Rourke, Fleming, and little Johnny O’Grady of the Herald10, with a camera man, whirled out of Market Street in an automobile11, and Lanagan jerked alertly round to watch them out of sight, speculating[Pg 32] as to what the story might be. He had half determined12 to drift over to the office, when Truck One swung into Market Street from O’Farrell. Other fire apparatus13 was swinging into and out of Market Street, clanging stridently, and Lanagan turned again to the ferry. Fires interested him but little. Always the chance, he remarked once to me fastidiously, of some chump of a fireman squirting water all over you, which spoiled your clothes. I never knew whether Lanagan was having a quiet joke in that or not. His entire wardrobe would have been scorned by a rag picker.
He had been puffing14 his oakum industriously15, and now was attracted by the spectacle of a man beside him nearly doubled over with a fit of coughing. He was shaking and beating at his breast with large, bony hands, and Lanagan noted17 professionally the rheumatic knuckles18 and the nails like claws, yellow and dirty. His breath came in sharp whistles, short and staccato, and he was taking possibly a third of a normal respiration19 at a time.
A particularly violent paroxysm, followed by all evidences of entire suspension of breath, brought Lanagan to the man’s side with a leap. He swung the huddled20 form against a hydrant.
“Here you!” he called, to a passer-by, “call Douglas 20 and tell them to shoot the harbour ambulance up here.” To himself he said: “This man is sick. He needs attention and needs it quick.”
But at the words the hunched22, choking figure[Pg 33] straightened spasmodically, flashing a look upon Lanagan that Lanagan, used to malevolence23 in all its forms expressed upon features the most evil, had not seen quite equalled. Accustomed to the ill-featured and repulsive24 as they strain through the bars at the city prison, yet even Lanagan started back momentarily in revulsion.
“I have seen misers,” thought Lanagan, “but this is the real miser25 of all fact and all fiction. I would know him in a million. Fellow I used to see in my dreams when I was a youngster. Pneumonia26 sure. About six hours for him and then six feet.”
Thus lightly diagnosing and disposing of the man and his case, Lanagan motioned the citizen, who had meantime stopped, to go on with the call. But the strange, gnomelike figure, flashing another look, a singular blend of loathing27, hate, fear, and timidity, upon the newspaper man, started to hobble away. Lanagan dropped his hand on the man’s shoulder to restrain him. But the harsh features turned a look so glowering28 and repellent upon him that he withdrew the restraining hand. The coughing had ceased. The little old man was still breathing sibilantly and swiftly, rather like a panting dog or cat, which he suggested, but by extraordinary effort of will had fought away the more violent exhibition of his seizure29. He commenced to shuffle30 down the street, with one furtive31, fearful, backward look that went on past Lanagan and up Market Street.
“You need a hospital, man,” said Lanagan[Pg 34] curtly32, “and I’m going to take you there. Wait.” He placed his hand again on the man’s shoulder. But the manikin-like creature flung the hand viciously from him and again flashed that strange look of blended hate, fear, and timidity upon the newspaper man.
“Let be!” he grated. “Let be!”
A car clanged to the safety station. The grotesque33 figure, still half-hunched over at the paroxysm from Lanagan’s Manila, started for it and Lanagan made no further effort at detention34. He climbed laboriously35 to the platform, and Lanagan shrugged36 his shoulders.
“I certainly am not going to dry-nurse you, old man, but I ought to at that. If I ever saw a man marked for death, you’re that man.”
Despite a long afternoon idled away beneath mine host Pastori’s shade trees and the somnolent37 influence of cobwebbed Chianti, Lanagan found his miser’s features constantly before him.
“He’s my miser, too,” he mused38, in the vernacular39 of childhood. “I shouldn’t have let him escape me after finding him.”
Returning late, Lanagan for once in his life went to his room without his inevitable40 last call at police headquarters. Consequently he was several hours late in the morning on the news of a very fine police story when he awakened41 to find his miser—Thaddeus Miller42 of Oakland—pictured on the front pages of all the morning papers. There was no[Pg 35] mistaking that face. It was his miser. He had been murdered in his cabin, a clumsy attempt having been made to fire the cabin to destroy the crime and its evidence.
A young clerk, a neighbour to the miser, was under arrest. It appeared that the clerk, James Watson, was found named in the will as sole legatee to an estate valued at close to a quarter of a million dollars. Upon the Watson porch had been found a hammer, freshly washed, the handle not yet dry. But clinging to the claws, unobserved by whoever had washed the blood from the hammer, were two strands43 of white hair that brought the hammer home to the crime in the cabin. Watson, the stories related, had only known Miller for a few months. He had been seen leaving the cottage shortly before eight o’clock. The fire was discovered smouldering at nine-thirty o’clock, extinguished, and Miller found with his skull44 crushed, lying on a kerosene45-soaked bunk46, to which, fortunately, the clumsily started fire had not yet communicated.
Watson had made a bad case out for himself initially47 by denying that he had seen Miller at all that day or knowing that he was named in the will. When confronted by neighbours who had seen him leaving the cottage and one neighbour who had heard his wife speak of the will, he took refuge in protestations that he had denied everything through fear and terror. He then admitted owning the hammer, but professed48 himself at a loss to account[Pg 36] for the fact of its having been freshly washed and of the strands of gray hair.
Raving49 his innocence50, he had come to the verge51 of physical collapse52. He repeated constantly the name of his wife and begged the police to bring her to him. But he was being held in strict “detinue,” the papers said, until the third degree was given him. At the time of going to press confession53 was expected momentarily.
Mrs. Watson, after a police examination, had been permitted to return to her home. Her story was that both she and her husband had befriended Miller on different occasions, out of pity for his forlorn and miserable54 condition. She admitted that on one occasion he had jocularly remarked that he would not forget her husband in his will, but had attached no importance to his remark. She had never heard him speak of any person that he feared. She admitted that her husband had visited Watson at his cabin in the evening, but that the circumstance was not unusual. He had remained but a moment, Miller being in an unusually morose55 mood—had been so, in fact, for three or four days. She was at a loss to account for the condition of the hammer.
“And yet,” growled56 Lanagan, “I’m eternally doomed57 if I think either of them did it. That fellow gave me a look that spelled fear; abject58, abnormal fear; it was the concentration of the fear of a lifetime of a hare who runs with the dogs always[Pg 37] at his heels. And it was not fear of the Watsons either.”
Lanagan, stopping at the office only long enough to receive instructions, made the narrow-gauge ferry by bowling59 over an obstreperous60 ticket-taker who tried to shut the gate in his face. Not that there was any particular need for such spectacular haste; it was merely Lanagan’s way; Lanagan “showing off,” as some of his professional brothers would invidiously have it. But I, who knew him better than any news writer in the business, say not. Lanagan was a genuine eccentric. And in this particular case he was fighting for time. Bitter experience had taught him the value of minutes. Indeed, a cardinal61 rule of his business that Lanagan sought to drive into my slower newspaper intelligence was to get on the ground first.
Lanagan knew of old that every city editor in town would be accepting the very plausible62 police version, and would be awaiting the expected confession from Watson. Watson might confess, but, Lanagan had a sullen63 “hunch21” that he wouldn’t.
Lanagan moved most of the time by “hunches64,” as many successful newspaper men—to say nothing of detectives—do. Hunches and luck may be called by such fancy brands as inductive or deductive, intensive or extensive analytical65 capacity; but in the long run most crimes are solved on luck, hunches, and through the invaluable66 aid of police “stool pigeons,” more politely known as “sources.”[Pg 38] An intuitive judgment67 of men is about as good an asset as a reporter or detective can have, coupled with a faculty68 for quick decision and personal bravery.
More than any one thing, it was possibly this faculty for swift intuitive analysis that carried Lanagan to his high degree of success. However, man and man’s judgments69 are fallible; it was so ordered in the original scheme of things, for very obvious reasons.
Lanagan went directly to the Watson cottage. The brilliant American police system had permitted some scores of curious and morbid70 persons to trample71 over every inch of ground within a hundred yards of the Miller hut. Privileged friends of the patrolman on guard there, after the traditional American custom also, had been permitted to slip inside and paw over the belongings72 and stare to their hearts’ content. Lanagan knew of old what the situation there would be. That could wait. He was more concerned with having the first meeting of the day with Mrs. Watson.
It was a modest little “bungalow style” of home that he approached, much like that of any one of thousands of small-salaried men in the transbay suburban73 sections. An air of good taste, neatness, and care in the trim little lawn, the cleanliness of the walks, stairs and porch, and the precision with which all of the shades were drawn74 against the morning sun, marked it possibly a bit more individual[Pg 39] than many of its kind. Mrs. Watson herself opened the door to his ring. She bore the outward evidence of grief. Her eyes were red and swollen75, her cheeks hectic76, her hair disheveled. She was blond, with large blue eyes, set possibly a line too closely together, chiseled77 nose, delicate, shapely ears, saving the lobe78 was not quite as free as an exact taste would require, and a well-moulded chin.
“I am Mr. Lanagan of the Enquirer79,” he said, adding some words of apology. He had a way with women—and with men as well—when he so desired, that was singularly ingratiating; a soft trick of speech, an ingenuousness80 of manner, a certain dignity that seemed to lift him from the mean atmosphere of his ill-fitting clothes and marked him with personality.
“You may come in,” said Mrs. Watson.
As he followed her to the parlour and she lifted the shades, he noticed that she was of good figure, rather lithe81 in her movements, laced well in for a housewife unappareled for the street, not more than three-and-twenty, and that she walked with that scarcely perceptible lift of the shoulders and swing of the hips82 that denotes a woman not entirely84 unconscious, even in the stress of melancholy85 circumstances, of the gaze of a man; a suggestion of affectation, the unmistakable mark of a woman inclined by temperament86 to be naturally frivolous87; or even, upon occasion, reckless. He noticed, too, that she wore French heels.
[Pg 40]“Curious type certainly,” commented Lanagan mentally. “Sort of a domesticated88 coryphée; with the homing instinct implanted where the wanderlust was planted in her sisters. One who has settled into marriage where her like settle, with as little concern, into the round circle of the night lights. Everything different except that generic89 vanity. Rather an odd mating for a clerk, and a plodder90 at that, to judge from his picture,” thought Lanagan.
Lanagan sat with his back to the window, putting Mrs. Watson in the full light.
“Is there anything you can say, Mrs. Watson, that could throw any light upon this affair? Any enemies that Miller ever spoke91 about? Any visitors that he has had of late? Any letters or other messages that he received? Any threats?”
She threw both hands forth with a despairing gesture.
“Nothing, nothing!” she moaned, as tears came. “It is terrible, terrible! He is innocent, innocent I say! I know he is innocent! I know it!”
She sobbed92 for a moment, and then, with a sudden gesture of determination, straightened up, dried her eyes, and composed herself.
Lanagan had been watching her with eyes that seemed to narrow and lessen94 to little black beads95. His ears, gifted with abnormal power for receiving and disintegrating96 into each component97 shade of meaning or emotion the tones of the human voice,[Pg 41] drank in every word that she uttered, marked each sob93 that shook her form.
“You do not believe your husband guilty, do you?”
Her lips parted in an exclamation98 of protest, and Lanagan for the first time caught the upper lip; a lip as thin as a paper cutter, that drew tautly99 and white across the perfect teeth. It suggested a knife to Lanagan.
“She holds true to the type,” he commented to himself grimly. “A curious type, surely, for a prosaic100 clerk!”
Lanagan’s brain was churning. His beady eyes gleamed as though touched with phosphorescence. Under the concentration of his gaze, the woman unconsciously shrank. Rising from his chair with a movement almost tigerish, he strode before her, upturned her face so that her eyes looked straight up into his, and then, his voice terrific in its tension, and yet scarcely louder than a whisper, said:
“Did you wheedle101 Thaddeus Miller into making a will in your favour and then murder him?”
So quickly that her act seemed rather involuntary than by any conscious impulse, she leaped to her feet, her breast rising and falling tumultuously. She struggled inarticulately for speech, raised her hand as though to strike him in the face, and collapsed102 in a swoon at his feet.
Lanagan gazed coldly down upon her without qualm. He was impersonal103 now; the incarnation[Pg 42] of newspaper truth. He only regretted that she had balked104 him by swooning. Swiftly he straightened her out, loosed her collar, and was busily engaged chafing105 her hands when heavy footfalls sounded from the porch, and the bell rang loudly.
“By the brogans and the ring, our friends of the upper office,” commented Lanagan cynically106 as he opened the door. Quinlan and Pryor from the Oakland department entered, viewing Lanagan suspiciously as they beheld107 the still form upon the floor.
“She’s in better shape for the hospital than your third degree in the detinue cells,” remarked Lanagan, vouchsafing108 no explanations. “Went out just this minute as I was interviewing her.”
Quinlan and Pryor settled themselves heavily, lit fresh cigars, made laboured notes of the circumstances, and, when Lanagan finally restored the woman, gave her some breathing space and then informed her that she was to be taken to see her husband. To Lanagan she directed no look—addressed no word. She moved as one in a trance.
The detectives and their prisoner departed and Lanagan turned for the Miller cottage.
“That was a pure soul’s denial or it was a guilty soul’s defiance,” thought Lanagan. “But which?”
Long he turned that over.
“Frankly, on type I mistrust her; but what about that look in Miller’s eyes?”
Lanagan seldom went back on a “hunch.” At[Pg 43] first flash he had declared the Watsons innocent. He was not yet ready to abandon that; and yet the circumstances were certainly trending toward them.
“But,” he concluded, “there’s a nigger in this woodpile somewhere that I haven’t located.”
The cottage had nothing to offer. Police, curio hunters, and shoals of newspaper men had combed it Lanagan hurried to the Oakland police headquarters and cocked his feet on Inspector109 Henley’s desk while that astute110 individual detailed111 to him the various steps taken by the police in fixing the crime on Watson. Lanagan was nettled112. It sounded highly convincing.
“You’re sure of Watson?” he finally asked, quizzically, helping113 himself to a fist-full of Henley’s cigars.
“Clearest case I have ever handled,” said Henley, moving the cigar box out of reach. “Every link is complete. Further: the woman is in on it and we’ll have her within twenty-four hours. We’ll get the case before Baxter and they’ll swing inside of three months.”
“Well,” drawled Lanagan, “you’re wrong again, Henley.”
The inspector flushed. He had a lively recollection of how Lanagan had “trimmed” him on the Stockslager murder and he didn’t take kindly114 to the “again.”
“We’ve got the motive115, the property; and the means, the hammer. What more do you want?”
[Pg 44]“Well, to complete the alliteration116, I suppose you want the murderer,” said Lanagan with a faint laugh. “And you haven’t got him. Pretty good smokes. Just slip back that box. I don’t get over your way very often. You act as though you had paid for those cigars yourself. Can I see Watson?”
“No,” said Henley, surlily. He never cared to argue the little matters such as Lanagan was fond of nagging117 him with; some way he had a feeling that Lanagan always knew just a trifle more than he told. He passed back the box. “But it’s an even break. Nobody’s seen him. Here’s his picture.”
Lanagan studied the front and profile of a young man of twenty-six, a face of surprising frankness and honesty. Every line held to Lanagan’s critical eye the lie to the number striped across his breast; another feature of our brilliant American police system that puts the rogue’s gallery blazon118 on a man before he is tried.
As Lanagan passed out, his eye fell on the bulletin board in the detectives’ room. The last discharge slip from San Quentin was pasted upon it, the slip by which all police stations are supposed to keep in touch with prisoners discharged during the past month. But through long familiarity few of the detectives stop to read carefully. More from habit than anything else, Lanagan read those sheets as a preacher reads the book—he scanned it.
[Pg 45]The fifth name on the list caught his eye: Ephraim Miller, alias120 Thad Miller, alias Thornton Miles, alias Iowa Slim; assault to murder; twenty-five years. The slip was dated the first—five days back. There was little chance of its being read now. Swift as a lightning flash Lanagan had formed his theory. His mind leaped back to the meeting with Miller in front of the Palace. Ephraim and Thaddeus; they were old-fashioned names. Then there was the “Thad.”
Miller had been from San Quentin but four days: Miser Miller’s fear had been on him but a few days. Possibly this was a wayward son, some unrecognised offspring, some family skeleton recrudescent; perhaps it was this convict who had brought that fear into the eyes of Thaddeus Miller!
It was a long, fine chance; but the most brilliant of newspaper successes are scored on long, fine chances. Lanagan determined to take it. He “rapped” to the hunch, as he used to style it; under the impulse of his new idea he was a human dynamo.
He was back in San Francisco within an hour, and headed straight for Billy Connors’ Buckets of Blood, that famed rendezvous121 within a stone’s throw of the Hall of Justice, where the leaders of the thieves’ clans122 foregathered. There he waited an hour until “Kid” Monahan, popularly designated as King of the Pick-pockets, came in. The Kid was now a fence. He had retired123 from the[Pg 46] active practice of his profession after doing time twice. “Ain’t there with the touch any more,” he remarked sadly to Lanagan one day. He was, moreover, credited with being the man for an outsider to “see” who wanted to operate locally.
“Kid,” said Lanagan, “I want you to find me Ephraim Miller, alias Thad Mills, alias Thornton Miles, alias Iowa Slim. Just out of San Quentin where he did twenty-five years for assault to murder.”
“We don’t keep no line on these old ones,” retorted the “King” professionally. “But if he’s goin’ to report here he reports to me. It’s pretty hard on us native sons with that reform bunch on the Police Commission and the sky pilots stuffing you guys on the papers full of knocks. There ain’t no touch-off work bein’ done around here by any travellers that we can help. When do you want him?”
“Meet me here to-night at ten. I must have him located by then.”
Lanagan had befriended the “King” once, and he held that illustrious gentleman’s absolute loyalty124. He knew the “King” would have a dozen men out in as many minutes.
Lanagan headed back for Oakland to round up the loose ends of the story. He found police headquarters jammed with newspaper men and the smell of many flash powders heavy on the air.
[Pg 47]“All right, Mr. Lanagan of the Enquirer,” quoth Henley. “You can talk to Watson now.” His tone was triumph.
Watson had confessed. He was sitting in a chair in the Inspector’s room, a huddled figure of misery125. The mantle126 of age seemed to have settled on him overnight.
Lanagan was a hard loser. He stepped over to the huddled man.
“Do you mean to tell me, Watson,” he said so low that no one but Watson heard him; “do you mean to tell me that you are not lying, putting your neck in the noose—to save your wife?”
“No! No!” the denial was a shriek127. “I killed him! I killed him for his money, I tell you!” He fell back, shivering.
Lanagan drove in on him. “You lie, I tell you,” he hissed128. “You lie! You fool! It’s bound to come out! Tell the truth!”
“No, no,” moaned Watson. “I did it alone. God! I can feel his skull crunching129 yet!”
“You’ve got more imagination than I credited you with,” sneered130 Lanagan savagely131. “That last was a good touch.”
There was a hustle132 as Quinlan and Pryor came through the prison gates from the detinue cells surrounded by an eager coterie133 of newspaper men.
“We’ve got her, Inspector!” cried Quinlan with unprofessional feeling. “She’s ‘spilled.’ Killed him herself, and says her husband is lying if he says[Pg 48] he did it. They’re both in it. We will have the whole thing now.”
The woman was then brought out after her official statement had been taken. Nothing that the newspaper men could do could shake her story. In substance she said that she had worked on the old man for months to have the will made out in her husband’s favour. Knowing her husband was above such a deed, she planned and executed it alone. She had not had an opportunity to wash the hammer after she returned home, and only did so when the furor134 commenced. That was why it was still damp and why she had overlooked the two strands of incriminating gray hair.
The newspaper camera men snapped and exploded flashes; the inquisitorial circle broke up, and Watson having been removed, the room was cleared of all save Henley, Mrs. Watson, and Lanagan.
“Through?” asked Henley sarcastically135.
“No,” snapped Lanagan. “You say you killed this man. I say, Mrs. Watson, you’re a liar119. You no more killed that man than I did. You are lying to save your husband!”
His voice had risen; his aspect was fairly ferocious136; his sallow face flushed to an unwholesome grey-blue; his eyes glowing again with that catlike phosphorescence that she had seen and quailed137 at once before.
But again he was doomed to disappointment at a breakdown138, for again under the shock she collapsed[Pg 49] after half rising to her feet with evident purpose to give him the lie as violently as he gave it to her.
Women, Lanagan reflected, are like electric wires. They are drawn to carry just so much voltage. A little overplus and they burn out. Each time he had bullied139 the woman just as her nerves were at the breaking point.
The matron bustled140 in with a side compliment on Lanagan for his brutality142, and lifted the limp form. Lanagan, bitterly chagrined143 at the events of the day, turned on his heel to return to San Francisco. On the ferry he broke a vow144 of six months and fell back on absinthe. He reached the office at seven o’clock, wrote steadily145 for two hours a story identical as he knew it would be with all the morning papers, and then went out.
The word was passed swiftly that Lanagan was drinking again, and I was released for the night to round him up and get him home—my usual assignment under the circumstances.
On the chance that some of the choice spirits that foregather at Connors’ dive might have crossed his path, I dropped in there, and, to my unbounded relief, saw Lanagan himself at a table in deep conversation with “Kid” Monahan. I went over to his table, the “King” slipping out the side door. I had not Lanagan’s penchant146 for camaraderie147 with that breed, and took little pains not to let him know it.
The old wild, reckless light shone from Lanagan’s[Pg 50] eyes, and I knew there was no measuring his stride that night, making pace or keeping it.
He laughed aloud. “Art there, old truepenny?” and slapped my shoulder. He was in high feather with himself, that was clear. “Come. Have you got your gun?” I nodded.
“That’s fine. Now for the grand ‘feenale,’ as C?sar says about his ponce à la toscana. And success to all hunches!” There was something besides absinthe burning back in those eyes.
Questions were useless, so I trailed along. At Macnamara’s corner we picked up Brady and Wilson, two of Chief Leslie’s trustiest men.
“Did the chief instruct you?” asked Lanagan.
“He said to report to you and keep our heads shut or tend daisies,” replied Brady, the senior of the pair, and a cool and heady thief-taker; also the champion pistol shot of the department.
“My man is Iowa Slim, wanted for murder. Is heavily armed and desperate. He’s in the Tokio—Jap lodging148 house at Dupont and Clay. It looks like break the door and rush. Wilson, Norton, and I will take the door, and you, Brady, stand free of the rush and be ready to drop him if he shows fight. That is, Norton will—” turning to me in his quizzical, bantering149 way, “—if he relishes150 the job!”
I didn’t relish151 the job. But, as usual, when he spoke to me in that superior, teasing way I blundered in valiantly152 where my native caution would have feared to tread. I am free to admit that I am[Pg 51] of that branch of the profession that believes a reporter full of lead in peace or war is of very little use on earth, and certainly not elsewhere, to the paper that employs him.
In the shadows the detectives nonchalantly slipped their revolvers into their side coat pockets. Neither was cumbered by an overcoat; double-line your sack coat, the old-timers will tell you, but keep away from excess encumbrances154 where possible. One gallant155 officer in my time lost his life because he was two seconds delayed unbuttoning an overcoat for his gun.
Fifteen minutes later we assembled, one by one, at convenient corners to the Tokio, a foul-smelling, ramshackle affair. One by one we drifted in, slipped off our shoes and tiptoed up the stairs, Lanagan in the lead, Norton bringing up the rear.
Lanagan paused before a corner door. He and Wilson braced156 against it. My bulk backed Wilson. Brady towered above us, standing157 free to have a clear sweep with both guns. He turned the light on full, taking every chance of making targets of us all for the one chance of getting a drop on Slim without bloodshed.
From an adjacent room a clock ticked loudly; somebody rolled over in bed, and the sounds came so clearly that it seemed my heart must have beat as loudly as a trip hammer. Yet it was not exactly fear, as I recall it; it was a sort of nervous tension to have it over with if it had to come.
[Pg 52]“Slim! Slim!” It was a soft, sibilant whisper, and I could scarcely believe my ears. It was Lanagan at the keyhole. Then he rapped four times in quick, soft staccato, and then four times more. It was some code he had learned, possibly from Monahan.
There was a prolonged pause, and the sound of someone from within turning in bed, and another long pause. The strain on me was terrific. From the corner of my eye I caught the black muzzle158 of Brady’s left-hand gun. It was as steady as though held in a vise, and I had time to marvel159.
“Slim! Slim! They’re after me! It’s Larry Bowman’s pal4, Shorty!”
Another nerve-racking pause, and then at the very keyhole came through a soft, throaty whisper:
“Who?”
“Shorty Davis. Larry said you’d take me in. Quick, Slim, they’re after me!”
A key grated, the knob turned.
“Now!” hissed Lanagan, and with one mighty160 lurch161 we burst pell-mell into the room. I caught a flashing look at a slender, flannel-shirted figure with a week’s growth of beard as Slim whirled a foot ahead of us and with one leap cleared the room and swung with a murderous long-barrelled Colt in his hand.
His leap was quicker than the spring of a cat. He shot from the hip83, but Brady, posted to do just the trick he did, spoiled the shot. Slim’s bullet[Pg 53] ripped a two-inch hole through the floor as he crumpled162 down in a heap.
We stretched him upon the bed. He had got it in the lungs. Wilson started for the doctor.
“Remember,” said Lanagan, “the chief’s orders. You are not to talk. If it gets out, tell all reporters it’s a detinue case. I’ll answer for the rest.”
A few gnomelike, corpselike, yellow faces peered from doors, but a flash from Brady’s star sent them scurrying163 back. The shot was apparently164 not heard in the street, for no one came.
Lanagan turned to Slim, who was choking.
“You know what you were wanted for, Slim?” he asked in as cool a voice as a surgeon might ask for your pulse.
“That Oakland job, I suppose,” he gasped165. “Well, boys, you did me a good turn croaking166 me. I never wanted to go back to that hell hole again. I did what I came out to do, what I’ve waited twenty-five years to do, and I’m ready to take my judgment. He sent me up there twenty-five years ago, and he murdered my father as surely as there is a God, who will some day dope it all out right according to a different scheme than they do here.”
Gasping167, with many halts, he told his story. The surgeon came, shook his head, and devoted168 himself to keeping life until the story was taken down.
His father, a wealthy Iowan, had come to Thaddeus Miller’s ranch153 thirty years ago, bringing with him his entire fortune for investment. The son[Pg 54] Ephraim remained at school back home. At Miller’s ranch the boy’s father had been found in the well one day, drowned. A whiskey bottle floated on the water beside him. His entire estate had been willed to Thaddeus Miller. In a sparsely169 settled community Thaddeus Miller’s story had been accepted—that the brother, in drink, had stumbled into the well. The son had journeyed across the continent to find himself disinherited. He had always been told he was to be his father’s heir. His father in Iowa had been a strict abstainer170. So far as the son knew, he had never touched liquor. But his charge, that Thaddeus had in some fashion gotten his father intoxicated171, forced him to sign a will, and then pitched him into the well with the bottle, while it created some natural excitement, could never be proved, and in the course of time became forgotten. In spite of a contest, the will stood.
Ephraim took to drink and fell in with evil companions. For petty offences he was sentenced and earned his name of Iowa Slim. One night in liquor, fired with his wrongs, he determined to ransack172 Miller’s house. He knew the old man kept a large amount of money concealed173 there. It was his, he believed, and he determined to have it. Miller had caught him. In the scuffle he beat his uncle and left him for dead, and in the stovepipe he had found a bag of gold. But as he was leaving the grounds, neighbours, driving along on the lonely country road, who had heard the first screams of the[Pg 55] old man, surrounded him. The uncle prosecuted174 him with all the wealth and influence at his command, and the son, at the age of eighteen years, was sentenced to San Quentin for twenty-five years for assault to murder.
As sentence was pronounced he had turned on his uncle and warned him that the day he was freed from prison he would come back and kill him. From time to time he had managed to send threats by discharged convicts, who carried the word with the unfailing obligation of the convict brotherhood175. He had driven the old man from place to place.
He had lost track of him for an entire year, and was planning how best to locate him again when he unexpectedly met him face to face on the streets of San Francisco, followed him to his home, waited until the neighbourhood was quiet, and then had stolen in, wakened the old man from sleep, and asked about his father’s property.
Under the fear of death Miller had made a promise of restitution176, but in an unguarded moment he said he “would make a new will.” Slim demanded what he meant by a new will, and the uncle had confessed the will to the Watsons merely to cheat the nephew in case he had come back and fulfilled his courtroom threat. The uncle had kept count and knew to a day when Slim was to be released. Enraged177 beyond endurance at that, Slim had seized up the hammer and crushed the old man’s head.
[Pg 56]“But as I live,” he breathed hoarsely178, “the man was as good as dead before I hit him.”
“Yes,” Lanagan interrupted, “I know that, Slim.”
Slim looked at Lanagan with dull curiosity, but was too far gone to ask explanations, and he continued with his story, telling of sprinkling kerosene and touching179 it with a match. He then had gone to the Watson cottage, carrying the hammer, intending if the couple were not in to locate and destroy the will; and if they were to do double murder if necessary to get it. Miller had said they had it, an untruth, told evidently in the childish hope that Slim might leave him and search for it. While still waiting for an opportunity of entering the house, the smouldering fire had been discovered at the Miller cottage, and he had fled, the thought coming to him to leave the hammer on the Watson porch, not knowing the hammer belonged to them and had been borrowed by Miller. The arrest of the two for murder might pave the way for him to have his property restored as the next of kin16 to Miller.
He signed the confession laboriously, and the story was done.
“It’s all right, cull,” he said to Brady, dropping back to the vernacular. “You did me a good trick not sending me back. There ain’t no hard feelings on my part.”
He raised himself by a sudden effort, his eyes[Pg 57] peering far, far away and beyond the sordid180 scene of his dissolution.
“I squared—all—accounts—dad—I squ’—”
He dropped back on the pillow. The surgeon bent181 his head to Slim’s breast, then slowly straightened up and drew the sheet over his face.
“Poor lad!” said Lanagan softly. “They will judge you differently there!”
Then again the newspaper mind curtly:
“Brady, you and Wilson stay here until I come back. Nobody gets in. Nobody, understand? Doc, we’ll have to impound you, too, until three. Understand, Brady?” Brady nodded.
“Now, Norrie,” snapped Lanagan incisively182, “beat it, boy, beat it!”
For two hours Lanagan and I fed paper into our typewriters, with Sampson himself whisking the sheets away as they came from the platens. The M. E. even came in once or twice and tried to preserve his dignity while he scanned the copy hot from the typewriter.
The thrill of Lanagan’s great exclusive was throughout the entire plant. Not a half-dozen people in the office knew just what the story was, but each knew by the subtle instinct of communication that the big scoop183 of the year was shooting down the pneumatic to the composing room.
Not until we had the first papers, sticky and inky and fragrant184, in our eager fingers, did we stir from[Pg 58] our desks. Then followed the usual jubilation185 as the scouts186 ran in with the Times and the Herald with the “Watsons Confess” scareheads.
Ah, that is life, that exaltation of the “exclusive”!
We wandered leisurely187 down to the Tokio. The story was wide open now. We were through. The morgue notified, Brady and Wilson stayed to attend to the routine, and Lanagan announced that he was going to Oakland.
We caught the paper boat, riding luxuriously on heaps of Enquirers. Thus it happened that we were at police headquarters there with the copies of our own paper before the route carriers had made their deliveries. Lanagan stepped to the ’phone and rang up Henley.
“Feel like buying a drink?” asked Lanagan.
Over the wire came back some hearty188 and measured compliments. “You’re sure in an amiable189 humour. Well, come down. You’ve got two prisoners to free. If conditions at your jail weren’t so rotten I wouldn’t say anything till morning. But I need a drink, which is on you, and the Watsons need a breath of fresh air.” In fifteen minutes Henley was with us.
He was a gallant officer, that Henley. When he had finished he wrung190 Lanagan’s hand until I thought he never would let go.
“Bring in the Watsons,” he ordered.
[Pg 59]In a moment they came in, a weary, worn, misery-marked couple. It was their first meeting since their imprisonment191. With a sob, asking no why or wherefore, Mrs. Watson fell into her husband’s arms and mingled192 her tears with his. Her sobs—weary, worn, tired little sobs—echoed softly under the vaulted193 ceiling.
“I am pleased to inform you,” Henley said grandly, “that through the efforts of our brilliant young friend of the Enquirer, the murderer of Miller has been located. You are free.”
Then followed such a scene of hysterical194 gladness and tearful, joyous195 explanations as Henley’s room, that had beheld many strange and unusual scenes, had never witnessed.
Of course Watson, when arrested, confronted with the hammer and told that his wife had confessed, had yielded to the third degree and, unable to accept the full horror of it, yet had swiftly formed his plan to confess to save the woman he loved, even though she might have done the deed.
She, on her part, told a similar story, had formed her plan, for it appeared that when the furor was raised after the murder was discovered she had found the hammer on her porch with fresh blood stains; knew it had been in Miller’s cottage, and had washed it hurriedly, not knowing in her excitement just what to do, her husband even then having been taken to the scene of the crime by the police.
[Pg 60]In face of his confession and her own hammer found stained in such manner, she had actually believed that he had committed the crime.
The police automobile drove up and the Watsons were escorted to it.
For the twentieth time, her eyes still tear-filled, Mrs. Watson said: “What can we ever do to thank you, Mr. Lanagan?”
“Forgive me certain brutal141 conduct,” laughed that individual. “As I hope the Lord will forgive me,” he added sotto voce, “for misjudging you.”
As the automobile sped away to return a very happy couple to their home, Lanagan, hat doffed196 and in hand, bowed profoundly after the retreating machine, and remarked with veneration197 to the world at large:
“The tenth woman, gentlemen, the tenth woman.”
Then to Henley: “Inspector, I believe you said something about buying?”
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收听单词发音
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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3
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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5
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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7
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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8
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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10
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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13
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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14
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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15
industriously
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16
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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17
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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18
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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19
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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20
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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21
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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23
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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24
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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25
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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26
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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27
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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28
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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29
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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30
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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31
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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32
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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33
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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34
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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35
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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36
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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38
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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39
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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40
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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41
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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42
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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43
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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45
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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46
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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47
initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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48
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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49
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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50
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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51
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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52
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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53
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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54
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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55
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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56
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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57
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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58
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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59
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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60
obstreperous
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| adj.喧闹的，不守秩序的 | |
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61
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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62
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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63
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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64
hunches
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| 预感，直觉( hunch的名词复数 ) | |
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65
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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66
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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67
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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68
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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69
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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70
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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71
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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72
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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73
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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74
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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75
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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76
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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77
chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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78
lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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79
enquirer
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| 寻问者，追究者 | |
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80
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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81
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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82
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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83
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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84
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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86
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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87
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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88
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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90
plodder
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| n.沉重行走的人，辛勤工作的人 | |
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91
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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92
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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93
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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94
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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95
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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96
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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97
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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98
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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99
tautly
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| adv.绷紧地；紧张地； 结构严谨地；紧凑地 | |
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100
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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101
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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102
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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103
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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104
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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105
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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106
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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107
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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108
vouchsafing
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的现在分词 )；允诺 | |
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109
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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110
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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111
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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112
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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113
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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114
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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115
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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116
alliteration
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| n.（诗歌的）头韵 | |
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117
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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118
blazon
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| n.纹章，装饰；精确描绘；v.广布；宣布 | |
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119
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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120
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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121
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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122
clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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123
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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124
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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125
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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126
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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127
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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128
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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129
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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130
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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132
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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133
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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134
furor
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| n.狂热；大骚动 | |
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135
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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136
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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137
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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139
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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141
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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142
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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143
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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145
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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146
penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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147
camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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148
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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149
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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150
relishes
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| n.滋味( relish的名词复数 )；乐趣；（大量的）享受；快乐v.欣赏( relish的第三人称单数 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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151
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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152
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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153
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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154
encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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155
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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156
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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157
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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158
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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159
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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160
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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161
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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162
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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163
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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164
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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165
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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166
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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167
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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168
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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169
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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170
abstainer
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| 节制者，戒酒者，弃权者 | |
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171
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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172
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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173
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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174
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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175
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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176
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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177
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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178
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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179
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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180
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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181
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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182
incisively
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| adv.敏锐地，激烈地 | |
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183
scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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184
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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185
jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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186
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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187
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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188
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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189
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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190
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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191
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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192
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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193
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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194
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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195
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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196
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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