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Updated: May 25, 2025
In the course of Phinuit's narrative the black disks of night framed by the polished brass circles of the stern ports had faded out into dusky violet, then into a lighter lilac, finally into a warm yet tender blue. Now the main deck overhead was a sounding-board for thumps and rustle of many hurried feet. "Pilot come aboard, you think?"
One fancied something inhumanly derisive in the prolonged hoot which replied. Rather than languish under the burden of Mr. Phinuit's spirited conversation for the rest of the afternoon, Lanyard imitated Liane's example, and wasted the next hour and a half flat on his bed, with eyes closed but mind very much alive.
Phinuit's declaration that he didn't give a tupenny damn if they did all get soaked to their skins.
Phinuit's party was the focal point of between twenty and thirty pair of staring eyes, and was enduring this with much equanimity. Mr. Phinuit was conferring earnestly over the menu with madame la propriétaire. The others were ordering aperitifs of a waiter. Through the clatter of tongues that filled the café one caught the phrase "veeskysoda" uttered by the monsieur in tweeds.
Even to show it in this city would make matters infinitely worse for you than they are." "He's lying," Monk insisted, putting a restraining hand on Phinuit's arm as that one started from his chair in rage and panic. "He wouldn't dare." "Would I not? Then, since you believe nothing till it is proved to you, messieurs, permit me..."
He sighed a philosophic sigh: "But man is never satisfied..." Liane had got her second wind and was playing variations on the theme of the famous six bottles of champagne. Lanyard lounged in his easy chair and let his bored thoughts wander. He was weary of being talked about, wanted one thing only, fulfillment of the promise that had been implicit in Phinuit's manner.
He was aware of Phinuit's sympathetic eye. The woman sent the grey car crashing again into the tree, repeated Lanyard's quaint report of the business, and launched into a vein of panegyric. "Regard him, then, sitting there, making nothing of it all !" "Sheer swank," Phinuit commented. "He's just letting on; privately he thinks he's a heluva fellow. Don't you, Lanyard?"
But, with or without cunning, Phinuit's question was well-timed: Eve de Montalais was at that moment entering the drawing-room with Madame la Comtesse de Lorgnes, and she knew very well that Duchemin's English was quite as good as his French. "At the Café de l'Univers, this afternoon," he replied frankly. "I remember.
But here, as our guest !" "More than that," said Liane with her most killing glance for Lanyard: "a dear friend." But Lanyard was not to be put off by fair words and flattery. "No," he said gravely: "but there is some deeper motive..." He sought Phinuit's eyes, and Phinuit unexpectedly gave him an open-faced return. "There is," he stated frankly. "Then why not tell me ?" "All in good time.
Mussey, the spoils of the captain's safe in his hands. Then one saw Monk, alarmed by the sudden failure of the lights, hurrying out to return to the bridge, the pantherish spring upon the victim's back, the swift, dextrous noosing of the handkerchief about his windpipe, the merciless tightening of it all abruptly illuminated by the white glare of Phinuit's electric torch.
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