Whatever might be Terry's failings, I could not doubt, as I looked into his face, that his Irish heart was in the right place.
"I am not afraid of the truth," I returned steadily.

"If you can discover it, for Heaven's sake do so!" "That's what I'm paid for," said Terry.

"The Post-Dispatch doesn't deal in fiction any more than it can help." As we climbed into the carriage he added briskly, "It's a horrible affair! The details as I have them from the papers are not full enough, but you can tell them to me as we drive along." I should have laughed had I been feeling less anxious.

His greeting was so entirely characteristic in the way he shuffled through the necessary condolences and jumped, with such evident relish, to the gruesome details.
As I gathered up the reins and backed away from the hitching-post, Terry broke out with: "Here, hold on a minute.

Where are you going ?" "Back to Four-Pools," I said in some surprise.