The Oakdale Affair
4 hrs. 21 min.
The lights in the house on the hill burned only on the first floor: in the spacious living room, in the dining room, and in more or less remote mysterious rooms from which unpleasant smells drifted and where pleasant dishes were carried out.
Behind the house, watched by a pair of eyes stationed beyond the broad lawn crossed by low bushes, a sharp mind—endowed with the insight of Sherlock Holmes and the persistence of Arthur Raffles—concluded that the President of the First National Bank’s family (let’s immediately name the place: Oakdale) was having dinner, that all the servants were downstairs, and that there was nobody on the second floor.
The owner of those very eyes had just come down from a service room located above the garage. Having broken into that place like a burglar in the night, he emerged dressed in an excellent suit that belonged to a dapper chauffeur, and in a soft checkered cap pulled low over his forehead. The expression in his big brown eyes was rather tense, and if there had been a psychologist here, they would have been able to identify our hero as a novice; even tightly pressed, beautiful lips wouldn’t fool anyone. There was no doubt: it was a young fellow—bravely trying to overcome the natural revulsion for the dangerous occupation he had chosen…
Behind the house, watched by a pair of eyes stationed beyond the broad lawn crossed by low bushes, a sharp mind—endowed with the insight of Sherlock Holmes and the persistence of Arthur Raffles—concluded that the President of the First National Bank’s family (let’s immediately name the place: Oakdale) was having dinner, that all the servants were downstairs, and that there was nobody on the second floor.
The owner of those very eyes had just come down from a service room located above the garage. Having broken into that place like a burglar in the night, he emerged dressed in an excellent suit that belonged to a dapper chauffeur, and in a soft checkered cap pulled low over his forehead. The expression in his big brown eyes was rather tense, and if there had been a psychologist here, they would have been able to identify our hero as a novice; even tightly pressed, beautiful lips wouldn’t fool anyone. There was no doubt: it was a young fellow—bravely trying to overcome the natural revulsion for the dangerous occupation he had chosen…
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