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Updated: May 25, 2025
Again the Englishman laughed unaffectedly as he fetched a decanter, glasses, bottled soda, and a box of cigarettes, and placed them within Lanyard's reach. The adventurer eyed him narrowly, puzzled. He knew nothing of this man, beyond his reputation something unsavoury enough, in all conscience! had seen him only once, and then from a distance, before that conference in the rue Chaptal.
After all, there was nothing wonderful in this; Lanyard's type was not uncommon; he would never have thought himself a distinguished figure. Before rising he turned out the pockets of his counterfeit. But this profited him little: the assassin had dressed for action with forethought to evade recognition in event of accident.
The house door closed with a dull bang, and from the entrance hallway came a sound of voices. She stood petrified in dread till the voices fell and she heard stairs creak under an ascending tread. Thus reminded that Lanyard's return might occur at any moment, she made all haste to patch up the disarray of veil and coiffure.
The latter occupied that chair which Lanyard had refused, on the far side of the table. Thus placed, the lamplight masked more than revealed him, throwing a dull glare into Lanyard's eyes. His man sat in a pose of earnest attention, bending forward a trifle to follow the exposition of Mr.
With a sharp cry the lieutenant dropped to his knees. "He can't be dead!" he shrilled. "It is all play-acting, to frighten me!" Frantically he sought to turn the body over. Lanyard's hand shot swiftly out, capturing the automatic on the table.
For Lanyard's benefit and his own he vacated the chair beside Sophie Weringrode, seating himself to one side of Cecelia Brooke, who had Velasco between her and the soi-disant princess. Already a waiter had placed and was filling glasses for Lanyard and the girl.
Then Vauquelin turned quickly and looked back. Simultaneously he ducked his head and something slipped whining past Lanyard's cheek, touching his flesh with a touch more chill than that of the icy air itself. "Damnation!" he shrieked, almost hysterically. "That madman in the Valkyr is firing at us!"
His face darkened, a stinging reproof for the maitre d'hotel trembled on his tongue's tip; but that one was busily avoiding his eye on the far side of the table, drawing out a chair for "mademoiselle," while Velasco and the Weringrode were alert to read Lanyard's countenance and forestall any steps he might contemplate in defiance of their designs.
Monk was following with a twinkle the journeys of Lanyard's observant eye. "Do myself pretty well, don't you think?" he observed quietly, in a break in Liane's dramatic narrative; perforce the lady must now and again pause for breath. Lanyard smiled in return. "I can't see you've much to complain of." The captain nodded, but permitted a shade of gravity to become visible in his expression.
The voice was interested, and so were the eyebrows; but Monk was at pains not to move. "And has he?" "Not yet, old egg." Monk opened expectant eyes and fixed them upon Lanyard's face, the eyebrows acquiring a slant of amiable enquiry. "There is much to be said," Lanyard temporised. "That is, if you feel strong enough..." "Oh, quite," Monk assured him in tones barely audible.
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