, “say the word, and I'll bash you flat.”
As he turned, the light of a neighboring lamp shone down upon the savage face, and a smothered yell came from the shorter ruffian:
“Blimey, Bill! It's Red Kerry!”
Whereupon, as men pursued by devils, the pair made off like the wind!
Kerry glared after the retreating figures for a moment, and a grin of fierce satisfaction revealed his gleaming teeth. He turned again and swung on his way toward the main road. The incident had done him good. It had banished domestic matters from his mind, and he was become again the highly trained champion of justice, standing, an unseen buckler, between society and the criminal.
CHAPTER IX. A PACKET OF CIGARETTES
Following their dismissal by Chief Inspector Kerry, Seton and Gray walked around to the latter's chambers in Piccadilly. They proceeded in silence, Gray too angry for speech, and Seton busy with reflections. As the man admitted them:
“Has anyone 'phoned, Willis?” asked Gray.
“No one, sir.”
They entered a large room which combined the characteristics of a library with those of a military gymnasium. Gray went to a side table and mixed drinks. Placing a glass before Seton, he emptied his own at a draught.
“If you'll excuse me for a moment,” he said, “I should like to ring up and see if by any possible chance there's news of Rita.”
He walked out to the telephone, and Seton heard him making a call. Then:
“Hullo! Is that you, Hinkes?” he asked.... “Yes, speaking. Is Mrs. Irvin at home?”
A few moments of silence followed, and:
“Thanks! Good-bye,” said Gray.
He rejoined his friend.
“Nothing,” he reported, and made a gesture of angry resignation. “Evidently Hinkes is still unaware of what has happened. Irvin hasn't returned yet. Seton, this business is driving me mad.”
He refilled his glass, and having looked in his cigarette-case, began to ransack a small cupboard.
“Damn it all!” he exclaimed. “I haven't got a cigarette in the place!”
“I don't smoke them myself,” said Seton, “but I can offer you a cheroot.”
“Thanks. They are a trifle too strong. Hullo! here are some.”
From the back of a shelf he produced a small, plain brown packet, and took out of it a cigarette at which he stared oddly. Seton, smoking one of the inevitable cheroots, watched him, tapping his teeth with the rim of his eyeglass.
“Poor old Pyne!” muttered Gray, and, looking up, met the inquiring glance. “Pyne left these here only the other day,” he explained awkwardly. “I don't know where he got them, but they are something very special. I suppose I might as well.”
He lighted one, and, uttering a weary sigh, threw himself into a deep leather-covered arm-chair. Almost immediately he was up again. The telephone bell had rung. His eyes alight with hope, he ran out, leaving the door open so that his conversation was again audible to the visitor.
“Yes, yes, speaking. What?” His tone changed “Oh, it's you, Margaret. What?... Certainly, delighted. No, there's nobody here but old Seton Pasha. What? You've heard the fellows talk about him who were out East.... Yes, that's the chap.... Come right along.”
“You don't propose to lionise me, I hope, Gray?” said Seton, as Gray returned to his seat.
The other laughed.
“I forgot you could hear me,” he admitted. “It's my cousin, Margaret Halley. You'll like her. She's a tip-top girl, but eccentric. Goes in for pilling.”
“Pilling?” inquired Seton gravely.
“Doctoring. She's an M.R.C.S., and only about twenty-four or so. Fearfully clever kid; makes me feel an infant.”
“Flat heels, spectacles, and a judicial manner?”
“Flat heels, yes. But not the other. She's awfully pretty, and used to look simply terrific in khaki. She was an M.O. in Serbia, you know, and afterwards at some nurses' hospital in Kent. She's started in
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