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Fentolin's cigars in his mouth, step from the bottom stair into the hall and make his way with somewhat uncertain footsteps towards the front door. Doctor Sarson walked on one side, and Meekins held him by the arm. He glanced towards Gerald and his companion and waved the hand which held his cigar. "So long, my young friend!" he exclaimed. "You see, I've got them to let me make a start.
It's not much that he gives away, but he's a kind heart. You see that great post at the entrance to the river there?" she went on, pointing to it. "He had that set up and a lamp hung from there. Fentolin's light, they call it. It was to save men's lives. It was burning, they say, the night I lost my lads. Fentolin's light!" "They were wrecked?" he asked her gently. "Wrecked," she answered.
Fentolin's influence." "Mr. Fentolin evidently doesn't like to have you in the locality," Kinsley remarked thoughtfully. "He was all right so long as I was at St. David's Hall," Hamel observed. "What's this little place like St. David's Tower, you call it?" Kinsley asked. "Just a little stone building actually on the beach," Hamel explained. "There is a large shed which Mr.
He lifted his head suddenly. Meekins had appeared, coming round from the back of the Tower. Instantly Mr. Fentolin's whole manner changed. He sat up in his chair. "It is arranged, then," he said. "You dine with us to-night. For the other matters of which you have spoken, well, let them rest in the hands of the gods. You are not very kind to me.
"And all downhill." "Towards the sea, then?" "Straight to the sea," Gerald told him. "The place we are making for is St. David's Hall, near Salthouse." The chauffeur seemed a little startled. "Why, that's Squire Fentolin's house!" Gerald nodded. "That is where we are going. You follow this road almost straight ahead." The chauffeur slipped in the clutch.
To the left, with strange indistinctness, almost like something human struggling to assert itself, came the fitful flash from the light at the entrance to the tidal way. Once more he strained his ears. This time there was no doubt about it. He heard the sound of fishermen's voices. He heard one of them say distinctly: "Hard aport, Dave lad! That's Fentolin's light. Keep her out a bit.
Now what interest in the world, then, is there left what interest in the world can you possibly represent which can be the gainer by your present action?" Mr. Fentolin's eyes grew suddenly a little brighter. There was a light upon his face strange to witness. "The power which is to be the gainer," he said quietly, "is the power encompassed by these walls."
Fentolin's gentleness of expression seemed to have departed. His face was hard, his eyes agleam. He had almost the look of a bird of prey. For some reason, the thought of war seemed to be a joy to him. Perhaps he read something of Hamel's wonder in his expression, for with a shrug of the shoulders he dismissed the subject. "Well," he concluded, "all these things lie on the knees of the gods.
Fentolin's hand was outstretched; he, too, was listening. Above the low thunder of the sea came another sound, a sound which at that moment they none of them probably understood. There was the steady crashing of feet upon the pebbles, a low murmur of voices. Mr. Fentolin for the first time showed symptoms of fear. "Try the other door quickly," he directed. Meekins came back, shaking his head.
At the further end of the table stood a confidential telegraph clerk, who was just departing with a little sheaf of messages. By his side, with a notebook in her hand, stood Mr. Fentolin's private secretary a white-haired woman, with a strangely transparent skin and light brown eyes, dressed in somber black, a woman who might have been of any age from thirty to fifty.
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