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163 stories from 11 authors
Mr Calhoun Kidd was a very young gentleman with a very old face, a face dried up with its own eagerness, framed in blue-black hair and a black butterfly tie.
It was one of those chilly and empty afternoons in early winter, when the daylight is silver rather than gold and pewter rather than silver.
Now that war and the problems of war are things of the past, I think I may safely venture to reveal to the world the part which my friend Poirot played in a moment of national crisis.
Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him godspeed.
“To cook by your fire and to sleep under your roof for the night,” I had announced on entering old Ebbits’s cabin; and he had looked at me blear-eyed and vacuous, while Zilla had favored me with a sour face and a contemptuous grunt.
Sitka Charley smoked his pipe and gazed thoughtfully at the Police Gazette illustration on the wall.
Since the beginning of the campaign Lieutenant Lare had taken two cannon from the Prussians.