Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael. A Novel онлайн

34 страница из 83

She raised her arms and lifted down a square box. It was neatly folded in brown paper, corded with strong cords and firmly sealed.

“Bring it here,” said her father.

She did so.

“Lay it on the bed.”

“Yes, father,” she replied; “what does it contain?”

“Nancy, you are never to open the box.”

“What am I to do with it?”

“When you find the man who killed your brother, you are to give this unopened box to him. Give it to him, and when you do so, say, ‘Dr. Follett, the father of Anthony Follett, asked me to give you this.’ You need not add a word more. Keep the box until that supreme moment comes. Whatever else you part from, never let this box out of your keeping. Where you go take it, for any day or any night the need for it may arise. When you give it to the murderer and when he opens it, your brother’s blood will be avenged.”

ssss1

Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse’s steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man’s broad figure and muscular arms to perfection.