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She was driven to accept Mr. Brunger's opinion the Rose had been stolen by some eager and unscrupulous breeder to be used for gross purposes. It was upon the evening of the second day in paradise that this woman settled upon this gloomy conclusion. Gloomy it was, and desperately, sitting in her bedroom that night, the masterly woman battled for some way to circumvent it.
Issy Jago sat himself on the wooden-seated chair before the small deal table; got to work upon his finger-nails with the corner of an omnibus ticket; proceeded to study the police court reports in the Daily Telegraph. It was his duty, whenever he noted plaintiffs or defendants to whom Mr. David Brunger's services might be of benefit, to post to them Mr.
He was wildly thinking; to the conversation paying no attention. "No? But, my dear sir, one of 'em must have the cat?" George started to the necessities of the immediate situation; wondered what he had said; caught at Mr. Brunger's last word. "The cat? Another gang has got the cat." "What, three gangs!" the detective cried. "Three gangs," George affirmed. "Two gangs you said at first," Mr.
Sliding through this door in such a manner as to give the client no glimpse of the interior, he would inform the visitor, with a confidential wink, "Fact is we have a client in there a very well-known personage who does not wish it to be known that he is consulting us." In either event, the client trapped, Mr. Brunger's bell summoned him.
Brunger's discovery after examination of the window-latch where George's knife had marked it, the sill where George's boots had scratched it. Outside the great detective searched for footmarks they had been obliterated by heavy rainfall between the doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon the principle of impressing his client, however, Mr.
I'm afraid that is impossible, sir. Mr. Brunger has his hands very full just now. He is closeted with Scotland Yard. At this moment, sir, the Yard is consulting him ...'m...'m. Well, I'll see, sir, I'll see. I doubt it. I very much doubt it. But hold the line a minute, sir." In his capacity of Mr. David Brunger's private secretary, Mr.
Little misunderstanding, that's all. I follow you completely. Four gangs I see. Four gangs. Now, sir." It was George's turn for fear. "Four gangs quite so. Well, what do you want me to tell you?" "Start from the beginning, sir." George started plunged head-first. For five minutes he desperately gabbled while Mr. Brunger's pencil bounded along behind his splashing; words.
David Brunger's card together with a selection of entirely unsolicited testimonials composed and dictated by Mr. Brunger for the occasion. Also his duty to receive clients.
Brunger's advertisements, came pouring up the stairs, knocked at the door and filed into the room. Its name was Issy Jago, a Jewish young gentleman aged seventeen, whose appearance testified in the highest manner to the considerable thrift he exercised in the matter of hair-dressers and toilet soap. Mr.
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