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Updated: May 15, 2025
"I remember quite well," Jesson admitted quietly. "I knew Sidwell. He was a clever person in his way, but he relied too much upon disguises. I fancy that I hear the voices of the ladies coming. I shall just have time to tell you rather a curious coincidence." The two men waited eagerly. Jesson touched with his forefinger the sheet of paper which he had been studying.
One or two would not be denied, and to all of them she introduced Jesson the young writer they had seen that wonderful work of his in the Daily Courier, of course?
A name to be kept to live and die under the hall mark of his new identity. How poor his imagination was. Never an inspiration, and she was watching him. There was so much in a name, and he must find one swiftly, for Mr. Douglas Guest was dead. "My name is Jesson," he said "Douglas Jesson." And now the end of that journey, never altogether forgotten by either of them, was close at hand.
"I expect the others will find their way here in a few minutes," he said, as the door closed behind Brookes and his satellite. "You had something to say to me, Chalmers, about Mr. Jesson here." "All that I have to say is in the nature of a testimonial," the young American replied. "Jesson was easily one of our best men in Europe.
Douglas went off to his club with a keen sense of having acquired a new interest in life. He was in that mood when companionship of some sort is a necessity. "You think," Drexley said, his deep, bass voice trembling with barely-restrained passion, "that we are all your puppets that you have but to touch the string and we dance to your tune. Leave young Jesson alone, Emily.
Douglas Jesson had his opportunity, accepted it and became one of the elect. He passed on to the staff of the Courier, where his work was spasmodic and of a leisurely character, but always valuable and appreciated. His salary, which was liberal, seemed to him magnificent. Besides, he had the opportunity of doing other work.
"He brought letters, and his knowledge was great." "His name?" the Prince asked. "Gilbert Jesson, Highness. His passport and papers refer to Washington, but his message, if he sent one, is believed to have come to London." "The man must die," the Prince said calmly. "That, without doubt, he expects. Yet the news is not serious. My heart has spoken for peace, Li Wen." Li Wen bowed low.
Hadn't you better hurry away before I have the chance to do you any harm? There is one young man I know, of a melodramatic turn of mind, who persists in looking upon me as a sort of siren, calling my victims on to the rocks. I expect that is the person with whom you have been talking. Douglas Jesson, I think that I am a little disappointed in you."
Some one else, no doubt, to protest against the exclusion of Jesson's story. Rice was standing upon the threshold, and behind him a younger man, tall, with clustering hair and brilliant eyes, cheeks on which the tan still lingered, ill-clad but personable. "I've brought Mr. Jesson in to see you, sir," Rice said, breezily.
"What made you go?" "I think that it was a message from Mademoiselle Karetsky," Jesson suggested quietly. Nigel smiled. "Upon my word, I think you're going to be a success, Jesson," he declared. "Perhaps you can tell me what we did talk about?" "I believe I almost could," was the calm reply. "In any case, I think I see the situation as it exists. Mademoiselle Karetsky is a wonderful woman.
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