Franklin the chief mate, and had even
disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell, the second of the ship
_Ferndale_, commanded by Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet, you
know."
"You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out," I
said in pretended indignation.
"It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won't. I
haven't failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. However, I
have now seen our Powell many times under the most favourable
conditions--and besides I came upon a most unexpected source of
information . . . But never mind that. The means don't concern you
except in so far as they belong to the story. I'll admit that for some
time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and two together
failed to procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an
investigator--a man of deductions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony
and Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel
beautifully matured in less than a year--could I? If you ask me what is
an ordinary marital quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference
about nothing; I mean, these nothings which, as Mr.
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