Inverness cape

End of The Bag of Sand End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Part 1 of Lady Molly of Scotland Yard by Baroness Or Z This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.

The Man in the Inverness Cape Part 1 I have heard many people say, people too, mind you, who read their daily paper regularly, that it is quite impossible for anyone to disappear within the confines of the British Isles.

At the same time, these wise people invariably admit one great exception to their otherwise unimpeachable theory, and that is the case of Mr. Leonard Marvel, who, as you know, walked out one afternoon from the Scotia Hotel in Cromwell Road and has never been seen or heard of since.

Information had originally been given to the police by Mr. Marvel's sister Olive, a Scotchwoman of the usually accepted type, tall, bony, with sandy-coloured hair and a somewhat melancholy expression in her blue-grey eyes.

With great adroitness, Rosie, the maid, had made inquiries at South Kensington and Moorgate Street stations.

At the former, the booking clerk, who knew Mr. Marvel by sight, distinctly remembered selling him a first-class ticket to one of the city stations in the early part of the afternoon.

But at Moorgate Street, which is a very busy station, no one recollected seeing a tall, red-haired Scotchman in an Inverness cape.

Such was the description given of the missing man.

All the heavy things were already on board the Windward, anchored off Greenhithe.

When the hero of the hour arrived, a large Inverness cape on his arm, carrying a bundle of fur rugs, his only article of luggage was a large tin bath.

A bath, we cried.

Yes, he laughingly replied, I've had a small bathroom built on the ship, and when we get into our winter quarters on Bell Island, I shall use my baby's bath.

He's seventeen in just my height, but everything I borrowed of him, except his white necktie, was a beastly fit.

However, I was well hidden by his Inverness cape, so it didn't matter a row of pins.

Then I crammed my hair under a wig that had been left over from Lucy Vipont's birthday theatricals, and then— Then Dawkins let me out.

"'What did you do? Where did you go to?' stamping her feet.