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Updated: June 16, 2025
Ethol, one of the haute noblesse, to welcome whom was a surpassing honor. And then Monsieur Guy Poynton, the young English gentleman, whose single appearance here a few weeks back had started all the undercurrents of political intrigue, and who for the justification of French journalism should at that moment have been slowly dying at the Morgue.
There was no appealing to the Commissioner for goldfields; they were outside all law, whether of the goldfields or otherwise so they did the only thing possible and sensible, they joined forces and became 'Poynton, Regan, & Party'. They agreed to work the ground from the separate shafts, and decided to go ahead, irrespective of appearances, and get as much dirt out and cradled as possible before the inevitable exposure came along.
Monsieur Guy Poynton, unconscious maker of history and savior of your country, I congratulate you upon your whole skin, and I drink your health." Guy drank, and, laughing, refilled his glass. "And to you, the best of amateur conspirators and most charming of hosts," he said. "Come soon to England and bring your automobile, and we will conspire against you with a policeman and a stopwatch."
His characterization of Flaubert as the "operative conscience or vicarious sacrifice" of a styleless literary age is the pure gold of criticism. "The piety most real to her," Fleda says in The Spoils of Poynton, "was to be on one's knees before one's high standard." Henry James himself had that kind of piety. Above all recent men of letters, he was on his knees to his high standard.
"Very well," he said. "To save you from danger, and Miss Poynton from further trouble, I am going to break a confidence which has been reposed in me, and to give you the benefit of my own surmises. In the first place, Mr. Lloyd is mistaken in supposing that the French police have been in the least puzzled by this double disappearance.
She turned then, of course, to Germany. We became aware, through our secret service, that something was on foot between the two countries. With our utmost vigilance we were unable to obtain any particulars. It is you, Monsieur Poynton, who have brought us the first information of a definite character." Guy looked his amazement, but he said nothing.
His eyes were bright with excitement. "Who guarantees this?" he asked quickly. "My uncle has signed it," Henri de Bergillac answered, "and at the bottom of the page there you will see a still more distinguished signature. You understand l'affaire Poynton now? It is very simple.
A man to whom nervousness in any shape was almost unknown, he found himself only able to control his voice and manner with the greatest difficulty. In a few moments he might see her. "You have a young English lady Miss Poynton staying here, I believe," he said. "Can you tell me if she is in now?" The clerk looked at him with sudden interest. "Miss Poynton is staying here, sir," he said.
She shrugged her dainty shoulders. "You will wait!" she directed. Then she turned to Duncombe, and handed him a sealed envelope. "If you please," she said, "will you read that now." He tore it open, and read the few hasty lines. Then he looked up, and met the Marquise's expectant gaze. "Madame," he said slowly, "does this come from Miss Poynton of her own free will?" She laughed insolently.
And I went off to Paris, Phyllis, like the veriest Don Quixote, and I came back very sad indeed when I could not find you. Then you came to Runton Place, and the trouble began. I did not care who you were, Phyllis Poynton, Sybil Fielding, or any one else. I let the others dispute. You were yourself, and I love you, dear. Now do you understand why I cannot let you go away like this?"
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