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He whisked her into a little office-like room and left her seated on a dusty, broken-bottomed chair. A few minutes later he was back again, clad in a long bath robe, canvas shoes on his feet. She began to tremble against him, and his arm passed gently around her. "It'll be all right, Genevieve," he said encouragingly. "I've got it all fixed. Nobody'll tumble." "It's you, Joe," she said.

Was it he who was falling? If so she was surely with him, falling down, down, endlessly down. There was a sudden stir and commotion in the court, a murmur of pity, for Luke Raeburn's daughter had fallen back senseless. When she came to herself, she was lying on the floor of an office-like room, with her head on Mrs. MacNaughton's lap. Brian was bending over her, chafing her hands.

Mariana was unable to discover a souvenir of the generations of Pennys that had filled the rooms with the stir of their living. Once more outside they sat on the stone threshold of an office-like structure back of the main dwelling and indulged in cigarettes. The disturbing tension of last night, Howat thought comfortably, had vanished.

A few minutes later both boys climbed aboard the private car, and, leaving their bags on the platform, pushed open the door and entered. Mr. Sparling was seated at a roll-top desk in an office-like compartment, frowning over some document that he held in his hand. The boys waited until he should look up. He did so suddenly, peering at them from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

Hunting up the stewardess of the inn, a bustling young woman who was reading Keats energetically at an office-like desk, Mr. Wrenn begged: "I wonder could I get some special cups and plates and stuff for high tea tonight. I got a kind of party " "How many?" The stewardess issued the words as though he had put a penny in the slot. "Just two. Kind of a birthday party." Mendacious Mr. Wrenn!

Peace was dumped into a small, office-like apartment, the key turned in the lock, and she was left alone. Frantic with excitement and fear, she let out three or four piercing screams, rattled the knob, and pounded the door until her fists were sore, but no one came to release her, and after a few moments she seemed to realize how useless it was to expect help from that quarter.

It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk. "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" "I called about that beggarman, Boone the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee." "Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries." "So I heard.