Sitting. Staring at my companion. With a good Havana cigar in one hand and the other Scottish nectar and listened to his chatter, with open eyes in astonishment at first, and the interest later. He
comfortably in his chair, leg over leg, told me a story. The sun was surprised with its first rays.
I got off the pure lack of oxygen, and my cup untouched. To draw the curtains in the morning light blinded me. I looked almost in the dark, a place to deposit my glass.
In the room I found myself alone. My particular storyteller had disappeared without a trace. I left the library looking for one that had kept me awake, enthralled with a story absolutely magical.
Mrs. Curtis asked my housekeeper, his servants, serving the kitchen. I questioned everyone, grooms, gardeners ... no response. Nobody spoke. Neither look.
I went to my room, furious, when I realized that the cigar off, I stayed in my mouth. I bit in anger, and concerns should feel that he was experiencing something unexplainable.
rode for hours in a failed attempt to clarify the previous night. When I arrived that evening I waited in the forecourt in front of the house, someone claiming to be the Commissioner Baxter.
- Good afternoon, Mr. Swanson!
"Good afternoon," I said.
I spoke of a corpse had been found in the northern part of my estate. The fact that my property was forced to question him.
told me, without much detail at first, how and when they found that individual, how they believed the murder happened. Most surprising was that there was nothing to identify him, except a small mark on the back of his neck. My heart raced. Sweat soaked my hands. It was like my own stories told! And it was he who was telling me.
That night I went to the right place by Baxter. I heard a few steps, when I turned a sharp blade cut short my throat. As I left the life I could see a large stone fell on my face.
When police questioned Ms. Curtis and all the service of the house, told that I had left to ride for three nights and did not know me from then. Mrs. Curtis identified me by the birthmark I have on the back of the neck.
Every night I keep hearing the same story of my companion, sitting with a cigar in one hand off, and a glass of scotch in the other nectar seeking an explanation for my housekeeper does not answer my questions, and pretends not to see me.
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