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The Club of Queer Trades | Gilbert K. Chesterton | |
The Singular Speculation of the House-Agent |
Page 9 of 15 |
Basil's face during this sensible speech had been growing darker and darker with a sort of desperate sagacity. He was cornered almost for the first time since I had known him; and to tell the truth I rather wondered at the almost childish obstinacy which kept him so close to his original prejudice in favour of the wildly questionable lieutenant. At length he said: "You really searched the common? And the address was really not known in the district--by the way, what was the address?" The constable selected one of his slips of paper and consulted it, but before he could speak Rupert Grant, who was leaning in the window in a perfect posture of the quiet and triumphant detective, struck in with the sharp and suave voice he loved so much to use. "Why, I can tell you that, Basil," he said graciously as he idly plucked leaves from a plant in the window. "I took the precaution to get this man's address from the constable last night." "And what was it?" asked his brother gruffly. "The constable will correct me if I am wrong," said Rupert, looking sweetly at the ceiling. "It was: The Elms, Buxton Common, near Purley, Surrey." "Right, sir," said the policeman, laughing and folding up his papers. There was a silence, and the blue eyes of Basil looked blindly for a few seconds into the void. Then his head fell back in his chair so suddenly that I started up, thinking him ill. But before I could move further his lips had flown apart (I can use no other phrase) and a peal of gigantic laughter struck and shook the ceiling-- laughter that shook the laughter, laughter redoubled, laughter incurable, laughter that could not stop. |
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The Club of Queer Trades Gilbert K. Chesterton |
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