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Updated: June 16, 2025
"Who," inquired the girl, lowering her voice, "who is the gentleman in the flowered dressing-gown?" "Brentwick George Silvester Brentwick: an old friend. I've known him for years, ever since I came abroad. Curiously enough, however, this is the first time I've ever been here. I called once, but he wasn't in, a few days ago, the day we met. I thought the place looked familiar. Stupid of me!"
And Philip, between you and me, I venture to remark that hot water and cold steel would add to the attractiveness of your personal appearance; my valet will attend you in my room. Dinner," concluded Brentwick with anticipative relish, "will be served in precisely thirty minutes. I shall expect you to entertain me with a full and itemized account of every phase of your astonishing adventure.
Kirkwood, putting the latter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which Brentwick had occupied by the fireplace. "It takes the edge off the dampness," Kirkwood explained in deference to the other's look of pleased surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. "I'm afraid I could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp room or a damp cold room such as you Britishers prefer."
You will be careful not to tell either of them anything in particular, although I don't mind your telling them that Mr. Brentwick lives here, if they ask. I am mostly concerned to discover if they purpose becoming fixtures on the street-corners, Wotton." "Quite so, sir."
"What I don't understand," contended Kirkwood, "is how you convinced Calendar that he couldn't get revenge by pressing his charge against Miss Calendar Dorothy." "Oh-h?" Mr. Brentwick elevated his fine white eyebrows and sat up briskly. "My dear boy, that was the most delectable dish on the entire menu.
Incoherent snatches of sentences, fragments of words and phrases spoken by Brentwick and the mechanician, were flung back past his ears by the rushing wind. Then, their pace continuing steadily to abate, he heard Brentwick fling at the man a sharp-toned and querulously impatient question: What was the trouble? His reply came in a single word, not distinguishable.
"Sit down, sir!" commanded Brentwick with such a peremptory note that the young man, who had risen, obeyed out of sheer surprise. Upon which his host advanced, indicting him with a long white forefinger.
In the car Brentwick turned again, his eyes curiously bright in the starlight, his forehead quaintly furrowed, his voice apologetic. "It may take a few minutes," he said undecidedly, plainly endeavoring to cover up his own dark doubts. "My dear," to the girl, "if I have brought trouble upon you in this wise, I shall never earn my own forgiveness."
"He is hounding us, sir, with the intention of stealing some property, which he caused to be stolen, which we to put it bluntly stole from him, to which he has no shadow of a title, and which, finally, we're endeavoring to return to its owners." "My dear!" interpolated Brentwick gently, looking down at the girl's flushed face and drooping head.
From which it becomes evident that you have not overrated their pertinacity; the fiasco of the cab-chase is not to be reenacted." Resolutely the girl repressed a gasp of dismay. Kirkwood stared moodily into his cup. "These men bore me fearfully," he commented at last. "And so," continued Brentwick, "I bethought me of a counter-stroke.
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