A Case for Mister Carrington

The Whistler and the Whistler and I know many things for I walked by night I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak Tonight transcribed it's the Whistler Strange story a case for Mr. Carrington

As usual on Saturday afternoon, the veranda of the Myrtle Bank Hotel, Jamaica, was a gathering point for men in white linen suits, whose only talk was of sugar 24 hours a day. But Gordon Stone for once wasn't thinking of sugar.

The girl was too charming. The cool wind-blown American beauty of her too irresistible. He was admitting it to himself now. This wasn't just a passing thing with a summer tourist. He was in love and he knew it.

How's the drink? Wonderful. What is it? Myrtle Bank Punch, especially of a house. I didn't enjoy it more on the different circumstances. Oh, stop it, Paula. You're not going to leave Jamaica. You're going to stay.

We're going to be married and everything will be perfectly. You're wrong, Gordon. I'm sailing next week. Now, wait a minute. That's not giving me a chance. Paula, please. Stick with me just a little while longer.

These things can't be done in a day. It's been three months. It doesn't seem so complicated, Gordon. You own part of the sugar plantation. Fellas. Just like that, it would bring a lot of money.

Not enough, Paula. The interests are all split up with Wakefield, his son Wade. Only 20% his mind. Are you asking me to wear your mouth? You're not being fair, Paula. This is no time to desert me.