SOUTHERN TROOPS RETREATING FROM RICHMOND.
"Would you miss me--would you mind if you never saw me again?" Before she could answer, he raised his voice. "And so you see there was nothing else to be done," he said cheerfully, for Coventry had re-entered the room.
"No, my dear child, no. You are pleased to be satirical, but I am in earnest. That the labourer is worthy of his hire is a principle that has been recognised for centuries; and you shall labour, and for hire. See here, this is how the thought first came into my head. Mrs. Caddy, the housekeeper at Woolgreaves, a very worthy woman, has been ailing of late, and came to consult me last week. Our climate don't do for her. She's a little touched in the chest, and must get away further south for the winter. I told her so plainly, and she didn't seem at all uncomfortable about it. Her friends live in Devonshire, and she's saved a good bit of money, I should think, since she's been in Mr. Creswell's service. All that seemed to worry her was what they would do at Woolgreaves without her. She harped upon this several times, and at last a ray of light seemed to break upon her as she asked why her place should not be taken by 't' young girl, schoolmaster's daughter?'"
And then came Bishop Welldon’s speech. He was extraordinarily clever. He said some of the most cutting things imaginable. He was scathing. He hurt me. Reaching for my glass, I hastily swallowed the large brandy I had been careful to ask for beforehand. He made epigrams, epigrams adapted most skilfully from the writings of his friend, John Oliver Hobbes. And he spoke so well; he had presence; he had a manner; he, like Sir Willoughby Patterne, had a leg ... and a leg that was gaitered. Perhaps it was the gaiters that did it. One has heard a good deal lately about the Hidden Hand, but what about the influence of the Hidden Leg? The leg hidden under the table? The gaitered leg hidden under the table? Most of the diners, remembering that Bishop Welldon was indeed a bishop—though, truly, only, so to speak, an ex-bishop, and an ex-bishop only of Calcutta, and now possessing only the powers of a dean (whatever those powers may be!)—most of the diners, I say, recollecting that Bishop Welldon was indeed a bishop, looked at me with eyes of faint hostility or did not look at me at all.
Not on-ly was this a great thing for Lin-coln, but it was, al-so, a bless-ed tri-umph for the A-mer-i-can peo-ple. There were three oth-er men whose names were
Coventry threw the letter across the table to his wife; he half hoped she would read it with dismay, and show reluctance that he should accept the invitation. This, he felt, would give him just the excuse he wanted to refuse it, would put a definite obstacle in the way of acceptance instead of his being left at the mercy of conflicting inclinations.
Hartford, directing the sealing-off of the morgue from the rest of the Barracks, was not comforted by these reflections. He unsuited, shaved and showered, and put on fresh Class B's to finish what remained of this O.G. tour. On his way back up to the Board Room he had to pass the morgue again. Colonel Nef, in the midst of a cluster of lesser ranks, was there. On a wheeled cart, covered by a sheet, was a second body.
About half an hour later, a young woman emerged in brilliant and varied clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction, Poirot tiptoed back into the flat.
Retief pulled him back. "Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Never give the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goat lover—and hand me one of your cigars."
"You know perfectly well what I mean. What did he say to you about that night?" She hated herself for asking the question, and hated Guy also for making her ask it.
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