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His brother looked at him in silence for a moment, long enough to discover that he was lacking either in pluck or inclination to resent the insult, then springing at Brightman he literally threw him out of the office.

There is a secret reward offered of half a million dollars for the return of that letter alone." "The affair seems worth looking into," Brightman remarked, stroking his little black moustache. "I can promise you that the governments on both sides will pay handsomely," Crawshay assured him. "I have had my chance but let it slip.

At a quarter to eight that evening, a young man who had made fitful appearances in the lounge of Claridge's Restaurant during the last half-hour went to the telephone and rang up a certain West End number. "Are these Mr. Crawshay's rooms?" he asked. "Mr. Crawshay speaking," was the reply. "Brightman there?" Crawshay turned away from the telephone and handed the receiver to the detective.

I fancied so when I saw him board the steamer in the Mersey on Sunday, but it did not fall to my lot to receive the benefit of his offices." "I was just telling Mr. Crawshay that I had had the pleasure of professional dealings with you," Brightman said drily. "I was also lamenting the fact that they had not ended according to my desires." "Mr.

"The worst that ever breathed," Brightman declared, "the bravest, coolest, best-bred scoundrel who ever mocked the guardians of the law. Mind you, I am not saying that he hasn't done other things. He has travelled and fought in many countries, but when he comes back to civilisation he can't rest. The world has to hear of him. Things move in New York underground.

Thew watched the long train crawl out of the station, waved his hand in farewell, forced a greeting upon the reluctant Brightman, whom he passed examining the magazines upon a bookstall, and, summoning a taxi, was duly deposited at the Alhambra Theatre. He made his way to the box office. "I have called," he explained to the young man, "to see you about Box A on Monday night.

"Her brother!" Crawshay exclaimed. "The connecting link!" Brightman murmured. Meanwhile, the little dinner at Claridge's, of which sketchy tidings were being conveyed to the two occupants of Crawshay's flat by Henshaw, was settling down, so far as the two men were concerned, into a cheery enough meal.

"Any luck, Mr. Crawshay?" Crawshay laid his hat and coat upon the table and mixed himself a whisky and soda. "I am not sure," he replied thoughtfully. "Are you any good at English history, Brightman?" "I won an exhibition in my younger days," the detective replied. "I used to consider myself rather great on history." "Who won the Wars of the Roses?" "The Lancastrians, of course." Crawshay nodded.

The nearer one, in fact, closed in and almost prevented Beverley's further progress. Brightman leaned across. "I am sorry, Captain Beverley," he said, "but we wish to ask you a question. Will you step into the box office with us?" "I'm damned if I will!" the young man answered.

It is he, and not Gant, whom we have to make for. The plot which we have to unravel, which Gant and Phillips, and, unwittingly, Miss Beverley carried through, was of his scheming." "Mr. Jocelyn Thew," the detective repeated as they passed through the swing doors. "So that is how he calls himself now!" "You know him?" "Know him!" Brightman repeated bitterly.