“Ye had forgotten,” said Reardon, a whit contemptuously. “An' ye was askin' the China boy how he w'u'd like to be murthered!”
“I will explain to you, Officer,” I said in the street. “I am writing a story. I was merely seeking a native impression.”
“That'll be as it may be,” said Reardon. “Ye give me the impression—”
“Suppose you had your head cut off—” I began affably enough. But I got no further.
“It is as I thought,” said Reardon, gloomily. He got in beside me, and he helped me out at my own house, though I needed absolutely no assistance. He seemed to want to give me a bit of advice.
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“'A-ah, mystery!'” said Mrs. Revis, clasping her beautiful hands and gazing upward. “'I adore mystery!'”
“Lay off the stuff, sur-r,” he said ponderously. “An' ye wid the fine wife you have!” He shook his head a number of times, glanced with sad resignation at my wife as she led me in, and departed, still shaking his head. I can't tell you how all that head-shaking annoyed me.