The Mill Mystery E-Book

Anna Katharine Green

• Herausgeber: Enrico Conti
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Anna Katharine Green (November 11, 1846 – April 11, 1935) was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories. Green has been called "the mother of the detective novel".

Leseprobe

The Mill Mystery

by

Anna Katharine Green

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The Alarm.

A Fearful Question.

Ada.

The Pollards.

Doubts and Queries.

Mrs. Pollard.

Advances.

A Flower from the Pollard Conservatory.

An Unexpected Discovery.

Rhoda Colwell.

Under the Mill Floor.

Dwight Pollard.

Guy Pollard.

Correspondence.

A Gossip.

The Green Envelope.

David Barrows.

A Last Request.

A Fatal Delay.

The Old Mill.

The Vat.

The Cypher.

Too Late.

Confronted.

The Final Blow.

A Feline Touch.

Reparation.

Two or One.

i.

The Alarm.

Life, struck sharp on death,

Makes awful lightning.

MRS. BROWNING

I had just come in from the street. I had a letter in my hand. It was for my fellow-lodger, a young girl who taught in the High School, and whom I had persuaded to share my room because of her pretty face and quiet ways. She was not at home, and I flung the letter down on the table, where it fell, address downwards. I thought no more of it; my mind was too full, my heart too heavy with my own trouble.

Going to the window, I leaned my cheek against the pane. Oh, the deep sadness of a solitary woman’s life! The sense of helplessness that comes upon her when every effort made, every possibility sounded, she realizes that the world has no place for her, and that she must either stoop to ask the assistance of friends or starve! I have no words for the misery I felt, for I am a proud woman, and —— But no lifting of the curtain that shrouds my past. It has fallen for ever, and for you and me and the world I am simply Constance Sterling, a young woman of twenty-five, without home, relatives, or means of support, having in her pocket seventy-five cents of change, and in her breast a heart like lead, so utterly had every hope vanished in the day’s rush of disappointments.

How long I stood with my face to the window I cannot say. With eyes dully fixed upon the blank walls of the cottages opposite, I stood oblivious to all about me till the fading sunlight — or was it some stir in the room behind me? — recalled me to myself, and I turned to find my pretty room-mate staring at me with a troubled look that for a moment made me forget my own sorrows and anxieties.

“What is it?” I asked, going towards her with an irresistible impulse of sympathy.

“I don’t know,” she murmured; “a sudden pain here,” laying her hand on her heart.

I advanced still nearer, but her face, which had been quite pale, turned suddenly rosy; and, with a more natural expression, she took me by the hand, and said:

“But you look more than ill, you look unhappy. Would you mind telling me what worries you?”

The gentle tone, the earnest glance of modest yet sincere interest, went to my heart. Clutching her hand convulsively, I burst into tears.

“It is nothing,” said I; “only my last resource has failed, and I don’t know where to get a meal for to-morrow. Not that this is anything in itself,” I hastened to add, my natural pride reasserting itself; “but the future! the future! — what am I to do with my future?”