Very carefully he then slipped the india-rubber band off the roll of
brown paper which had been confided to him by Miss Pendarth. He spread
out the sheet of newspaper, putting aside the brown paper in which it had
been rolled, as also Miss Pendarth's open letter to his mother. And then,
with one hand resting on his cat's soft, furry neck, he read through the
long account of the inquest held on Colonel Crofton's death. As he worked
laboriously down the long columns, Timmy's freckled forehead became
wrinkled, for, try as he might, he could not make out what it was all
about. The only part he thoroughly understood was the description of
Colonel Crofton's last hours; the agony the dying man had endured, the
efforts made by the doctor, not only to save his life, but to force him
to say how the virulent poison had got into his system--all became
vividly present to the boy.
Timmy felt vexed when he realised, as he could not help doing, that Mrs.
Crofton had looked very pretty when she was giving evidence at the
inquest; in fact, the descriptive reporter had called her "the dead man's
beautiful young widow."
And then, all at once, he bethought himself of Miss Pendarth's letter to
his mother.
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