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Updated: June 14, 2025
About this time the Museum authorities were becoming somewhat doubtful as to the advisability of proceeding with our Expedition. We had a long talk with Dr. Wellington Koo, the Chinese Minister to the United States, at the Biltmore Hotel in New York. Dr. Koo, while certain that the rebellion would be short-lived, strongly advised us to postpone our expedition until conditions became more settled.
At the hotel in Gloversville the proprietress assured us that "an English duke" had just left who told her that he preferred her hotel to the Biltmore in New York. We rather wondered about this English duke, but we looked him up on the register and found that he was Sir H. Urnick of Fownes Brothers, the glove manufacturers, who have a factory in Gloversville.
"Topping! You see, you're a brainy sort of feller, and you'll probably hit something." "I probably shall, if you don't go." "Eh? Oh, ah, yes!" Freddie struggled into his coat. More than ever did the adult Wally remind him of the dangerous stripling of years gone by. "Well, cheerio!" "Same to you!" "You'll let me know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze, won't you? I'm at the Biltmore."
Quite recently, when the young couple came in to New York for a week-end's shopping rendered necessary by the establishment of day and night nurseries they entertained Steingall and Clancy at dinner in the Biltmore. Naturally, at one stage of a pleasant meal, the talk turned on those eventful months, October and November, 1913. As usual, Clancy waxed sarcastic at his chief's expense.
To be explicit, he happened to be one of an after-theater party at an informal supper dance in the Granada, which is to Vancouver what the Biltmore is to New York or the Fairmont to San Francisco, a place where one can see everybody that is anybody if one lingers long enough. And almost the first man he met was a stout, ruddy-faced youngster about his own age.
Warren was rather quiet as they went out to tea, but Magsie did not notice it. As a matter of fact, the man was bewildered; he was tired and worried about his work; but that was the least of it. He could not believe that the day's dazing and flying memories were real the Albany train, Rachael's room, the hospital, Magsie and the Biltmore breakfast-room, Rachael's room again, and now again Magsie.
Anthony might have remembered then a certain look Bloeckman had given him in the Biltmore Hotel years before. But he remembered nothing, nothing "I'll say it again, you God " Then Bloeckman struck out, with all the strength in the arm of a well-conditioned man of forty-five, struck out and caught Anthony squarely in the mouth.
"Warren Gregory!" said Magsie sternly, "you get right straight in here, and come and have your breakfast! Now, what's nearest? The Biltmore!" She poked the upper door with her slim umbrella. "To the Biltmore!" commanded Magsie. At a quiet table Warren had coffee and eggs and toast, and more coffee, and finally his cigar. The color came back into his face, and he looked less tired.
He decided finally that he might ask Parker Allison, after all but he approached Sammy's only to find the door locked and the lights out. He looked at his watch; nine-thirty. He began walking. Ten minutes later he stopped aimlessly at the corner of Forty-third Street and Madison Avenue, diagonally across from the bright but nearly deserted entrance to the Biltmore Hotel.
On the night when Anthony had left for Camp Hooker one year before, all that was left of the beautiful Gloria Gilbert her shell, her young and lovely body moved up the broad marble steps of the Grand Central Station with the rhythm of the engine beating in her ears like a dream, and out onto Vanderbilt Avenue, where the huge bulk of the Biltmore overhung, the street and, down at its low, gleaming entrance, sucked in the many-colored opera-cloaks of gorgeously dressed girls.
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