The Clue of the Twisted Candle quotes

Kara made no reply for the moment, but shrugged his shoulders. Presently he spoke.

“If you were ever tied down to a chair and by the side of that chair was a small keg of black powder and stuck in that powder was a small candle that burnt lower and lower every minute⁠—my God!”

John was amazed to see the perspiration stand upon the forehead of his guest.

“I want you to come down here at once,” said the voice urgently, and even over the telephone T. X. recognized the distress.

“I have shot a man, killed him!”

“Good Lord,” he said, “you are a silly ass!”

“I want you to come down here at once,” said the voice urgently, and even over the telephone T. X. recognized the distress. “I have shot a man, killed him!”

“Good Lord,” he said, “you are a silly ass!”

“You haven’t given up hope, then, in regard to Lexman?”

“I shall never give up hope,” said T. X., “until I am dead, and possibly not then.”

“Let me see, what did he get—fifteen years?”

“I can understand all that”—the Chief Commissioner turned round—“but what I cannot understand is your apology to him.”

“There are so many things you don’t understand, Sir George,” said T. X. tartly, “that I despair of ever cataloguing them.”

“You are an insolent cub,” growled his Chief. “Come to lunch.”

X. directed, that, however sordid and however conventional might be the errors which the great ones of the earth committed, they should be filed for reference.

The motto which T. X. went upon in life was, “You never know.”

The Minister of Justice was a very important person, for he was a personal friend of half the monarchs of Europe.

The other looked at him awhile, then,

“I am very good to my old servants,” he said slowly

and, changing the subject; “to what good fortune do I owe this visit?”

Just one gush of fluid and no more. T. X. looked down. The bright carpet had already changed colour, and was smoking. The room was filled with a pungent and disagreeable scent. T. X. looked from the floor to the white-faced man.

“Vitriol, I believe,” he said, shaking his head admiringly. “What a dear little fellow you are!”

The man, big as he was, was on the point of collapse and mumbled something about self-defence, and listened without a word, whilst T. X., labouring under an emotion which was perfectly pardonable, described Kara, his ancestors and the possibilities of his future estate.

“Very ingenious indeed,” said T. X.

“If I had a brain like yours,” he paused, “I should do something with it⁠—with a gun,” he added, as he passed out of the room.

She looked at him with interest in her eyes.

“What is your favourite weapon, Mr. Kara?” she asked.

If he expected her to give him any encouragement to proceed he was disappointed. Probably he required no such encouragement, for in the presence of his social inferiors he was somewhat monopolizing.

If he expected her to give him any encouragement to proceed he was disappointed. Probably he required no such encouragement, for in the presence of his social inferiors he was somewhat monopolizing.

“Cut a man’s flesh and it heals,” he said.

“Whip a man and the memory of it passes, frighten him, fill him with a sense of foreboding and apprehension and let him believe that something dreadful is going to happen either to himself or to someone he loves—better the latter—and you will hurt him …

… man and the memory of it passes, frighten him, fill him with a sense of foreboding and apprehension and let him believe that something dreadful is going to happen either to himself or to someone he loves—better the latter—and you will hurt him beyond forgetfulness.

Fear is a tyrant and a despot, more terrible than the rack, more potent than the stake.

Fear is many-eyed and sees horrors where normal vision only sees the ridiculous.”

It was a sound of a sigh, long and trembling. She set her teeth and strode through the doorway and stood for a moment staring with open eyes and mouth at what she saw.

“My God!” she breathed, “London⁠ ⁠… in the twentieth century⁠ ⁠… !”

Mansus, watching the Commissioner, saw the puzzled frown gather on his superior’s forehead, saw the eyebrows arch and the mouth open in astonishment, saw him hastily turn to the last page to read the signature and then:

“Howling apples!” gasped T. X. “It’s from John Lexman!”

His hand shook as he turned the closely written pages. The letter was dated that afternoon. There was no other address than “London.”

About the neck was a collar and attached to that, a few links of broken chain. T. X. mounted the steps thoughtfully and passed out to the kitchen.

Did Belinda Mary stab Kara or kill the dog? That she killed one hound or the other was certain. That she killed both was possible.

“that is my weakness. Some day I will tell you the whole story but for the moment it were better that it were not told. I will tell you this,” he turned round and faced the detective squarely,

“Kara tortured and killed my wife.”

T. X. said no more.

“The smaller candle was twisted into a sort of corkscrew shape.”

“The Clue of the Twisted Candle,” mused John Lexman “that’s a very good title⁠—Kara hated candles.”

Lexman leant back in his chair, selected a cigarette from a silver case.

“How do you know my name?” she asked with some curiosity.

“I know everything in the world,” he answered, and she smiled.

Suddenly her face went serious and she demanded sharply,

“I think,” she suggested gently, “you had better arrest me.”

“Don’t be silly,” he begged.

She stared at him in amazement.

“There you have the advantage of me,” he inclined his head politely;

“I was named after my father’s favourite dog.”

“What does T. X. stand for?” she asked curiously.

She shook her head reprovingly.

“It must be an awful thing to be a policeman.”

He stood back with folded arms, a stern frown on his face.

“Would you like me to burst into tears?” he asked sarcastically.

“I ask you to do nothing more painful or repugnant to your natural feelings than to be a gentleman,” she said.

“Thank you very kindly,” said T. X., and leant back in the cab with an air of supreme resignation.

“God forbid that I should do anything so low,” said he hastily; “what made you think that?”

“Because I was putting my tongue out at you,” she admitted

, and the taxi driver heard the shrieks of laughter in the cab behind him above the wheezing of his asthmatic engine.

“Naturally it isn’t,” he replied. “I suppose you aren’t married by any chance?”

“Married,” she repeated bitterly; “why, you will make my fourth!”

She had hardy got the words out of her mouth before she realized her terrible error.

“Of course,” she said indignantly, “you’re a policeman.”

“Only when I am in uniform,” he said hastily, and piloted her across the road.

It was a new man who returned to the gloomy office in Whitehall. A man with a heart that swelled and throbbed with the pride and joy of life’s most precious possession.

There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of any emotion whatever.

“It is the will of God,” he said calmly; “these things happen even in a great city like London.”

“It was your knife,” suggested T. X.

He stood in the centre of the room and thumped his broad chest with his clenched hand.

“I killed Remington Kara,” he said, and there was a little gasp of astonishment from every man present save one.

That one was T. X. Meredith, who had known all the time.