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So it was over, then, my little attempt at espionage! My word was pledged. I could do no more. I walked round to Claridge's later in the evening and saw my brother. "Ralph," I said, "if your offer of the shooting is still good, I think I will take a few men down to Feltham." "Do, Austen," he answered. "Old Heggs will be ever so pleased. It seems a shame not to have a gun upon the place.
Cutler afterward explained that at this time he had no precise idea what had been stolen, and did not know where the cameo had been left on the previous evening. Mr. Claridge had himself undertaken the cleaning, and had been engaged on it, the assistant said, when he left. There was no doubt, however, after Mr. Claridge's arrival at ten o'clock the cameo was gone. Mr.
The Marquis of Castrillon had been with her in Madrid, and also at Baron Zeuill's palace after the escape from Loadilla. "Where is Castrillon now?" asked Robert. "I understand he is in London," answered Disraeli; "at Claridge's Hotel. D'Alchingen and he are on excellent terms." "Good!" said Robert, tightening his lips. "You will find he has been invited to Hadley." "I haven't a doubt of it."
"And what are you going to please?" "I shall go to Claridge's until I can look about me." He moved uneasily. "But have you no relations no one who will take care of you?" "I believe none. My mother was nobody particular, you know a Miss Tonkins by name." "But your father?" He sat down now on the sofa beside me; there was a puzzled, amused look in his face; perhaps I was amazing him. "Papa?
She is on the alert, because she intends you to marry soon, and to marry a rich man." "Mother is far too fond of society, I admit. She lives only for her gay friends now that father is dead. She spends lavishly upon luncheons and dinners at the Ritz, the Carlton, and Claridge's; and by doing so we get to know all the best people. But what does it matter to me? I hate it all because "
The carriages kept driving away one after another till four o'clock: and then Vizard sat disconsolate in his study, and felt very lonely. Yet a thing no bigger than a leaf sufficed to drive away this somber mood, a piece of amber-colored paper scribbled on with a pencil: a telegram from Ashmead: "Good news: lost sheep turned up. Is now with her mother at Claridge's Hotel."
"If you will put that into an envelope and address it I will take it down and leave it at the bureau." "Thank you." Miss Van Tuyn put the note into an envelope, closed the envelope and addressed it. "That's right." Sir Seymour held out his hand and she gave him the note. "Now, good night." "You are going!" He smiled slightly. "I don't sleep at Claridge's as you and Miss Cronin do."
The prelude in Soho had no doubt prepared the way for such talk by carrying them to Naples on wings of music. They would not have talked just like that after a banal dinner at Claridge's or the Carlton. Craven had shown the enthusiasm that was in him for the sun, the sea, life let loose from convention, nature and beautiful things.
"Had you told him " He paused. "He knows everything you do is worth money, a lot of money." "He's got the hairy heel. I always knew that. We'll get to his secret yet, you and I between us." "I am not sure that I can stay over here very much longer, Dick. Paris is my home, and I can't waste my money at Claridge's for ever." "If you like I'll pay the bill." She reddened.
One felt that all the unselfish stoicism and restraint would crumble under the familiar touch. The platform filled. Sir Purtab Singh, an Indian prince, with his suite, was going back to the English lines. I had been a neighbour of his at Claridge's Hotel in London. I caught his eye. It was filled with cold suspicion. It said quite plainly that I could put nothing over on him.
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