The Mysterious Three. William Le Queux

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      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066236076

Table of Contents

       Chapter Two.

       Chapter Three.

       Chapter Four.

       Chapter Five.

       Chapter Six.

       Chapter Seven.

       Chapter Eight.

       Chapter Nine.

       Chapter Ten.

       Chapter Eleven.

       Chapter Twelve.

       Chapter Thirteen.

       Chapter Fourteen.

       Chapter Fifteen.

       Chapter Sixteen.

       Chapter Seventeen.

       Chapter Eighteen.

       Chapter Nineteen.

       Chapter Twenty.

       Chapter Twenty One.

       Chapter Twenty Two.

       Chapter Twenty Three.

       Chapter Twenty Four.

       Chapter Twenty Five.

       Chapter Twenty Six.

       Chapter Twenty Seven.

       Chapter Twenty Eight.

       Chapter Twenty Nine.

       Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      Contains Certain Revelations.

      Until lunch-time next day I remained in Oakham, not knowing what to do, uncertain what steps to take.

      I am a bachelor with a comfortable income, and, I am ashamed to say, an idler. Work never did really appeal to me. I try to compensate for not working by paying my taxes regularly and being as charitable as I can to people I come across and like, and whom the world seems to treat unjustly.

      My father, Richard Ashton, was Colonel in the Blues. I was his only child, for my mother died in bringing me into the world to live at ease and waste my time. When my father died I found myself heir to a small property in Rutland, which I promptly let, and One Hundred and Eighty Thousand pounds safely invested—mostly in Consols. Sport in general, especially hunting and shooting, also reading, constitute my favourite forms of recreation. Generally I live in London, where I have a flat in King Street, St. James’s.

      I don’t remember what made me do it, but while lunching at the Stag’s Head I decided that I would take the car out to Houghton Park again. I think I was curious to see if any fresh development had taken place there.

      Nobody answered my repeated rings at the front door, so I went round to the back. The door was locked. I rang, and rang again, and knocked. But nobody came.

      I walked right round the house. Every window was shut, and apparently fastened. The whole place was as still as death. Then I went to the stables. I could hear the occasional rattle of a headstall chain, but the horses were all locked in.

      Having lit a cigar and told my driver to await my return, I sauntered aimlessly up into the woods—Houghton Park is one of the most beautifully wooded estates in Rutland, with a lake seven acres in extent hidden away in a delightfully picturesque spot surrounded by pine-grown hills. Several times during the past fortnight I had rambled up into these woods accompanied by Vera, and the association brought her back into my thoughts with renewed vividness. Where was she at that moment? What was she doing? Was she happy? Had any evil befallen her? When should I hear of her again? When should I see her?

      These, and many other reflections, came crowding in confusion into my brain. What could be the meaning of this extraordinary mystery, so suddenly created, so unexpected? I had known Sir Charles and Lady Thorold many years, in fact since I was a child. For years they had lived in London—in Belgravia. Then, two years previously, they had rented Houghton СКАЧАТЬ