An English Detective Story
I shall never forget the 13th of December, 1879. The streets of the great city of Manchester had grown depressingly desolate, and a dense, black fog prevailed over the town.
Benumbed with cold, I found, to my great joy, a cheerful fire blazing in my room, which, thanks to my comrade, who had retired for the night, was considerately prepared for me. I took off my great coat and muffler, drew a chair close to the fender, and began thinking over the incidents of a case I had that afternoon brought to a successful issue, when, with the suddenness of a nightbird’s scream, I heard a piteous and prolonged scream issuing from beneath the unshuttered window.
I sprang to my feet, and gazing in the direction of the sound, saw a wild, white face, with long, disheveled hair hanging over an ill-clad form, gesticulating in a beseeching manner close to the fire-lit panes.
“This is very strange,” I involuntarily exclaimed, “and puzzles me not a little. What can it mean?”
Then striding toward the door, I flung it wide open; but there was nothing before me—only the black, choking fog and the dead silence of the street. Pushing back the door, I turned to reenter the room, when my eyes caught sight of a piece of white paper that lay upon the wide sill of the window. This is what it said:
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If you would stop more crime, perhaps murder, come at once to No. 13, Tomson’s court. Am followed. Heaven save me and my child! What shall I do? Rescue us and God bless you! Lizzie Thornely Be careful. Conceal yourself. Watch. Top of room at back. |
Thornley—Thornley! The name appeared familiar to me.
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