At Liverpool, however, the Adelphi consoled him. We dined luxuriously10 in the Louis Quinze restaurant, as only millionaires can dine, and proceeded next day by Pullman car to London.
We found Amelia dissolved in tears at a domestic cataclysm11. It seemed that Césarine had given notice.
Charles was scarcely home again when he began to bethink him of the least among his investments. Like many other wealthy men, my respected connection is troubled more or less, in the background of his consciousness, by a pervading12 dread13 that he will die a beggar. To guard against this misfortune—which I am bound to admit nobody else fears for him—he invested, several years ago, a sum of two hundred thousand pounds in Consols, to serve as a nest-egg in case of the collapse14 of Golcondas and South Africa generally. It is part of the same amiable15 mania16, too, that he will not allow the dividend17-warrants on this sum to be sent to him by post, but insists, after the fashion of old ladies and country parsons, upon calling personally at the Bank of England four times a year to claim his interest. He is well known by sight to not a few of the clerks; and his appearance in Threadneedle Street is looked forward to with great regularity18 within a few weeks of each lawful19 quarter-day.
So, on the morning after our arrival in town, Charles observed to me, cheerfully, "Sey, I must run into the City to-day to claim my dividends20. There are two quarters owing."
I accompanied him in to the Bank. Even that mighty21 official, the beadle at the door, unfastened the handle of the millionaire's carriage. The clerk who received us smiled and nodded. "How much?" he asked, after the stereotyped22 fashion.
"Two hundred thousand," Charles answered, looking affable.
The clerk turned up the books. "Paid!" he said, with decision. "What's your game, sir, if I may ask you?"
"Paid!" Charles echoed, drawing back.
The clerk gazed across at him. "Yes, Sir Charles," he answered, in a somewhat severe tone. "You must remember you drew a quarter's dividend from myself—last week—at this very counter."
Charles stared at him fixedly23. "Show me the signature," he said at last, in a slow, dazed fashion. I suspected mischief24.
The clerk pushed the book across to him. Charles examined the name close.
"Colonel Clay again!" he cried, turning to me with a despondent25 air. "He must have dressed the part. I shall die in the workhouse, Sey! That man has stolen away even my nest-egg from me."
I saw it at a glance. "Mrs. Quackenboss!" I put in. "Those portraits on the Etruria! It was to help him in his make-up! You recollect26, she sketched28 your face and figure at all possible angles."
"And last quarter's?" Charles inquired, staggering.
The clerk turned up the entry. "Drawn29 on the 10th of July," he answered, carelessly, as if it mattered nothing.
Then I knew why the Colonel had run across to England.
Charles positively30 reeled. "Take me home, Sey," he cried. "I am ruined, ruined! He will leave me with not half a million in the world. My poor, poor boys will beg their bread, unheeded, through the streets of London!"
(As Amelia has landed estate settled upon her worth a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, this last contingency32 affected33 me less to tears than Charles seemed to think necessary.)
We made all needful inquiries34, and put the police upon the quest at once, as always. But no redress35 was forthcoming. The money, once paid, could not be recovered. It is a playful little privilege of Consols that the Government declines under any circumstances to pay twice over. Charles drove back to Mayfair a crushed and broken man. I think if Colonel Clay himself could have seen him just then, he would have pitied that vast intellect in its grief and bewilderment.
After lunch, however, my brother-in-law's natural buoyancy reasserted itself by degrees. He rallied a little. "Seymour," he said to me, "you've heard, of course, of the Bertillon system of measuring and registering criminals."
"I have," I answered. "And it's excellent as far as it goes. But, like Mrs. Glasse's jugged hare, it all depends upon the initial step. 'First catch your criminal.' Now, we have never caught Colonel Clay—"
"Or, rather," Charles interposed unkindly, "when you did catch him, you didn't hold him."
I ignored the unkindly suggestion, and continued in the same voice, "We have never secured Colonel Clay; and until we secure him, we cannot register him by the Bertillon method. Besides, even if we had once caught him and duly noted36 the shape of his nose, his chin, his ears, his forehead, of what use would that be against a man who turns up with a fresh face each time, and can mould his features into what form he likes, to deceive and foil us?"
"Never mind, Sey," my brother-in-law said. "I was told in New York that Dr. Frank Beddersley, of London, was the best exponent37 of the Bertillon system now living in England; and to Beddersley I shall go. Or, rather, I'll invite him here to lunch to-morrow."
"Who told you of him?" I inquired. "Not Dr. Quackenboss, I hope; nor yet Mr. Algernon Coleyard?"
Charles paused and reflected. "No, neither of them," he answered, after a short internal deliberation. "It was that magazine editor chap we met at Wrengold's."
"He's all right," I said; "or, at least, I think so."
So we wrote a polite invitation to Dr. Beddersley, who pursued the method professionally, asking him to come and lunch with us at Mayfair at two next day.
Dr. Beddersley came—a dapper little man, with pent-house eyebrows38, and keen, small eyes, whom I suspected at sight of being Colonel Clay himself in another of his clever polymorphic embodiments. He was clear and concise39. His manner was scientific. He told us at once that though the Bertillon method was of little use till the expert had seen the criminal once, yet if we had consulted him earlier he might probably have saved us some serious disasters. "A man so ingenious as this," he said, "would no doubt have studied Bertillon's principles himself, and would take every possible means to prevent recognition by them. Therefore, you might almost disregard the nose, the chin, the moustache, the hair, all of which are capable of such easy alteration40. But there remain some features which are more likely to persist—height, shape of head, neck, build, and fingers; the timbre41 of the voice, the colour of the iris3. Even these, again, may be partially42 disguised or concealed43; the way the hair is dressed, the amount of padding, a high collar round the throat, a dark line about the eyelashes, may do more to alter the appearance of a face than you could readily credit."
"So we know," I answered.
"The voice, again," Dr. Beddersley continued. "The voice itself may be most fallacious. The man is no doubt a clever mimic44. He could, perhaps, compress or enlarge his larynx. And I judge from what you tell me that he took characters each time which compelled him largely to alter and modify his tone and accent."
"Yes," I said. "As the Mexican Seer, he had of course a Spanish intonation45. As the little curate, he was a cultivated North-countryman. As David Granton, he spoke46 gentlemanly Scotch47. As Von Lebenstein, naturally, he was a South-German, trying to express himself in French. As Professor Schleiermacher, he was a North-German speaking broken English. As Elihu Quackenboss, he had a fine and pronounced Kentucky flavour. And as the poet, he drawled after the fashion of the clubs, with lingering remnants of a Devonshire ancestry48."
"Quite so," Dr. Beddersley answered. "That is just what I should expect. Now, the question is, do you know him to be one man, or is he really a gang? Is he a name for a syndicate? Have you any photographs of Colonel Clay himself in any of his disguises?"
"Not one," Charles answered. "He produced some himself, when he was Medhurst the detective. But he pocketed them at once; and we never recovered them."
"Could you get any?" the doctor asked. "Did you note the name and address of the photographer?"
"Unfortunately, no," Charles replied. "But the police at Nice showed us two. Perhaps we might borrow them."
"Until we get them," Dr. Beddersley said, "I don't know that we can do anything. But if you can once give me two distinct photographs of the real man, no matter how much disguised, I could tell you whether they were taken from one person; and, if so, I think I could point out certain details in common which might aid us to go upon."
All this was at lunch. Amelia's niece, Dolly Lingfield, was there, as it happened; and I chanced to note a most guilty look stealing over her face all the while we were talking. Suspicious as I had learned to become by this time, however, I did not suspect Dolly of being in league with Colonel Clay; but, I confess, I wondered what her blush could indicate. After lunch, to my surprise, Dolly called me away from the rest into the library. "Uncle Seymour," she said to me—the dear child calls me Uncle Seymour, though of course I am not in any way related to her—"I have some photographs of Colonel Clay, if you want them."
"You?" I cried, astonished. "Why, Dolly, how did you get them?"
For a minute or two she showed some little hesitation49 in telling me. At last she whispered, "You won't be angry if I confess?" (Dolly is just nineteen, and remarkably50 pretty.)
"My child," I said, "why should I be angry? You may confide51 in me implicitly52." (With a blush like that, who on earth could be angry with her?)
"And you won't tell Aunt Amelia or Aunt Isabel?" she inquired somewhat anxiously.
"Not for worlds," I answered. (As a matter of fact, Amelia and Isabel are the last people in the world to whom I should dream of confiding53 anything that Dolly might tell me.)
"Well, I was stopping at Seldon, you know, when Mr. David Granton was there," Dolly went on; "—or, rather, when that scamp pretended he was David Granton; and—and—you won't be angry with me, will you?—one day I took a snap-shot with my kodak at him and Aunt Amelia!"
"Why, what harm was there in that?" I asked, bewildered. The wildest stretch of fancy could hardly conceive that the Honourable54 David had been flirting55 with Amelia.
Dolly coloured still more deeply. "Oh, you know Bertie Winslow?" she said. "Well, he's interested in photography—and—and also in me. And he's invented a process, which isn't of the slightest practical use, he says; but its peculiarity56 is, that it reveals textures58. At least, that's what Bertie calls it. It makes things come out so. And he gave me some plates of his own for my kodak—half-a-dozen or more, and—I took Aunt Amelia with them."
"I still fail to see," I murmured, looking at her comically.
"Oh, Uncle Seymour," Dolly cried. "How blind you men are! If Aunt Amelia knew she would never forgive me. Why, you must understand. The—the rouge59, you know, and the pearl powder!"
"Oh, it comes out, then, in the photograph?" I inquired.
"Comes out! I should think so! It's like little black spots all over auntie's face. such a guy as she looks in it!"
"And Colonel Clay is in them too?"
"Yes; I took them when he and auntie were talking together, without either of them noticing. And Bertie developed them. I've three of David Granton. Three beauties; most successful."
"Any other character?" I asked, seeing business ahead.
Dolly hung back, still redder. "Well, the rest are with Aunt Isabel," she answered, after a struggle.
"My dear child," I replied, hiding my feelings as a husband, "I will be brave. I will bear up even against that last misfortune!"
Dolly looked up at me pleadingly. "It was here in London," she went on; "—when I was last with auntie. Medhurst was stopping in the house at the time; and I took him twice, tête-à-tête with Aunt Isabel!"
"Isabel does not paint," I murmured, stoutly60.
Dolly hung back again. "No, but—her hair!" she suggested, in a faint voice.
"Its colour," I admitted, "is in places assisted by a—well, you know, a restorer."
Dolly broke into a mischievous61 sly smile. "Yes, it is," she continued. "And, oh, Uncle Sey, where the restorer has—er—restored it, you know, it comes out in the photograph with a sort of brilliant iridescent62 metallic63 sheen on it!"
"Bring them down, my dear," I said, gently patting her head with my hand. In the interests of justice, I thought it best not to frighten her.
Dolly brought them down. They seemed to me poor things, yet well worth trying. We found it possible, on further confabulation, by the simple aid of a pair of scissors, so to cut each in two that all trace of Amelia and Isabel was obliterated64. Even so, however, I judged it best to call Charles and Dr. Beddersley to a private consultation65 in the library with Dolly, and not to submit the mutilated photographs to public inspection66 by their joint67 subjects. Here, in fact, we had five patchy portraits of the redoubtable68 Colonel, taken at various angles, and in characteristic unstudied attitudes. A child had outwitted the cleverest sharper in Europe!
The moment Beddersley's eye fell upon them, a curious look came over his face. "Why, these," he said, "are taken on Herbert Winslow's method, Miss Lingfield."
"Yes," Dolly admitted timidly. "They are. He's—a friend of mine, don't you know; and—he gave me some plates that just fitted my camera."
Beddersley gazed at them steadily69. Then he turned to Charles. "And this young lady," he said, "has quite unintentionally and unconsciously succeeded in tracking Colonel Clay to earth at last. They are genuine photographs of the man—as he is—without the disguises!"
"They look to me most blotchy," Charles murmured. "Great black lines down the nose, and such spots on the cheek, too!"
"Exactly," Beddersley put in. "Those are differences in texture57. They show just how much of the man's face is human flesh—"
"And how much wax," I ventured.
"Not wax," the expert answered, gazing close. "This is some harder mixture. I should guess, a composition of gutta-percha and india-rubber, which takes colour well, and hardens when applied70, so as to lie quite evenly, and resist heat or melting. Look here; that's an artificial scar, filling up a real hollow; and this is an added bit to the tip of the nose; and those are shadows, due to inserted cheek-pieces, within the mouth, to make the man look fatter!"
"Why, of course," Charles cried. "India-rubber it must be. That's why in France they call him le Colonel Caoutchouc!"
"Can you reconstruct the real face from them?" I inquired anxiously.
Dr. Beddersley gazed hard at them. "Give me an hour or two," he said—"and a box of water-colours. I think by that time—putting two and two together—I can eliminate the false and build up for you a tolerably correct idea of what the actual man himself looks like."
We turned him into the library for a couple of hours, with the materials he needed; and by tea-time he had completed his first rough sketch27 of the elements common to the two faces. He brought it out to us in the drawing-room. I glanced at it first. It was a curious countenance71, slightly wanting in definiteness, and not unlike those "composite photographs" which Mr. Galton produces by exposing two negatives on the same sensitised paper for ten seconds or so consecutively72. Yet it struck me at once as containing something of Colonel Clay in every one of his many representations. The little curate, in real life, did not recall the Seer; nor did Elihu Quackenboss suggest Count von Lebenstein or Professor Schleiermacher. Yet in this compound face, produced only from photographs of David Granton and Medhurst, I could distinctly trace a certain underlying73 likeness74 to every one of the forms which the impostor had assumed for us. In other words, though he could make up so as to mask the likeness to his other characters, he could not make up so as to mask the likeness to his own personality. He could not wholly get rid of his native build and his genuine features.
Besides these striking suggestions of the Seer and the curate, however, I felt vaguely75 conscious of having seen and observed the man himself whom the water-colour represented, at some time, somewhere. It was not at Nice; it was not at Seldon; it was not at Meran; it was not in America. I believed I had been in a room with him somewhere in London.
Charles was looking over my shoulder. He gave a sudden little start. "Why, I know that fellow!" he cried. "You recollect him, Sey; he's Finglemore's brother—the chap that didn't go out to China!"
Then I remembered at once where it was that I had seen him—at the broker's in the city, before we sailed for America.
"What Christian76 name?" I asked.
Charles reflected a moment. "The same as the one in the note we got with the dust-coat," he answered, at last. "The man is Paul Finglemore!"
"You will arrest him?" I asked.
"Can I, on this evidence?"
"We might bring it home to him."
Charles mused77 for a moment. "We shall have nothing against him," he said slowly, "except in so far as we can swear to his identity. And that may be difficult."
Just at that moment the footman brought in tea. Charles wondered apparently78 whether the man, who had been with us at Seldon when Colonel Clay was David Granton, would recollect the face or recognise having seen it. "Look here, Dudley," he said, holding up the water-colour, "do you know that person?"
Dudley gazed at it a moment. "Certainly, sir," he answered briskly.
"Who is it?" Amelia asked. We expected him to answer, "Count von Lebenstein," or "Mr. Granton," or "Medhurst."
Instead of that, he replied, to our utter surprise, "That's Césarine's young man, my lady."
"Césarine's young man?" Amelia repeated, taken aback. "Oh, Dudley, surely, you must be mistaken!"
"No, my lady," Dudley replied, in a tone of conviction. "He comes to see her quite reg'lar; he have come to see her, off and on, from time to time, ever since I've been in Sir Charles's service."
"When will he be coming again?" Charles asked, breathless.
"He's downstairs now, sir," Dudley answered, unaware79 of the bombshell he was flinging into the midst of a respectable family.
Charles rose excitedly, and put his back against the door. "Secure that man," he said to me sharply, pointing with his finger.
"What man?" I asked, amazed. "Colonel Clay? The young man who's downstairs now with Césarine?"
"No," Charles answered, with decision; "Dudley!"
I laid my hand on the footman's shoulder, not understanding what Charles meant. Dudley, terrified, drew back, and would have rushed from the room; but Charles, with his back against the door, prevented him.
"I—I've done nothing to be arrested, Sir Charles," Dudley cried, in abject81 terror, looking appealingly at Amelia. "It—it wasn't me as cheated you." And he certainly didn't look it.
"I daresay not," Charles answered. "But you don't leave this room till Colonel Clay is in custody82. No, Amelia, no; it's no use your speaking to me. What he says is true. I see it all now. This villain83 and Césarine have long been accomplices84! The man's downstairs with her now. If we let Dudley quit the room he'll go down and tell them; and before we know where we are, that slippery eel31 will have wriggled86 through our fingers, as he always wriggles87. He is Paul Finglemore; he is Césarine's young man; and unless we arrest him now, without one minute's delay, he'll be off to Madrid or St. Petersburg by this evening!"
"You are right," I answered. "It is now or never!"
"Dudley," Charles said, in his most authoritative88 voice, "stop here till we tell you you may leave the room. Amelia and Dolly, don't let that man stir from where he's standing80. If he does, restrain him. Seymour and Dr. Beddersley, come down with me to the servants' hall. I suppose that's where I shall find this person, Dudley?"
"N—no, sir," Dudley stammered89 out, half beside himself with fright. "He's in the housekeeper's room, sir!"
We went down to the lower regions in a solid phalanx of three. On the way we met Simpson, Sir Charles's valet, and also the butler, whom we pressed into the service. At the door of the housekeeper's room we paused, strategically. Voices came to us from within; one was Césarine's, the other had a ring that reminded me at once of Medhurst and the Seer, of Elihu Quackenboss and Algernon Coleyard. They were talking together in French; and now and then we caught the sound of stifled90 laughter.
We opened the door. "Est-il dr?le, donc, ce vieux?" the man's voice was saying.
"C'est à mourir de rire," Césarine's voice responded.
We burst in upon them, red-handed.
Césarine's young man rose, with his hat in his hand, in a respectful attitude. It reminded me at once of Medhurst, as he stood talking his first day at Marvillier's to Charles; and also of the little curate, in his humblest moments as the disinterested91 pastor92.
With a sign to me to do likewise, Charles laid his hand firmly on the young man's shoulder. I looked in the fellow's face: there could be no denying it; Césarine's young man was Paul Finglemore, our broker's brother.
"Paul Finglemore," Charles said severely93, "otherwise Cuthbert Clay, I arrest you on several charges of theft and conspiracy94!"
The young man glanced around him. He was surprised and perturbed95; but, even so, his inexhaustible coolness never once deserted96 him. "What, five to one?" he said, counting us over. "Has law and order come down to this? Five respectable rascals97 to arrest one poor beggar of a chevalier d'industrie! Why, it's worse than New York. There, it was only you and me, you know, old Ten per Cent!"
"Hold his hands, Simpson!" Charles cried, trembling lest his enemy should escape him.
Paul Finglemore drew back even while we held his shoulders. "No, not you, sir," he said to the man, haughtily98. "Don't dare to lay your hands upon me! Send for a constable99 if you wish, Sir Charles Vandrift; but I decline to be taken into custody by a valet!"
"Go for a policeman," Dr. Beddersley said to Simpson, standing forward.
The prisoner eyed him up and down. "Oh, Dr. Beddersley!" he said, relieved. It was evident he knew him. "If you've tracked me strictly100 in accordance with Bertillon's methods, I don't mind so much. I will not yield to fools; I yield to science. I didn't think this diamond king had sense enough to apply to you. He's the most gullible101 old ass1 I ever met in my life. But if it's you who have tracked me down, I can only submit to it."
Charles held to him with a fierce grip. "Mind he doesn't break away, Sey," he cried. "He's playing his old game! Distrust the man's patter!"
"Take care," the prisoner put in. "Remember Dr. Polperro! On what charge do you arrest me?"
Charles was bubbling with indignation. "You cheated me at Nice," he said; "at Meran; at New York; at Paris!"
Paul Finglemore shook his head. "Won't do," he answered, calmly. "Be sure of your ground. Outside the jurisdiction102! You can only do that on an extradition103 warrant."
"Well, then, at Seldon, in London, in this house, and elsewhere," Charles cried out excitedly. "Hold hard to him, Sey; by law or without it, blessed if he isn't going even now to wriggle85 away from us!"
At that moment Simpson returned with a convenient policeman, whom he had happened to find loitering about near the area steps, and whom I half suspected from his furtive104 smile of being a particular acquaintance of the household.
Charles gave the man in charge formally. Paul Finglemore insisted that he should specify105 the nature of the particular accusation106. To my great chagrin107, Charles selected from his rogueries, as best within the jurisdiction of the English courts, the matter of the payment for the Castle of Lebenstein—made in London, and through a London banker. "I have a warrant on that ground," he said. I trembled as he spoke. I felt at once that the episode of the commission, the exposure of which I dreaded108 so much, must now become public.
The policeman took the man in charge. Charles still held to him, grimly. As they were leaving the room the prisoner turned to Césarine, and muttered something rapidly under his breath, in German. "Of which tongue," he said, turning to us blandly109, "in spite of my kind present of a dictionary and grammar, you still doubtless remain in your pristine110 ignorance!"
Césarine flung herself upon him with wild devotion. "Oh, Paul, darling," she cried, in English, "I will not, I will not! I will never save myself at your expense. If they send you to prison—Paul, Paul, I will go with you!"
I remembered as she spoke what Mr. Algernon Coleyard had said to us at the Senator's. "Even the worst of rogues111 have always some good in them. I notice they often succeed to the end in retaining the affection and fidelity112 of women."
But the man, his hands still free, unwound her clasping arms with gentle fingers. "My child," he answered, in a soft tone, "I am sorry to say the law of England will not permit you to go with me. If it did" (his voice was as the voice of the poet we had met), "'stone walls would not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.'" And bending forward, he kissed her forehead tenderly.
We led him out to the door. The policeman, in obedience113 to Charles's orders, held him tight with his hand, but steadily refused, as the prisoner was not violent, to handcuff him. We hailed a passing hansom. "To Bow Street!" Charles cried, unceremoniously pushing in policeman and prisoner. The driver nodded. We called a four-wheeler ourselves, in which my brother-in-law, Dr. Beddersley and myself took our seats. "Follow the hansom!" Charles cried out. "Don't let him out of your sight. After him, close, to Bow Street!"
I looked back, and saw Césarine, half fainting, on the front door steps, while Dolly, bathed in tears, stood supporting the lady's-maid, and trying to comfort her. It was clear she had not anticipated this end to the adventure.
"Goodness gracious!" Charles screamed out, in a fresh fever of alarm, as we turned the first corner; "where's that hansom gone to? How do I know the fellow was a policeman at all? We should have taken the man in here. We ought never to have let him get out of our sight. For all we can tell to the contrary, the constable himself—may only be one of Colonel Clay's confederates!"
And we drove in trepidation114 all the way to Bow Street.
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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obstreperous
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iris
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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gale
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retired
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precipitately
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berth
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groaned
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luxuriously
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cataclysm
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pervading
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dread
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collapse
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amiable
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mania
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dividend
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regularity
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lawful
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dividends
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mighty
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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24
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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26
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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27
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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28
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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30
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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31
eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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32
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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33
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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34
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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35
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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36
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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37
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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38
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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39
concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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40
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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41
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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42
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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43
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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44
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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45
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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46
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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47
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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48
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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49
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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50
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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51
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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52
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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54
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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55
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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56
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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59
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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61
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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62
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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65
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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66
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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67
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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68
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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69
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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70
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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71
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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72
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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73
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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74
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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75
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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76
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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77
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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78
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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79
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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80
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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81
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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82
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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83
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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84
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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85
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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86
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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87
wriggles
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| n.蠕动，扭动( wriggle的名词复数 )v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的第三人称单数 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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88
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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89
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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91
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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92
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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93
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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94
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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95
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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97
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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98
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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99
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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100
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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101
gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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102
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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103
extradition
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| n.引渡（逃犯） | |
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104
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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105
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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106
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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107
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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108
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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109
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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110
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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111
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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112
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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113
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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114
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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