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He makes his way, then, over by Epsom Downs towards Sutton, trying to assimilate his mood to the proper flavour of appreciation as he goes, and with a little notebook in the palm of his hand to assist an ill-trained memory. And the burthen of his song is of course the autumn tints.
As he did so there was a sound of well-shod feet on the stairs, and a man in a snuff-colored suit, wearing a brown Homburg hat and carrying a small notebook in one hand, walked briskly up the stairs. His whole appearance proclaimed him to be the long-expected collector of rents. He did not see John for a moment, and had reached the door of the room when he became aware of a presence.
"Good-day, sir. You will just have time to get into your boat and get ashore while we are in smooth water, and before we start the engines." The Admiral did not seem to notice the little fat man's outstretched hand. The secretary bowed him out of the cabin, holding the photograph in one hand and his notebook in the other. Neither of them liked his look well enough to shake hands with him.
Halfway up the high wall there was a rude timber platform under the upper window, a small loft which was more like a large shelf. It was reached only by a ladder, and it seemed to be as bare as the bare walls. Wilson completed his survey of the place and then went and stared at the things on the table. Then he silently pointed with his lean forefinger at the open page of the large notebook.
I've been a faithful servant for nigh on to fifty years, Mr. Vickers, as all the neighbourhood is aware." "If I come in, as you call it, you shall have your pension," said Audrey. Chatfield slowly felt in a capacious inner pocket and produced a large notebook and a fountain pen. He passed them to Vickers. "We'll have that there in writing, signed and witnessed," he said. "Put, if you please, Mr.
"Good morning," he said briskly and cheerfully. "From the Hampstead Borough Council. The new Voting Register. Mrs. Edgar Keith lives here, does she not?" "Yaas," said the servant. "Christian name?" asked Tommy, his pencil poised. "Missus's? Eleanor Jane." "Eleanor," spelt Tommy. "Any sons or daughters over twenty-one?" "Naow." "Thank you." Tommy closed the notebook with a brisk snap.
The Great Doctor never seemed so near to me as the other day when I saw a little notebook, bound in soft brown leather and interleaved with blotting paper, in which Bozzy's busy pen had jotted down memoranda of his talks with his friend, while they were still echoing in his mind. This superb treasure, now owned by Mr.
"Her brother, Sir Horace Trevert. It was Miss Trevert who heard the shot fired." "The door was locked, I think?" "On the inside. But here is Sir Horace Trevert. He will tell you how he got through the window and discovered the body." Horace Trevert gave a brief account of his entry into the library. Again the Inspector scribbled in his notebook.
MY DEAREST ONE: DO NOT BLAME me for this long delay in writing. God knows I wanted every day to "talk" to you. But we were on the "suspect" list, and to make even a note was risky. The way I did it was to exclaim over the beauty of some flower or tree, and then ask the Mexican nearest me to write the name of it HIMSELF in MY notebook.
They're the mightiest poison merchants the world ever saw, and they've the nerve of hell ... 'I don't know, I interrupted. 'Ivery's got his soft spot. I saw him in the Tube station. 'Maybe, but he's got the kind of nerve that's wanted. And now I rather fancy he's whistling in his flock. Blenkiron consulted a notebook. 'Pavia that's the Argentine man started last month for Europe.
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