THE MURDER AT THE DUCK CLUB
Witherspoon shuffled into my room.
"I'll go and get a rig," continued November, "and have it waiting outside. We have n't overmuch time if we're going to call at your country place for your outfit."
A quarter of an hour later Joe and I were bowling along in the rig drawn by a particularly good horse. I live with my sister some distance out on the St. Louis road, and thither we drove at all speed.
My sister had gone out to tea with some friends, but she is well accustomed to my always erratic movements, so that I felt quite at ease when I left a note explaining that I was leaving Quebec for a day or two with November Joe.
We reached the station just in time and were soon steaming along through the farmlands that surround Quebec City.
You who read this may or may not have heard of the Tamarind Duck Club. It is a small association composed chiefly of Montreal and New York business men, to which I had leased the sporting rights of a chain of lakes lying on one of my properties not very far from the waters of the St. Lawrence. To these lakes the
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