United States or Libya ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Suddenly there was a movement under the porte-cochere of "the house," and a man ran through the street. Two or three persons stopped in a group. Without hurrying too much, Saniel went out, and in a strong voice asked what had happened. "An agent of business has been assassinated in his office. Word has been sent to the police bureau in the Rue du Hasard."
The brown horse trotted with a will, and in a minute more they had passed up the driveway and paused beneath the porte-cochere. Mrs. Forbes threw open the door and stood unsmiling. "Where is Mr. Evringham?" she asked, addressing her son. "Stayed in town." The housekeeper stepped forward and helped down the little girl, who had risen and was looking brightly expectant.
The sceptic gave a shrug, as one who disclaimed responsibility and declined discussion. "Me, I do not think so. But patience! I will go and ask," he said; and, turning his back, faded from sight in the depths of the dark tunnel-like porte-cochère. Vexed, perplexed, Lady Blanchemain fidgeted a little.
Even now, he could detect a certain confusion, a desire to draw breath and catch up with life, in the way she dawdled over the last buttons in the dimness of the porte-cochere, while her footman, outside, hung on her retarded signal.
She smiled and pressed my hand as she turned into her own porte-cochère. Frightened servants and their friends were in the porter's lodge, who gazed after her with exclamations as she went up the common stair. The remainder of that day passed with very little fighting.
"You make a dash for the door and run downstairs as fast as you can. I'll follow as quickly as may be and meet you under the porte-cochere." She had only just time to nod assent when the door which gave on the sitting-room was pushed open, and Farewell, unconscious at first of our presence, stepped quietly into the room.
At the turn of the avenue one caught a glimpse of the house, with its vine-wreathed tower, generous piazzas, and hospitable porte-cochère, and in the background, beyond the lawn, the river, with the blue hills on the opposite shore veiled by a light, lace like haze, just enough of a haze to lend mystery to the distance.
A brass-plate embellished the great porte-cochere: "Pensionnat de Demoiselles" was the inscription; and beneath, a name, "Madame Beck." I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a moment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time. Providence said, "Stop here; this is your inn."
I therefore proceeded to descend the five flights of waxed steps, holding on to the wobbly iron railing, my legs trembling, my head swimming, and my heart sick. My only hope was to reach the carriage and home! When at last I came to the porte-cochere I found it closed and locked, and the frightened concierge would not open for me. Fortunately, I had a gold piece to make her yield to my demand.
I'll have the car around to the door in a jab of a jiffy!" By the time the limousine swung under the porte-cochère Lana was down and waiting; Mrs. Stanton came hurrying after, ready to defy a January midnight in a cocoon of kolinsky. Coventry had ridden from the garage with the chauffeur. "I have been talking with Wallace.
Word Of The Day