laverock ScoE dialect , auch: lavrock ScoE

Whether those two friends were the same, Laverock had not specified.

The conference of the other evening, in Laverock's office, had been all too brief.

From then on, all were listening, for Laverock's voice was sharp and easily heard.

It happened, however, that Laverock was luckier than he knew.

They would take it that Laverock was simply bluffing his way out.

Laverock wasn't ready to shoot; he wanted the confession signed.

But Laverock, frantic, felt that he, too, should play a hand.

On the contrary, it indicated that Laverock must be somewhere else.

Laverock's right hand was swinging up across the steering wheel.

"Suppose you heard some shots and saw a man fall dead," argued Laverock.

"Spare no expense," added Laverock, as he reached the door and opened it.

The creep was outside the door of Laverock's office.

The man who had thrust himself into the office was James Laverock.

"Let us assume that a murderer has returned," suggested Laverock.

It may have been the gun that Laverock brought to his office when he met up with the watchman.

Sooner or later, the trail would lead to Laverock.

"We shall inform Laverock, at the hospital, regarding our decision.

"We want to have a look in Laverock's office.

For the first time, the watchman saw Laverock, and gave a bellow.

The lights meant that detectives had heard the shots from Laverock's old gun and were coming into the building.

He was also considering James Laverock, the man who had escaped.

Though the police had appropriated Laverock's revolver, the man was still armed.

Where it had landed, Laverock learned when he heard a strange, sinister laugh off to his right.

"What we're here for, is to make a final try at locating James Laverock."

Laverock could have poked his face into that space, but the bulky automatic wouldn't work through.