author - "E. Phillips Oppenheim"
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."
I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maitre d'hotel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.
"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."
I glanced at my companion a l
never eat more than anomelette and some fruit for luncheon, compelled to sit down every day toa mittagessen! I wonder I have any digestion left at all."
"Do you mean that you were there under your own name?" he askedincredulously.
She shook her head.
"I secured some perfectly good testimonials before I left," she said."They referred to a Miss Brown, the daughter of Prebendary Brown. I wasMiss Brown."
"Great Heavens!" Nigel muttered under his breath. "You heard aboutAtcheson?"
She nodded.
"Poor fellow, they got him all right. You talk about thrills, Nigel,"she went on. "Do you know that the last night before I left for myvacation, I actually heard that fat old Essendorf chuckling with hiswife about how his clever police had laid an English spy by the heels,and telling her, also, of the papers which they had discovered andhanded over. All the time the real dispatch, written by Atcheson whenhe was dying, was sewn into my corsets. How's that for an excitingsituation?"
ad all the way is like a circus," the young soldier observed, "and there isn't a thing to be seen when you get there. The naval airmen were all over the place at daybreak, and Captain Griffiths wasn't far behind them. You didn't leave much for the sightseers, sir," he concluded, turning to his neighbour.
"As Commandant of the place," Captain Griffiths replied, "I naturally had to have the Common searched. With the exception of the observation car, however, I think that I am betraying no confidences in telling you that we discovered nothing of interest."
"Do you suppose that the Zeppelin was in difficulties, as she was flying so low?" Helen enquired.
"It is a perfectly reasonable hypothesis," the Commandant assented. "Two patrol boats were sent out early this morning, in search of her. An old man whom I saw at Waburne declares that she passed like a long, black cloud, just over his head, and that he was almost deafened by the noise of the engines. Personally, I cannot believe that they wou
arent unconcern of any suggestion counter tohis own. He thought slowly and he spoke seldom, but when he had oncespoken the matter, so far as he was concerned, was done with. LadyAngela apparently was used to him, for she rose at once. She did notshake hands, but she nodded to me pleasantly. Colonel Ray handed herinto the wagonette, and I heard the quicker throbbing of the engine asit glided off into the darkness.
It was several minutes before he returned. I began to wonder whether hehad changed his mind, and returned to Rowchester with Lady Angela. Thenthe door handle suddenly turned, and he stepped in. His hair was tossedwith the wind, his shoes were wet and covered with mud, and he wasbreathing rather fast, as though he had been running. I looked at himinquiringly. He offered me no explanation. But on his way to thechair, which he presently drew up to the fire, he paused for a fullminute by the window, and shading the carriage lamp which he stillcarried, with his hand, he looked steadily ou
e with you. The railway last night for twenty miles back was held up for State purposes. We none of us know why, and it doesn't do to be too curious over here, but they have an idea that you are either a journalist or a spy."
"Civis Britannicus sum!" the boy answered, with a laugh.
"It doesn't quite mean what it used to, sir," the man answered quietly.
CHAPTER II
AT THE CAFÉ MONTMARTRE
Exactly a week later, at five minutes after midnight, Guy Poynton, in evening dress, entered the Café Montmartre, in Paris. He made his way through the heterogeneous little crowd of men and women who were drinking at the bar, past the scarlet-coated orchestra, into the inner room, where the tables were laid for supper. Monsieur Albert, satisfied with the appearance of his new client, led him at once to a small table, submitted the wine card, and summoned a waiter. With some difficulty, as his French was very li
as open at the top,and he had distinctly heard the jingling of a hansom bell.
He threw open the bottom sash and leaned out. A hansom cab was waiting atthe entrance to the flats. Wrayson glanced once more instinctivelytowards the clock. Who on earth of his neighbours could be keeping a cabwaiting outside at that hour in the morning? With the exception of Barnesand himself, they were most of them early people. Once more he looked outof the window. The cabman was leaning forward in his seat with his headresting upon his folded arms. He was either tired out or asleep. Theattitude of the horse was one of extreme and wearied dejection. Wraysonwas on the point of closing the window when he became aware for the firsttime that the cab had an occupant. He could see the figure of a manleaning back in one corner, he could even distinguish a white-gloved handresting upon the apron. The figure was not unlike the figure of Barnes,and Barnes, as he happened to remember, always wore white gloves in theevening
and wife, I should think," he said thoughtfully, "yet one never can tell!"
Involuntarily they all three glanced towards the man. He was well preserved and his little imperial and short grey moustache were trimmed with military precision, yet his hair was almost white, and his age could scarcely be less than sixty. In his way he was quite as interesting as the girl. His eyes, underneath his thick brows, were dark and clear, and his features were strong and delicately shaped. His hands were white and very shapely, the fingers were rather long, and he wore two singularly handsome rings, both set with strange stones. By the side of the table rested the stick upon which he had been leaning during his passage through the room. It was of smooth, dark wood polished like a malacca cane, and set at the top with a curious, green, opalescent stone, as large as a sparrow's egg. The eyes of the three men had each in turn been arrested by it. In the electric light which fell softly upon the upper part of it, the sto
Description
It’s 1913, and war is on the horizon. The disgraced English aristocrat, Everard Dominey, is stumbling through East Africa when he comes across his old classmate and lookalike—the German Baron von Ragastein. Shortly after their chance encounter, Dominey returns to England. But is it really him, or a German secret agent, looking to infiltrate English society?
As Dominey attempts to resume his life, he must reacquaint himself with his insane and murderous wife, the passionate ex-lover that recognizes him, and uncover the mystery of the death that led to his exile.
Oppenheim’s classic spy-thriller was enormously popular when it was first published in 1920, selling over a million copies, and leading to three major motion pictures. It is featured on The Guardian’s list of “1,000 Novels Everyone Must Read.”
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."
I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maitre d'hotel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.
"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."
I glanced at my companion a l
never eat more than anomelette and some fruit for luncheon, compelled to sit down every day toa mittagessen! I wonder I have any digestion left at all."
"Do you mean that you were there under your own name?" he askedincredulously.
She shook her head.
"I secured some perfectly good testimonials before I left," she said."They referred to a Miss Brown, the daughter of Prebendary Brown. I wasMiss Brown."
"Great Heavens!" Nigel muttered under his breath. "You heard aboutAtcheson?"
She nodded.
"Poor fellow, they got him all right. You talk about thrills, Nigel,"she went on. "Do you know that the last night before I left for myvacation, I actually heard that fat old Essendorf chuckling with hiswife about how his clever police had laid an English spy by the heels,and telling her, also, of the papers which they had discovered andhanded over. All the time the real dispatch, written by Atcheson whenhe was dying, was sewn into my corsets. How's that for an excitingsituation?"
ad all the way is like a circus," the young soldier observed, "and there isn't a thing to be seen when you get there. The naval airmen were all over the place at daybreak, and Captain Griffiths wasn't far behind them. You didn't leave much for the sightseers, sir," he concluded, turning to his neighbour.
"As Commandant of the place," Captain Griffiths replied, "I naturally had to have the Common searched. With the exception of the observation car, however, I think that I am betraying no confidences in telling you that we discovered nothing of interest."
"Do you suppose that the Zeppelin was in difficulties, as she was flying so low?" Helen enquired.
"It is a perfectly reasonable hypothesis," the Commandant assented. "Two patrol boats were sent out early this morning, in search of her. An old man whom I saw at Waburne declares that she passed like a long, black cloud, just over his head, and that he was almost deafened by the noise of the engines. Personally, I cannot believe that they wou
arent unconcern of any suggestion counter tohis own. He thought slowly and he spoke seldom, but when he had oncespoken the matter, so far as he was concerned, was done with. LadyAngela apparently was used to him, for she rose at once. She did notshake hands, but she nodded to me pleasantly. Colonel Ray handed herinto the wagonette, and I heard the quicker throbbing of the engine asit glided off into the darkness.
It was several minutes before he returned. I began to wonder whether hehad changed his mind, and returned to Rowchester with Lady Angela. Thenthe door handle suddenly turned, and he stepped in. His hair was tossedwith the wind, his shoes were wet and covered with mud, and he wasbreathing rather fast, as though he had been running. I looked at himinquiringly. He offered me no explanation. But on his way to thechair, which he presently drew up to the fire, he paused for a fullminute by the window, and shading the carriage lamp which he stillcarried, with his hand, he looked steadily ou
e with you. The railway last night for twenty miles back was held up for State purposes. We none of us know why, and it doesn't do to be too curious over here, but they have an idea that you are either a journalist or a spy."
"Civis Britannicus sum!" the boy answered, with a laugh.
"It doesn't quite mean what it used to, sir," the man answered quietly.
CHAPTER II
AT THE CAFÉ MONTMARTRE
Exactly a week later, at five minutes after midnight, Guy Poynton, in evening dress, entered the Café Montmartre, in Paris. He made his way through the heterogeneous little crowd of men and women who were drinking at the bar, past the scarlet-coated orchestra, into the inner room, where the tables were laid for supper. Monsieur Albert, satisfied with the appearance of his new client, led him at once to a small table, submitted the wine card, and summoned a waiter. With some difficulty, as his French was very li
as open at the top,and he had distinctly heard the jingling of a hansom bell.
He threw open the bottom sash and leaned out. A hansom cab was waiting atthe entrance to the flats. Wrayson glanced once more instinctivelytowards the clock. Who on earth of his neighbours could be keeping a cabwaiting outside at that hour in the morning? With the exception of Barnesand himself, they were most of them early people. Once more he looked outof the window. The cabman was leaning forward in his seat with his headresting upon his folded arms. He was either tired out or asleep. Theattitude of the horse was one of extreme and wearied dejection. Wraysonwas on the point of closing the window when he became aware for the firsttime that the cab had an occupant. He could see the figure of a manleaning back in one corner, he could even distinguish a white-gloved handresting upon the apron. The figure was not unlike the figure of Barnes,and Barnes, as he happened to remember, always wore white gloves in theevening
and wife, I should think," he said thoughtfully, "yet one never can tell!"
Involuntarily they all three glanced towards the man. He was well preserved and his little imperial and short grey moustache were trimmed with military precision, yet his hair was almost white, and his age could scarcely be less than sixty. In his way he was quite as interesting as the girl. His eyes, underneath his thick brows, were dark and clear, and his features were strong and delicately shaped. His hands were white and very shapely, the fingers were rather long, and he wore two singularly handsome rings, both set with strange stones. By the side of the table rested the stick upon which he had been leaning during his passage through the room. It was of smooth, dark wood polished like a malacca cane, and set at the top with a curious, green, opalescent stone, as large as a sparrow's egg. The eyes of the three men had each in turn been arrested by it. In the electric light which fell softly upon the upper part of it, the sto
Description
It’s 1913, and war is on the horizon. The disgraced English aristocrat, Everard Dominey, is stumbling through East Africa when he comes across his old classmate and lookalike—the German Baron von Ragastein. Shortly after their chance encounter, Dominey returns to England. But is it really him, or a German secret agent, looking to infiltrate English society?
As Dominey attempts to resume his life, he must reacquaint himself with his insane and murderous wife, the passionate ex-lover that recognizes him, and uncover the mystery of the death that led to his exile.
Oppenheim’s classic spy-thriller was enormously popular when it was first published in 1920, selling over a million copies, and leading to three major motion pictures. It is featured on The Guardian’s list of “1,000 Novels Everyone Must Read.”