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Updated: April 30, 2025
"No good?" "'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't write." "I won't." Cranbourne glanced at the page again. "This is your real name, I suppose." Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded. "There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business." "My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know." "I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak."
"Thanks very much." "That's all." "Hang on a minute. Do you want me to defend myself? I'm pretty useful with my hands or a gun either for that matter." "It would help us if you did nothing at all except comply." Richard's face fell for he loved a good mix up. "Oh, very well, if you say so." "Thank you," said Cranbourne. "The best of luck, old chap." "You bet."
The squire is sensibly moved, and Mistress Betty vindicates her womanliness by jumping at a conclusion and settling in her own mind that his brain is addled with this great London its politicians, its mohawks, its beggars in Axe Lane, its rich tradesmen in Cranbourne Alley, its people of quality, fashion, and taste in their villas at Twickenham.
Wherefore I am purposed to give you, by my friend, Sir Jasper Cranbourne, a meeting, for the sake of doing that which doubtless you entirely long for.
Don't do anything in a hurry. Three days is a life time. Take my advice, go and sit with your girl and calm down." "Good idea, I will. We shall meet again?" "Surely." "Au revoir then." As Barraclough moved toward the door Cranbourne spoke. "Why did you pass me by at the Berkeley last night?" Barraclough wrinkled his forehead perplexedly. "The Berkeley?" "Yes, about ten thirty."
"Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind." "Fire away." Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil. "Scribble your signature on this bit of paper." "I see. My writing. Here you are." Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the bath and without thinking dashed off his own signature. When he had finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the result.
Beneath the man's vibrating jaw showed the pleasant colours of an Old Etonian tie. There could be no mistaking it neither could there be any reason why the driver of a Covent Garden dray should exhibit such an ensign. Cranbourne let the window down with a bang, stuck out his head and shouted, "Where the devil did you get that tie?"
First he went down again to EASTBOURNE via Brighton, and coached Madeleine and Merriman in the part they were to play in the coming interview. Next he superintended the making of the hole through the wall dividing the two private rooms at the Cranbourne Street restaurant, and drilled the party of men who were to occupy the annex.
For men then living could remember the time when the wild deer ranged freely through a succession of forests from the banks of the Avon in Wiltshire to the southern coast of Hampshire. At length, on Cranbourne Chase, the strength of the horses failed. They were therefore turned loose. The bridles and saddles were concealed.
"Those men! Who are they? What does it mean?" It was Cranbourne who had the honesty to reply. "Danger!" Flora's handling of the old Panhard was beyond praise. Accurate, well judged and with just enough dash of risk at cross roads or in traffic to steal an extra mile or two on the average speed per hour.
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