J. S. Fletcher

“ CHAPTER XXVIII MAROONED Brixey gripped the inspector by the arm as he heard that cry.
"There you are!" he said. "Found! That's Mr. Linthwaite's voice. Now, then—how to get to him? What is this island? Do people go across to it?"
"There's a hut on it that's used for wild-fowl shooting," answered Crabbe. "And there ought to be a punt somewhere about here. This is a queer business, Mr. Brixey," he went on as they began to search the bank of the lake. "How on earth does this poor gentleman come to be there?"
"Never mind that," exclaimed Brixey. "He'll tell us all that later. Coming!" ”

“ That done, he glanced significantly at his nephew.
"On this occasion, Dick" he said solemnly, "I think—whisky!"
Instead of ringing the bell, Brixey went round to the bar parlour in person. Brackett sat by the hearth reading the evening paper, in which he was so absorbed that he did not hear Brixey’s footstep until his guest clapped him on the shoulder.
"Got him!" said Brixey triumphantly. "He’s in the little parlour. Come in, and bring a decanter of your best whisky with you."
Brackett got up with marvellous alacrity for a man of his age. He stared at Brixey open-eyed. ”

“ A somewhat prim, precise, and old-fashioned-looking gentleman, his outward appearance was now rendered odd and even amusing by the fact that he wore an ordinary blanket pinned about his shoulders and had a cheap cloth cap, two sizes too small for him, perched on the crown of his head. ”