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"I am, sir," and a head waiter came into the room. "What has happened?" "A man has been killed," said the doctor, shortly. "Who are you? Who are you all? House servants?" "No sir," said the chief. "We're caterer's men. From Fraschini's. I'm Luigi. We are here to serve supper." "What do you know of this?" "Nothing, sir," and the Italian looked truthful, though scared.
In the absence of Frescobaldi's fellow-conspirator he restored himself in the caterer's esteem by adding whatever he suggested; and Fulkerson, after trembling for the old man's niggardliness, was now afraid of a fantastic profusion in the feast.
I had never seen anything of a seamy side to Vicky's character; but then, I didn't know her so very well, and the man was dead, and who else could have killed him? I went around to the caterer's on my way uptown that afternoon, and asked him as to the reliability of Luigi and the probable truth of his story. "That man," Fraschini told me, "is as honest as the day.
She went about looking into the dining-room, which, by the caterer's art, had been transformed into a kind of jewel-box glowing with flowers, silver, gold, tinted glass, and the snowy whiteness of linen. It reminded her of an opal flashing all its soft fires.
"You are an extravagant little wretch, Patty, there's no doubt about it." "I suppose I am; at least, I suppose I have been, but I'm not going to be any more. I'm going to reform, suddenly and all at once and very thoroughly! Now, you watch me. We're not going to have any more fancy things, no more ice cream from Pacetti's. Why, that caterer's bill is something fearful."
He entered eagerly into the canvass of the distinctions and celebrities asked to meet him at the reception made for him, but he had even a greater pleasure in compassionating his host for the vast disparity between the caterer's china and plated ware and the simplicities and humilities of the home of virtuous poverty; and he spluttered with delight at the sight of the lofty 'epergnes' set up and down the supper-table when he was brought in to note the preparations made in his honor.
He snatched the little carver from the sideboard and attacked me, and I and I " "Don't say it, Ruth keep still!" I ordered, beside myself with my whirling thoughts. The little carving-knife! "And you defended yourself with the caterer's knife " began Stone, but Fibsy wailed, "No! No! It wasn't Mrs. Schuyler! I've got the prints from the caterer's knife and they ain't Mrs. Schuyler's at all!
Having dined at the caterer's in the basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour.
"Where's the carriage? What's the matter?" "Your carriage is waiting, Lynde," said Westover. "I'll see you down to it," and he murmured, hopelessly, to the caterer's man: "Is there any back way?" "There's the wan we got um up by." "It will do," said Westover, as simply. But Lynde called out, defiantly: "Back way; I sha'n't go down back way. Inshult to guest. I wish say good-night to Mrs. Enderby.
But we mustn't lose a minute getting started! Mrs. Thayer will come up in her motor that will save us time. We can start right off the instant I get to Jim's office." She stopped at the caterer's for a brief but satisfactory interview. The caterer was an artist, but his enthusiasms this morning were wasted upon Susanna.