Cleek of Scotland Yard: Detective StoriesHanshew, Thomas W.
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Cleek of Scotland Yard: Detective Stories
Hanshew, Thomas W.
Cleek, Hamilton (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Detective and mystery stories
suspicion where he was nor under what guise he was hiding. Of
course I had a vague suspicion, even before I came and saw her, that
'the cook' was in it. Her readiness in inventing a fictitious
gypsy with a bear's muzzle, coupled with what Nippers had told me of
the animal marks she had pointed out, looked a bit fishy; but
until I actually met her nothing really tangible began to take
shape in my thoughts. That's all, I think. And now, good-night
and good luck to you, Miss Renfrew. The riddle is solved; and Mr.
Narkom and I must be getting back to the wilderness and to our
ground-floor beds in the hotel of the beautiful stars!"
Here, as if some spirit of nervous unrest had suddenly beset him,
he turned round on his heel, motioned the superintendent to follow,
and brushing by the awed and staring Mr. Ephraim Nippers, whisked
open the door and passed briskly out into the hush and darkness of
the night.
The footpath which led through the grounds to the gate and thence
to the long lonely way back to Dollops and the caravan lay before
him. He swung into it with a curious sort of energy and forged away
from the house at such speed that Narkom's short, fat legs were hard
put to it to catch up with him before he came to the path's end.
"My dear chap, are you going into training for a match with that Sir
Ralph What's-his-name of whom Miss Renfrew spoke?" he wheezed when
he finally overtook him. "You long, lean beggars are the very old
boy for covering the ground. But wait until you get to be _my_ age,
by James!"
"Perhaps I shan't. Perhaps they won't let me!" threw back Cleek,
in a voice curiously blurred, as if he spoke with his teeth hard
shut. "Donkeys do die, you know--that little bit of tommyrot about
the absence of their dead bodies to the contrary."
"Meaning what, old chap?"
"That I've been as big an ass as any of the thistle-eating kind that
ever walked. Gad! such an indiscretion! Such an example of pure
brainlessness! And the worst of it is that it's all due to my own
wretched vanity--my own miserable weakness for the theatrical and the
spectacular! It came to me suddenly--while I was standing there
explaining things to Miss Renfrew--and I could have kicked myself for
my folly."
"Folly? What folly?"
"'What folly?' What? Good heavens, man, use your wits! Isn't it
enough for me to be a blockhead without you entering the lists
along with me?" said Cleek, irritably. "Or, no! Forgive that, dear
friend. My nerves were speaking, not my heart. But in moments like
this--when we had built a safe bridge, and my own stupidity has
hacked it down--Faugh! I tell you I could kick myself. Didn't you
hear? Didn't you see?"
"I saw that for some special reason you were suddenly obsessed with
a desire to get out of the house in the midst of your talking with
Miss Renfrew, if that's what you refer to--is it?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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