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Updated: May 1, 2025
Lauder and I confess our terrors and our anxiety to ourselves and one another. This time our suspense was comparatively short-lived. Word came that John was in hospital again at the Duke of Westminster's hospital at Le Toquet, in France. This time he was not wounded; he was suffering from dysentery, fever and a nervous breakdown. That was what staggered his mother and me. A nervous breakdown!
"Of course all her inquiries over here would have led to nothing, but they knew her at the English Embassy, so we walked her off from the Café Montmartre one night and took her to a friend of mine, the Marquise de St. Ethol. We told her a little of the truth, and a little, I'm afraid, which was an exaggeration. Anyhow, we kept her quiet, and we got her to go to England for us with Toquet.
It was the worst upon which he looked with chattering teeth, but without surprise. The door of the inner room was open, and upon the threshold stood Toquet, small, dark, and saturnine Toquet, with something which glittered in his hand, so that Monsieur Louis, already the prey of a diseased and ghastly imagination, felt the pain of the bullet in his heart.
Do you think that he was not watched day and night? Bah! I have no patience to talk of this. What have you done with our host?" "Arrested him for Flossie! He is in a ditch half-way to Norwich." "Hurt?" "No! Chloroformed." "How did you get here?" "In an automobile from Lynn!" "Good! It waits for you?" "Yes." "We will take it. My good friend here, Toquet, is familiar with the neighborhood. As Mr.
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