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Updated: June 29, 2025
Through the yellow silk curtains that hid the entrance came two Chinamen as fantastically hideous as the embroidered dragons on the tapestry. "Put those men out; they cannot come in here; they are full of opium," commanded Baskinelli. "Stop; let them come in; we are going," said the mild voice of Owen. The understanding look of Baskinelli met his. Baskinelli frowned and Owen smiled.
She gained the good graces of the best of them, and in her kindly innocence she won the worship of the worst. It was thus that she came to the point of holding a reception for Baskinelli. Not that any one had heard anything black, or even shadowy, against Baskinelli.
It might amuse the ladies." "You are right. I will invite them all," said Baskinelli. "And how about calling up Marie at Cagliacci's just as an old friend?" "It might be best." They moved together down the corridor and Owen directed their way to a little study secluded from all other apartments of the great house.
Pauline accepted the proffered arm of the artist, but daintily, laughingly, she turned him back to the piano. "You haven't yet escaped, Signor Baskinelli," she said. "We have not yet heard 'Tivoli, you know." "Tivoli," he cried, with hands upraised in mock disdain. "Why, I wrote the thing myself. Am I to violate even my own masterpieces?" There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women.
She'd seen old Calderwood already. I guess she blackmails him the old reprobate, and him the noble counselor at law for Mr. Harry Marvin!" "So you put her on the scent for us?" "Why not? The young fellow's been acting suspicious for a long time." "You did very well." "How about some money I haven't seen the color of a roll since you put that fool Baskinelli into the game. Ain't you coming across?"
The impudence of this sudden love making moved her unexpectedly to defiance. "Please let it be ruled, Signor Baskinelli," she said, turning away from him. Baskinelli had sense enough to see that he had gone too far. He turned to the others as the soft-footed Orientals began to spread the mixed and mysterious viands on the table. He glanced at Owen.
"You seem to be familiar with the home of our gracious hostess," remarked Baskinelli. "I make it a rule to be familiar with all homes in which Miss Marvin is entertained." "Miss Marvin? You are, then a relative?" "I am her guardian." "Ah-h! You have control perhaps of certain small sums bequeathed to her?" "Yes." "And you would like to have as few persons as possible in the Chinatown party?"
You are talking nonsense. We could not find them; they could not find us." "We might telephone and try," suggested Owen. "Cagliacci, you know, is now up-to-date. He has a telephone. He considers it a sign of respectability." "And then what do you propose?" "Picquot I mean Signor Baskinelli, I propose nothing. Unless possibly there might be after the reception a little motor trip to Chinatown.
"Signor Baskinelli, there are other places than drawing rooms, or even conservatories, in which to capture those who captivate." "I do I quite grasp your meaning, Mistaire Owen?" He tried to disguise the suspicion under an accentuated accent. "I think so, Monsieur Picquot." At the name Baskinelli turned livid.
They climbed a brightly lighted staircase into one of the ordinary Chinese restaurants of the better sort which are conducted almost entirely for Americans, and where Boston baked beans are as likely as not to nudge almond cakes on the bill of fare and champagne flow as commonly as tea. They gathered around one of the larger of the cheaply inlaid tables, and Baskinelli took command of the feast.
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