The Middle of Things. J. S. Fletcher
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J. S. Fletcher
The Middle of Things
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664645630
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER
I FACED WITH REALITY
II NUMBER SEVEN IN THE SQUARE
III WHO WAS ASHTON?
IV THE RING AND THE KNIFE
V LOOK FOR THAT MAN!
VI SPECULATIONS
VII WHAT WAS THE SECRET?
VIII NEWS FROM ARCADIA
IX LOOKING BACKWARD
X THE PARISH REGISTER
XI WHAT HAPPENED IN PARIS
XII THE GREY MARE INN
XIII THE JAPANESE CABINET
XIV THE ELLINGHAM MOTTO
XV THE PRESENT HOLDER
XVI THE OUTHOUSE
XVII THE CLAIMANT
XVIII LET HIM APPEAR!
XIX UNDER EXAMINATION
XX SURPRISING READINESS
XXI THE MARSEILLES MEETING
XXII ON REMAND
XXIII IS THIS MAN RIGHT?
XXIV THE BROKEN LETTER
XXV THROUGH THE TELEPHONE
XXVI THE DISMAL STREET
XXVII THE BACK WAY
XXVIII THE TRUTH
XXIX WHO IS TO TELL HER?
CHAPTER I
FACED WITH REALITY
On that particular November evening, Viner, a young gentleman of means and leisure, who lived in a comfortable old house in Markendale Square, Bayswater, in company with his maiden aunt Miss Bethia Penkridge, had spent his after-dinner hours in a fashion which had become a habit. Miss Penkridge, a model housekeeper and an essentially worthy woman, whose whole day was given to supervising somebody or something, had an insatiable appetite for fiction, and loved nothing so much as that her nephew should read a novel to her after the two glasses of port which she allowed herself every night had been thoughtfully consumed and he and she had adjourned from the dining-room to the hearthrug in the library. Her tastes, however, in Viner's opinion were somewhat, if not decidedly, limited. Brought up in her youth on Miss Braddon, Wilkie Collins and Mrs. Henry Wood, Miss Penkridge had become a confirmed slave to the sensational. She had no taste for the psychological, and nothing but scorn for the erotic. What she loved was a story which began with crime and ended with a detection—a story which kept you wondering who did it, how it was done, and when the doing was going to be laid bare to the light of day. Nothing pleased her better than to go to bed with a brain titivated with the mysteries of the last three chapters; nothing gave her such infinite delight as to find, when the final pages were turned, that all her own theories were wrong, and that the real criminal was somebody quite other than the person she had fancied. For a novelist who was so little master of his trade as to let you see when and how things were going, Miss Penkridge had little but good-natured pity; for one who led you by all sorts of devious tracks to a startling and surprising sensation she cherished a whole-souled love; but for the creator of a plot who could keep his secret alive and burning to his last few sentences she felt the deepest thing that she could give to any human being—respect.