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At One-Thirty: A Mystery/Detective Classic By Isabel Ostrander! AAA+++
At One-Thirty: A Mystery/Detective Classic By Isabel Ostrander! AAA+++
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Excerpt:
THE PASSING OF GARRET APPLETON
RISING from his chair, Damon Gaunt crossed the library to the window, and flung it wide, drinking in the sultry air of early autumn as though he loved it, listening to the familiar noises of the street with ears eagerly at' tuned. Although, in passing, he had touched the diiFerent articles of furniture in his path casually and lightly, with those long, slim, wonderfully sensitive fingers of his, it had been but absent-mindedly, not gropingly hesitant, and it was not until one looked straight and level into his soft, deep-brown eyes that one realized they were sightless.
He sighed deeply as he stood at the window, his fingertips touching delicately here and there the trailing tendrils of ivy that reached out boldly from the trellised vine, which clambered over the brick walls of the house. No man loved life-- vibrant, pulsating life--more than Damon Gaunt, nor more deeply yearned to know it to the full.
But he had never permitted himself to regret the sight, which from birth had been denied to him, save in his life-work, the detection of crime.
The man's condition and his career would seem in themselves to be paradoxical. How a being deprived of one of the senses--hy the majority considered the most essential--could engage, and successfully, in a profession that required every attribute, every resource, known to mankind, developed to the nth degree, seemed inexplicable. Yet Damon Gaunt had never lost a case.
He turned suddenly from the window, and stood expectant, although no sound audible to the normal ear had broken the stillness within the house. In a moment, however, a softly treading footfall might have been heard on the carpeted hall; there was a moment's hesitation, and then a quick tap at the door, accompanied by an involuntary deferential cough.
Damon Gaunt smiled slightly to himself. He had never been able to break Jenkins of that unnecessary note of warning.
"Come in!" he said.
Jenkins entered, with a small salver in his hand.
"Card, sir. Gentleman to see you."
Gaunt approached, and took the card from the salver. The comers of his mobile, smooth-shaven mouth twitched again. He had at least succeeded in breaking Jenkins of the habit of shoving things into his hand.
His fingertips traveled over the heavily engraved card; but the lettering upon it was too elaborate for his sense of touch to spell for him. He turned to a large writing-desk in a comer.
"Miss Barnes, the name, please."
A tall, angular, precise young woman came forward, and took the card from his hand.
THE PASSING OF GARRET APPLETON
RISING from his chair, Damon Gaunt crossed the library to the window, and flung it wide, drinking in the sultry air of early autumn as though he loved it, listening to the familiar noises of the street with ears eagerly at' tuned. Although, in passing, he had touched the diiFerent articles of furniture in his path casually and lightly, with those long, slim, wonderfully sensitive fingers of his, it had been but absent-mindedly, not gropingly hesitant, and it was not until one looked straight and level into his soft, deep-brown eyes that one realized they were sightless.
He sighed deeply as he stood at the window, his fingertips touching delicately here and there the trailing tendrils of ivy that reached out boldly from the trellised vine, which clambered over the brick walls of the house. No man loved life-- vibrant, pulsating life--more than Damon Gaunt, nor more deeply yearned to know it to the full.
But he had never permitted himself to regret the sight, which from birth had been denied to him, save in his life-work, the detection of crime.
The man's condition and his career would seem in themselves to be paradoxical. How a being deprived of one of the senses--hy the majority considered the most essential--could engage, and successfully, in a profession that required every attribute, every resource, known to mankind, developed to the nth degree, seemed inexplicable. Yet Damon Gaunt had never lost a case.
He turned suddenly from the window, and stood expectant, although no sound audible to the normal ear had broken the stillness within the house. In a moment, however, a softly treading footfall might have been heard on the carpeted hall; there was a moment's hesitation, and then a quick tap at the door, accompanied by an involuntary deferential cough.
Damon Gaunt smiled slightly to himself. He had never been able to break Jenkins of that unnecessary note of warning.
"Come in!" he said.
Jenkins entered, with a small salver in his hand.
"Card, sir. Gentleman to see you."
Gaunt approached, and took the card from the salver. The comers of his mobile, smooth-shaven mouth twitched again. He had at least succeeded in breaking Jenkins of the habit of shoving things into his hand.
His fingertips traveled over the heavily engraved card; but the lettering upon it was too elaborate for his sense of touch to spell for him. He turned to a large writing-desk in a comer.
"Miss Barnes, the name, please."
A tall, angular, precise young woman came forward, and took the card from his hand.
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