Miss Arnott's Marriage
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This gripping novel begins with a harsh prison sentence being passed down on incorrigible villain Robert Champion and quickly spirals into a complex tale of doomed romance, family entanglements, betrayal and deceit. Will Champion's young wife be able to pick up the pieces of her life and move on?
into my private affairs? I am not conscious of a desire to thrust them on your notice—or on anyone’s.” “Miss Arnott, I beg that you will not suppose that I am actuated by common curiosity. Let me explain the situation in half-a-dozen words. Your Uncle Septimus, after he left your father, went to South America. There, after divers adventures, he went in for cattle breeding. In that pursuit he amassed one of those large fortunes which are characteristic of modern times. Eventually he came to
followed to where the dead man lay beneath the beech tree. He thought at first that it was some stranger who, having trespassed and lighted on a piece of open ground, had taken advantage of the springy turf to enjoy a nap. It was only after he had called to him three times, and, in spite, also, of the dog’s persistent barking, had received no answer, that he proceeded to examine more closely into the matter. Then he saw not only that the man was dead, but that his clothing was stiff with
justified in describing as “Startling Evidence.” It was shown that the man had been stabbed to death. Some broad-bladed, sharp-pointed instrument had been driven into his chest with such violence that the point had penetrated to the back. The wall of the chest had been indented by the violence of the blow. Death must have been practically instantaneous. And yet one side of him had been almost riddled by shot. He had received nearly the entire charge of a gun which had been fired at him—as the
she knew he had done, was bad enough. That he should have denied it to her face in such explicit terms and coupled with his denial such a monstrous accusation, was inconceivable. He had not gone very far before she told herself that, after all, she had misunderstood him, she must have done. For some minutes she was half disposed to jump into her car, follow him and insist on a clearer explanation. He could not have meant what he had appeared to do, not seriously and in earnest. But she refrained
And then she read Jim Baker’s “note.” As Mr Adams had surmised it was written in pencil; apparently with a blunt stump of pencil used by unaccustomed fingers, probably under circumstances in which a skilful writer would have been uneasy. Here and there it seemed that the pencil had refused to write; possibly only by dint of pressure had it been induced to write at all. The letters were blurred and indistinct, ill-formed, irregular, disjoined—in general, mere hieroglyphics. And yet, despite the