Now I wonder... Goodness, what a price!...
More Dachshunds...
'Do write or communicate - desperate - Woggles.'
What silly nicknames people have...
Cocker Spaniels... Do you remember darling Susie, Edmund?
She really was human.
Understood every word you said to her... Sheraton sideboard for Sale.
Genuine family antique.
Mrs. Lucas, Dayas Hall...
What a liar that woman is!
Sheraton indeed...!"
Mrs. Swettenham sniffed and then continued her reading.
"All a mistake, darling.
Undying love.
Friday as usual - J...
I suppose they've had a lovers' quarrel - or do you think it's a code for burglars?...
More Dachshunds!
Really, I do think people have gone a little crazy about breeding Dachshunds.
I mean, there are other dogs.
Your Uncle Simon used to breed Manchester Terriers.
Such graceful little things.
I do like dogs with legs... Lady going abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting... no measurements or price given.... A marriage is announced - no, a murder... What?...
Well, I never! Edmund, Edmund, listen to this... A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation. What an extraordinary thing! Edmund!"
"What's that?" Edmund looked up from his newspaper.
"Friday, October 29th... Why, that's today."
"Let me see." Her son took the paper from her.
"But what does it mean?" Mrs. Swettenham asked with lively curiosity.
Edmund Swettenham rubbed his nose doubtfully.
"Some sort of party, I suppose.
The Murder Game - that kind of thing."
"Oh," said Mrs. Swettenham doubtfully.
"It seems a very odd way of doing it. Just sticking it in the advertisements like that.
Not at all like Letitia Blacklog who always seems to me such a sensible woman."
"Probably got up by the bright young things she has in the house."
"It's very short notice.
Today. Do you think we're just supposed to go?"
"It says
'Friends, please accept this, the only intimation?'" her son pointed out.
"Well, I think these new fangled ways of giving invitations are very tiresome," said Mrs. Swettenham decidedly.
"All right. Mother, you needn't go."
"No," agreed Mrs. Swettenham.
There was a pause.
"Do you really want that last piece of toast, Edmund?"
"I should have thought my being properly nourished mattered more than letting that old hag clear the table."
"Sh, dear, she'll hear you...
Edmund, what happens at a Murder Game?"
"I don't know, exactly...
They pin pieces of paper upon you, or something... No, I think you draw them out of a hat.
And somebody's the victim and somebody else is a detective - and then they turn the lights out and somebody taps you on the shoulder and then you scream and lie down and sham dead."
"It sounds quite exciting."