Report books

Last Saturday, at eleven o'clock, she was talking over the
garden wall with a neighbor and was then dressed to go out. She
apparently went out, but from that moment no one has seen or heard of
her."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the ghastly truth, yet so
strange was the circumstance that his own double, even to the mole upon
his face, should be lying dead and buried in Scotland that I hesitated
to relate what I knew.
"She spoke English, I suppose?"
"She could make herself understood very well," he said with a sigh, and
I saw a heavy, thoughtful look upon his brow. That he was really devoted
to her, I knew. With the Italian of whatever station in life, love is
all-consuming--it is either perfect love or genuine hatred. The Tuscan
character is one of two extremes.
I glanced across the road, and saw that the detective who had ordered
his chop and coffee had stopped to light his pipe and was watching us.
"Have you any idea where your wife is, or what has induced her to go
away from home? Perhaps you had some words!"
"Words, signore!" he echoed.


Pages:
166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190