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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 309 pages of information about O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1919.

“So George Bulmer is dead, in a London gutter!  It seems strange, because he was here, befriended by monarchs, and very strong and handsome and self-confident, hardly two hours ago.  Is that his blood upon your sleeve?”

“But of course not!  I told you I was vexatiously detained, almost at your gates.  Yes, I had the ill luck to blunder into a disgusting business.  The two rapscallions tumbled out of a doorway under my horse’s very nose, egad!  It was a near thing I did not ride them down.  So I stopped, naturally.  I regretted stopping, afterward, for I was too late to be of help.  It was at the Golden Hind, of course.  Something really ought to be done about that place.  Yes, and that rogue Marler bled all over a new doublet, as you see.  And the Deptford constables held me with their foolish interrogatories—­”

“So one of the fighting men was named Marlowe!  Is he dead, too, dead in another gutter?”

“Marlowe or Marler, or something of the sort—­wrote plays and sonnets and such stuff, they tell me.  I do not know anything about him—­though, I give you my word now, those greasy constables treated me as though I were a noted frequenter of pot-houses.  That sort of thing is most annoying.  At all events, he was drunk as David’s sow, and squabbling over, saving your presence, a woman of the sort one looks to find in that abominable hole.  And so, as I was saying, this other drunken rascal dug a knife into him—­”

But now, to Captain Musgrave’s discomfort, Cynthia Allonby had begun to weep heartbrokenly.

So he cleared his throat, and he patted the back of her hand.  “It is a great shock to you, naturally—­oh, most naturally, and does you great credit.  But come now, Pevensey is gone, as we must all go some day, and our tears cannot bring him back, my dear.  We can but hope he is better off, poor fellow, and look on it as a mysterious dispensation and that sort of thing, my dear—­”

“Oh, Ned, but people are so cruel!  People will be saying that it was I who kept poor Cousin George in London this past two weeks, and that but for me he would have been in France long ago.  And then the Queen, Ned!—­why, that pig-headed old woman will be blaming it on me, that there is nobody to prevent that detestable French King from turning Catholic and dragging England into new wars, and I shall not be able to go to any of the court dances! nor to the masque!” sobbed Cynthia, “nor anywhere!”

“Now you talk tender-hearted and angelic nonsense.  It is noble of you to feel that way, of course.  But Pevensey did not take proper care of himself, and that is all there is to it.  Now I have remained in London since the Plague’s outbreak.  I stayed with my regiment, naturally.  We have had a few deaths, of course.  People die everywhere.  But the Plague has never bothered me.  And why has it never bothered me?  Simply because I was sensible, took the pains to consult an astrologer, and by his advice wear about my neck, night and day, a bag of dried toad’s blood and powdered cinnamon.  It is an infallible specific for men born in February.  No, not for a moment do I wish to speak harshly of the dead, but sensible persons cannot but consider Lord Pevensey’s death to have been caused by his own carelessness.”

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