The Daffodil Mystery, by Edgar 
Wallace 
 
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Wallace 
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Title: The Daffodil Mystery 
Author: Edgar Wallace 
 
Release Date: March 26, 2007 [eBook #20912] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE 
DAFFODIL MYSTERY*** 
E-text prepared by David Clarke, Mary Meehan, and the Project 
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team 
(http://www.pgdp.net)
THE DAFFODIL MYSTERY 
by 
EDGAR WALLACE 
 
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited London and Melbourne Made and Printed 
in Great Britain 
 
CONTENTS 
I. AN OFFER REJECTED 
II. THE HUNTER DECLINES HIS QUARRY 
III. THE MAN WHO LOVED LYNE 
IV. MURDER 
V. FOUND IN LYNE'S POCKET 
VI. THE MOTHER OF ODETTE RIDER 
VII. THE WOMAN IN THE CASE 
VIII. THE SILENCING OF SAM STAY 
IX. WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM 
X. THE WOMAN AT ASHFORD 
XI. "THORNTON LYNE IS DEAD" 
XII. THE HOSPITAL BOOK 
XIII. TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT
XIV. THE SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE 
XV. THE OWNER OF THE PISTOL 
XVI. THE HEIR 
XVII. THE MISSING REVOLVER 
XVIII. THE FINGER PRINTS 
XIX. LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH 
XX. MR. MILBURGH SEES IT THROUGH 
XXI. COVERING THE TRAIL 
XXII. THE HEAVY WALLET 
XXIII. THE NIGHT VISITOR 
XXIV. THE CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER 
XXV. MILBURGH'S LAST BLUFF 
XXVI. IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM 
XXVII. THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT 
XXVIII. THE THUMB-PRINT 
XXIX. THE THEORY OF LING CHU 
XXX. WHO KILLED MRS. RIDER 
XXXI. SAM STAY TURNS UP 
XXXII. THE DIARY OF THORNTON LYNE 
XXXIII. LING CHU--TORTURER
XXXIV. THE ARREST 
XXXV. MILBURGH'S STORY 
XXXVI. AT HIGHGATE CEMETERY 
XXXVII. LING CHU RETURNS 
CHAPTER THE 
LAST. THE STATEMENT OF SAM STAY 
 
THE DAFFODIL MYSTERY 
CHAPTER I 
AN OFFER REJECTED 
"I am afraid I don't understand you, Mr. Lyne." 
Odette Rider looked gravely at the young man who lolled against his 
open desk. Her clear skin was tinted with the faintest pink, and there 
was in the sober depths of those grey eyes of hers a light which would 
have warned a man less satisfied with his own genius and power of 
persuasion than Thornton Lyne. 
He was not looking at her face. His eyes were running approvingly over 
her perfect figure, noting the straightness of the back, the fine poise of 
the head, the shapeliness of the slender hands. 
He pushed back his long black hair from his forehead and smiled. It 
pleased him to believe that his face was cast in an intellectual mould, 
and that the somewhat unhealthy pastiness of his skin might be 
described as the "pallor of thought." 
Presently he looked away from her through the big bay window which 
overlooked the crowded floor of Lyne's Stores.
He had had this office built in the entresol and the big windows had 
been put in so that he might at any time overlook the most important 
department which it was his good fortune to control. 
Now and again, as he saw, a head would be turned in his direction, and 
he knew that the attention of all the girls was concentrated upon the 
little scene, plainly visible from the floor below, in which an unwilling 
employee was engaged. 
She, too, was conscious of the fact, and her discomfort and dismay 
increased. She made a little movement as if to go, but he stopped her. 
"You don't understand, Odette," he said. His voice was soft and 
melodious, and held the hint of a caress. "Did you read my little book?" 
he asked suddenly. 
She nodded. 
"Yes, I read--some of it," she said, and the colour deepened on her face. 
He chuckled. 
"I suppose you thought it rather curious that a man in my position 
should bother his head to write poetry, eh?" he asked. "Most of it was 
written before I came into this beastly shop, my dear--before I 
developed into a tradesman!" 
She made no reply, and he looked at her curiously. 
"What did you think of them?" he asked. 
Her lips were trembling, and again he mistook the symptoms. 
"I thought they were perfectly horrible," she said in a low voice. 
"Horrible!" 
He raised his eyebrows. 
"How very middle-class you are, Miss Rider!" he scoffed. "Those
verses have been acclaimed by some of the best critics in the country as 
reproducing all the beauties of the old Hellenic poetry." 
She went to speak, but stopped herself and stood with lips compressed. 
Thornton Lyne shrugged his shoulders and strode to the other end of 
his luxuriously equipped office. 
"Poetry, like cucumbers, is an acquired taste," he said after a while. 
"You have to be educated up    
    
		
	
	
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