The Monk of Hambleton   By: Armstrong Livingston (1885-)

By

ARMSTRONG LIVINGSTON

NEW YORK

RAE D. HENKLE CO. Inc. Publishers

1928

COPYRIGHT, 1928,

By RAE D. HENKLE Co. INC.

Manufactured in the United States

THE AUTHOR

Armstrong Livingston was born in New York City and was educated at St. George's School, Newport, R. I; and in Europe. He began a writing career in 1918. He has traveled extensively and for the past two years he and Mrs. Livingston have made their home in Algiers with occasional trips to Paris and London. He is the author of the following books all mystery stories:

THE MONK OF HAMBLETON THE MYSTERY OF THE TWIN RUBIES THE JU JU MAN ON THE RIGHT WRISTS LIGHT FINGERED LADIES THE GUILTY ACCUSER

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. SAYING IT WITH FRUIT II. THE HEAD OF THE TRAIL III. A WARNING IV. THE LEGEND OF THE MONK V. MISS LUCY'S MAN VI. AN AUNT IN NEED VII. OUT OF THE PAST VIII. TWO VICTIMS OF THEFT IX. SIMON SEEKS ADVICE X. CREIGHTON TAKES THE CASE XI. CHECKERS AND CHICANE XII. STARLIGHT ON STEEL XIII. A DEDUCTION OR TWO XIV. LUCY VARR XV. TREASURE TROVE XVI. A WOMAN OF NOTE XVII. AN ARREST Is MADE XVIII. SOME OLD MEN ARE OUT XIX. AMONG THOSE PRESENT XX. H. ANTEUS KRECH XXI. TWILIGHT XXII. A CRY IN THE NIGHT XXIII. THE DARKEST HOUR XXIV. BEYOND THE STARS

THE MONK OF HAMBLETON

I: Saying It With Fruit

The weather beaten buildings that comprised the plant of the Varr and Bolt tannery occupied a scant five acres of ground a short half mile from the eastern edge of the village of Hambleton. They were of old type brick construction, dingy without and gloomy within, and no one unacquainted with the facts could have guessed from their dilapidated and defected exteriors that they represented a sound and thriving business. It was typical of Simon Varr, that outward air of shabbiness and neglect; it was said of him that he knew how to exact the last ounce of efficiency from men and material without the expenditure of a single superfluous penny.

An eight foot board fence surrounded the property on three sides, the fourth being bounded by a sluggish, disreputable creek whose fetid waters seemed to crawl onward even more slowly after receiving the noisome waste liquor from the tan pits. At only one point, that nearest the village, did any of the buildings touch the encircling fence. There its sweep was broken by the facade of a squat two story structure of yellow brick which contained the offices of the concern and the big bare room in which a few decrepit clerks pursued their uninspiring labors. Admission to this building, and through it to the yard, was by way of a stout oaken door on which the word Private was stencilled in white paint. Just above the lettering, at the height of a man's eyes, a small Judas had been cut a comparatively recent innovation to judge from the freshness of its chiselled edges.

On the afternoon of a warm, late summer day a number of men twenty five or thirty were loitering outside this door in various attitudes of leisure and repose. They were a sorry, unkempt lot, poorly clothed and unshaven, sullen of face and weary eyed. When they moved it was languidly, when they spoke it was with brevity, in tired, toneless voices. All of them looked hungry and many of them were, for it was the end of the third week of their strike.

The faintest flicker of animation stirred them as they were presently joined by a roughly dressed man who sauntered up from the direction of the village, though it is safe to suppose that some of them were moved to interest less by the newcomer himself than by the fact that he was carrying a huge ripe tomato in one hand. He nodded a greeting that was returned by them in kind, and it was some moments before the most energetic of their number crystallized their listless curiosity in a single question.

"Any news, Charlie?"

"Nothin' to git excited about."