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Updated: May 20, 2025
The Daker is the best car for the money in the world. Not much for looks but everything in the engine. And everyone who has ever owned one knows that its only fault is the way its engine moans. Daker owners hate that moan. When you're going right it sounds a pass between a peanut roaster and a banshee with bronchitis. Every engineer in the Daker plant had worked over it.
I repeat this confession, and to my cost; for it is necessary as part explanation of what follows. My conversation with Daker was broken by the call of a sweet voice "Herbert!" We were crossing the bar at the entrance of Boulogne harbour. The good ship rolled heavily, and Herbert was wanted!
"Paris or London, a heart may be read, if you will only take the trouble. I shall never hear, in all human probability, what has become of Mrs. Daker, or her husband; she may be an intrigante, and he a card-sharper now; all I know, and will swear, is that she loved that man to distraction then, and it was a girl in love." "And he?"
Marry her take her away and get to some quiet place where you will be unknown. You will be happy with her, or I have strangely misread her." "Can't," Bertram dolefully answered. "Not a farthing." "I'll help you." Bertram grasped my hand. His difficulty was removed. I continued rapidly, "Give me your address. I'll see Sharp, and, if they permit me, Mrs. Daker.
A most agreeable, taking, travelled companion; light and bright as " "The light-hearted Janus of Lamb," Bertram interrupted, his words dancing lightly as the beads in his glass. The association of Daker with Wainwright struck me sharply. For how genial and accomplished a man was the criminal! a stranger conglomeration of graces and sins never dwelt within one human breast.
Trefoil had disappeared and left no sign. So many exciting stories float about Paris in the course of a season, that such an event as the appearance of a Kentish farmer in search of Mrs. Daker, afterwards Mrs. Trefoil, and the connexion of Captain Bertram with her name, is food for a few days only.
Daker at once fastened upon me: she implored my advice; she narrated all that had passed between her husband and herself while the train was waiting at Amiens. He had begged her not to stir kind fellow that he was he had insisted upon fetching fruit and sweetmeats for her. I calmed her fears, for they were exaggerated beyond all reason.
"I am not: never will, nor can be," was my reply. Sharp wrung my hand till it felt bloodless. "Herbert Daker is Matthew Glendore Mounseer Glendore. When did you meet him?" "On the Boulogne steamer, about three years ago, when he was crossing with his wife." "Then!" Sharp exclaimed, and again he took a draught of brandy-and-water.
I was started on wild speculations. "I've set you dreaming. You found no clue to a history?" "None. She had been married three months to Daker. She was a poor girl left alone, with a few hundreds, I apprehend. She would not say much. A runaway match, I concluded. Not a word about her family. When I left Paris, after dinner, he had made no sign. She promised to write to me to Constantinople.
A man will admit any dulness except that which closes the hearts of others to him. I was convinced that I had read the character of Daker before we touched the quay at Boulogne: he was a man of fine and delicate nature, whom the world had hit; who had been cheery under punishment; and who had at length got his rich reward in Mrs. Daker.
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