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Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 1876-1958

"The Case of Jennie Brice"

I had taken a fancy to him at
once, and in spite of my excitement I had to smile a little.
"Humph!" he said, and looked up at me. "That's blood. Why did you
_cut_ the boat loose?"
"I didn't," I said. "If that is blood, I want to know how it got
there. That was a new rope last night." I glanced at the Ladleys' door
again, and he followed my eyes.
"I wonder," he said, raising his voice a little, "if I come into your
kitchen, if you will allow me to fry a little of that liver. There's a
wretched Maltese in a tree at the corner of Fourth Street that won't
touch it, raw."
I saw that he wanted to talk to me, so I turned around and led the way
to the temporary kitchen I had made.
"Now," he said briskly, when he had closed the door, "there's
something wrong here. Perhaps if you tell me, I can help. If I can't,
it will do you good to talk about it. My name's Holcombe, retired
merchant. Apply to First National Bank for references."
"I'm not sure there _is_ anything wrong," I began. "I guess I'm only
nervous, and thinking little things are big ones.


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