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. The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace (ebook reader online .TXT) 📖
- Author: Edgar Wallace
Book online «The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace (ebook reader online .TXT) 📖». Author Edgar Wallace
“Yes, I have heard from my daughter,” said that great man uncomfortably, “and really she has placed me in a most embarrassing position. I cannot tell you, Mr. Meredith, exactly in what manner she has done this, but I can assure you she has.”
“Can I see her letter or telegram?” asked T. X.
“I am afraid that is impossible,” said the other solemnly; “she begged me to keep her communication very secret. I have written to my wife and asked her to come home. I feel the constant strain to which I am being subjected is more than human can endure.”
“I suppose,” said T. X. patiently, “it is impossible for you to tell me to what address you have replied?”
“To no address,” answered the other and corrected himself hurriedly; “that is to say I only received the telegram—the message this morning and there is no address—to reply to.”
“I see,” said T. X.
That afternoon he instructed his secretary.
“I want a copy of all the agony advertisements in to-morrow's papers and in the last editions of the evening papers—have them ready for me tomorrow morning when I come.”
They were waiting for him when he reached the office at nine o'clock the next day and he went through them carefully. Presently he found the message he was seeking.
B. M. You place me awkward position. Very thoughtless. Have received package addressed your mother which have placed in mother's sitting-room. Cannot understand why you want me to go away week-end and give servants holiday but have done so. Shall require very full explanation. Matter gone far enough. Father.
“This,” said T. X. exultantly, as he read the advertisement, “is where I get busy.”
CHAPTER XVI
February as a rule is not a month of fogs, but rather a month of tempestuous gales, of frosts and snowfalls, but the night of February 17th, 19—, was one of calm and mist. It was not the typical London fog so dreaded by the foreigner, but one of those little patchy mists which smoke through the streets, now enshrouding and making the nearest object invisible, now clearing away to the finest diaphanous filament of pale grey.
Sir William Bartholomew had a house in Portman Place, which is a wide thoroughfare, filled with solemn edifices of unlovely and forbidding exterior, but remarkably comfortable within. Shortly before eleven on the night of February 17th, a taxi drew up at the junction of Sussex Street and Portman Place, and a girl alighted. The fog at that moment was denser than usual and she hesitated a moment before she left the shelter which the cab afforded.
She gave the driver a few instructions and walked on with a firm step, turning abruptly and mounting the steps of Number 173. Very quickly she inserted her key in the lock, pushed the door open and closed it behind her. She switched on the hall light. The house sounded hollow and deserted, a fact which afforded her considerable satisfaction. She turned the light out and found her way up the broad stairs to the first floor, paused for a moment to switch on another light which she knew would not be observable from the street outside and mounted the second flight.
Miss Belinda Mary Bartholomew congratulated herself upon the success of her scheme, and the only doubt that was in her mind now was whether the boudoir had been locked, but her father was rather careless in such matters and Jacks the butler was one of those dear, silly, old men who never locked anything, and, in consequence, faced every audit with a long face and a longer tale of the peculations of occasional servants.
To her immense relief the handle turned and the door opened to her touch. Somebody had had the sense to pull down the blinds and the curtains were drawn. She switched on the light with a sigh of relief. Her mother's writing table was covered with unopened letters, but she brushed these aside in her search for the little parcel. It was not there and her heart sank. Perhaps she had put it in one of the drawers. She tried them all without result.
She stood by the desk a picture of perplexity, biting a finger thoughtfully.
“Thank goodness!” she said with a jump, for she saw the parcel on the mantel shelf, crossed the room and took it down.
With eager hands she tore off the covering and came to the familiar leather case. Not until she had opened the padded lid and had seen the snuffbox reposing in a bed of cotton wool did she relapse into a long sigh of relief.
“Thank heaven for that,” she said aloud.
“And me,” said a voice.
She sprang up and turned round with a look of terror.
“Mr.—Mr. Meredith,” she stammered.
T. X. stood by the window curtains from whence he had made his dramatic entry upon the scene.
“I say you have to thank me also, Miss Bartholomew,” he said presently.
“How do you know my name?” she asked with some curiosity.
“I know everything in the world,” he answered, and she smiled. Suddenly her face went serious and she demanded sharply,
“Who sent you after me—Mr. Kara?”
“Mr. Kara?” he repeated, in wonder.
“He threatened to send for the police,” she went on rapidly, “and I told him he might do so. I didn't mind the police—it was Kara I was afraid of. You know what I went for, my mother's property.”
She held the snuff-box in her outstretched hand.
“He accused me of stealing and was hateful, and then he put me downstairs in that awful cellar and—”
“And?” suggested T. X.
“That's all,” she replied with tightened lips; “what are you going to do now?”
“I am going to ask you a few questions if I may,” he said. “In the first place have you not heard anything about Mr. Kara since you went away?”
She shook her head.
“I have kept out of his way,” she said grimly.
“Have you seen the newspapers?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I have seen the advertisement column—I wired asking Papa to reply to my telegram.”
“I know—I saw it,” he smiled; “that is what brought me here.”
“I was afraid it would,” she said ruefully; “father is awfully loquacious
Comments (0)