Back The House of a Thousand Candles
Chapters (33)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. CONTENTS
  5. CHAPTER I
  6. CHAPTER II
  7. CHAPTER III
  8. CHAPTER IV
  9. CHAPTER V
  10. CHAPTER VI
  11. CHAPTER VII
  12. CHAPTER VIII
  13. CHAPTER IX
  14. CHAPTER X
  15. CHAPTER XI
  16. CHAPTER XII
  17. CHAPTER XIII
  18. CHAPTER XIV
  19. CHAPTER XV
  20. CHAPTER XVI
  21. CHAPTER XVII
  22. CHAPTER XVIII
  23. CHAPTER XIX
  24. CHAPTER XX
  25. CHAPTER XXI
  26. CHAPTER XXII
  27. CHAPTER XXIII
  28. CHAPTER XXIV
  29. CHAPTER XXV
  30. CHAPTER XXVI
  31. CHAPTER XXVII
  32. CHAPTER XXVIII
  33. CHAPTER XXIX

“Well,” I said, seeing that I should only make myself ridiculous by trying to learn anything from him, “I hope our little spats through windows and on walls won’t interfere with our pleasant social relations. And I don’t hesitate to tell you,”—I was exerting myself to keep down my anger,—“that if I catch you on my grounds again I’ll fill you with lead and sink you in the lake.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, with so perfect an imita- tion of Bates’ voice and manner that I smiled in spite of myself.

“And now, if you’ll promise not to fire into my back I’ll wish you good day. Otherwise—”

He snatched off his hat and bowed profoundly. “It’ll suit me much better to continue handling the case on your grounds,” he said, as though he referred to a business matter. “Killing a man on your own property requires some explaining—you may have noticed it?”

“Yes; I commit most of my murders away from home,” I said. “I formed the habit early in life. Good day, Morgan.”

As I turned away he closed his door with a slam,—a delicate way of assuring me that he was acting in good faith, and not preparing to puncture my back with a rifle-ball. I regained the lake-shore, feeling no great discouragement over the lean results of my interview, but rather a fresh zest for the game, whatever the game might be. Morgan was not an enemy to trifle with; he was, on the other hand, a clever and daring foe; and the promptness with which he began war on me the night of my arrival at Glenarm House, indicated that there was method in his hostility.

The sun was going his ruddy way beyond St. Agatha’s as I drove my canoe into a little cove near which the girl in the tam-o’-shanter had disappeared the day before. The shore was high here and at the crest was a long curved bench of stone reached by half a dozen steps, from which one might enjoy a wide view of the country, both across the lake and directly inland. The bench was a pretty bit of work, boldly reminiscential of Alma Tadema, and as clearly the creation of John Marshall Glenarm as though his name had been carved upon it.