Novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
A TRUE COLONIAL STORY. Broadhurst’s store was closed, but the little back room looked very comfortable that night. The fire cast a ruddy glow on ceiling and walls, reflecting itself cheerily on the polished flasks and shot-guns which adorned them. Yet a gloom rested on the two men who sat at either side of the […]
“Number 43 is no better, Doctor,” said the head-warder, in a slightly reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door. “Confound 43!” I responded from behind the pages of the Australian Sketcher. “And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldn’t you do anything for him?” “He’s a walking drug-shop,” said I. “He
‘My Friend the Murderer’ is a short story by Sherlock Holmes creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Our narrator is a doctor who works at an Australian prison. The doctor is urged to take some time to speak to inmate 82, a man named Maloney whose villainous reputation precedes him. As the doctor gets to know
Day had broken before the several denizens of the Wilderness had all returned to their homes, the police finished their inquiries, and all come back to its normal quiet. Mrs. Westmacott had been left sleeping peacefully with a small chloral draught to steady her nerves and a handkerchief soaked in arnica bound round her head.
Now all this time, while the tragi-comedy of life was being played in these three suburban villas, while on a commonplace stage love and humor and fears and lights and shadows were so swiftly succeeding each other, and while these three families, drifted together by fate, were shaping each other’s destinies and working out in
Next day brought the Admiral a cheque for L5,000 from Mr. McAdam, and a stamped agreement by which he made over his pension papers to the speculative investor. It was not until he had signed and sent it off that the full significance of all that he had done broke upon him. He had sacrificed
Mr. McAdam, of the firm of McAdam and Squire, was a highly polished man who dwelt behind a highly polished table in the neatest and snuggest of offices. He was white-haired and amiable, with a deep-lined aquiline face, was addicted to low bows, and indeed, always seemed to carry himself at half-cock, as though just
When Doctor Walker had departed, the Admiral packed all his possessions back into his sea chest with the exception of one little brass-bound desk. This he unlocked, and took from it a dozen or so blue sheets of paper all mottled over with stamps and seals, with very large V. R.’s printed upon the heads
“Now, papa,” said Clara that morning, wrinkling her brows and putting her finger-tips together with the air of an experienced person of business, “I want to have a talk to you about money matters.” “Yes, my dear.” He laid down his paper, and looked a question. “Kindly tell me again, papa, how much money I
So by the cleverness of two girls a dark cloud was thinned away and turned into sunshine. Over one of them, alas, another cloud was gathering, which could not be so easily dispersed. Of these three households which fate had thrown together, two had already been united by ties of love. It was destined, however,
