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J C ARBUTHNOT, 1884–1934 RIP

It was one of those Greek-temple huts in which they bury fabulous people, with an iron lattice gate locked over a heavy wood-and-bronze inner door

“He couldn’t have come out of there, could he?”

“No, but soot on that ladder and I knew his face And sonize that face so I was invited to come see”

“Shut up Come on”

We advanced along the path

“Watch it We don’t want to be seen playing this stupid game”

We arrived at the wall There was nothing there, of course

“Like I said, if the body was ever here, we’re too late” Roy exhaled and glanced

“No, look There”

I pointed at the top of the wall

There were the ainst the upper rim

“The ladder?”

“And down here”

The grass at the base of the wall, about five feet out, a proper angle, had two half-inch ladder indentations in it