The Middle of Things by J. S. (Joseph Smith) Fletcher
page 6 of 291 (02%)
page 6 of 291 (02%)
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we've been reading about?"
"I don't think anything about it," retorted Miss Penkridge sturdily. "I'm sure of it. I never had a novel yet, nor heard one read to me, that was half as strong as it might have been!" "Queer thing, one never hears or sees of these things, then!" exclaimed Viner. "I never have!--and I've been on this planet thirty years." "That sort of thing hasn't come your way, Richard," remarked Miss Penkridge sententiously. "And you don't read the popular Sunday newspapers. I do! They're full of crime of all sorts. So's the world. And as to mysteries--well, I've known of two or three in my time that were much more extraordinary than any I've ever read of in novels. I should think so!" Viner dropped into his easy-chair and stretched his legs. "Such as--what?" he asked. "Well," answered Miss Penkridge, regarding her knitting with appraising eyes, "there was a case that excited great interest when your poor mother and I were mere girls. It was in our town--young Quainton, the banker. He was about your age, married to a very pretty girl, and they'd a fine baby. He was immensely rich, a strong healthy young fellow, fond of life, popular, without a care in the world, so far as any one knew. One morning, after breakfasting with his wife, he walked away from his house, on the outskirts of the town--only a very small town, mind you--to go to the bank, as usual. He never reached the bank--in fact, he was never seen again, never heard of again. He'd only half a mile to walk, along a |
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