United States or Cocos Islands ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
I told her that many months afterwards he disappeared, simultaneously with your arrival in the country, that a day or two ago you swore to me you had no idea where he was. That has been my story, Trent, let Miss Wendermott choose between them." "I am content," Trent cried fiercely. "Your story is true enough, but it is cunningly linked together. You have done your worst. Choose!"
On the contrary, this morning you offered me a week's respite." "The story I told," Francis answered, "could have had no significance to them." "I don't know whether you are trying to deceive me or not," Trent said, "only if you do not know, let me tell you Miss Wendermott is that old man's daughter!" The man's start was real. There was no doubt about that. "And she knew?"
I have told Miss Wendermott this that I met you first in the village of Bekwando with a concession in your hand made out to you and her father jointly, with the curious proviso that in the event of the death of one the other was his heir.
Then Trent crossed the room and stood between them and the door. "Before you see your father, Miss Wendermott," he said, "I have an explanation to make to you!" He looked at him calmly, but in her set, white face he seemed to read already his sentence! "Do you think it worth while, Mr. Trent?
Only when Francis would have followed her Trent laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder. "I must have a word with you, Francis," he said. "I will come back," he said. "I must see Miss Wendermott into her carriage." But Trent's hand remained there, a grip of iron from which there was no escaping. He said nothing, but Francis knew his man and had no idea of making a scene.
I mean Miss Wendermott to be my wife." Francis sat up in his chair genuinely surprised. Something like a scowl was on his dark, sallow face. "Your wife!" he exclaimed, "aren't you joking, Trent?" "I am not," Trent answered sharply. "From the moment I saw her that has been my fixed intention. Every one thinks of me as simply a speculator with the money fever in my veins. Perhaps that was true once.
A thin, dark young man, wearing a pince-nez and smoking a cigarette, looked up from his writing as she entered. He waved her to a seat, but his pen never stopped for a second. "Back, Miss Wendermott! Very good! What did you get?" "Interview and sketch of the house," she responded briskly. "Interview by Jove! That's good! Was he very difficult?" "Ridiculously easy!
I called this afternoon, and do you know, Miss Wendermott, the young lady declined to have anything to say to me wouldn't let me know who she was that I might have gone and talked this over in a friendly way with her. Didn't want money, didn't want to hear about her father!" "You must have been disappointed." "I'll admit it," he replied.
In his way he was quite as much one of the old school as the Earl of Eastchester, and the idea of a lady a Wendermott, too calling herself a journalist and proud of making a few hundreds a year was amazing enough to him. He scarcely knew how to answer her. "Yes, yes," he said, "you have some of your father's spirit, some of his pluck too. And that reminds me we wrote to you to call." "Yes." "Mr.
Ernestine Wendermott travelled back to London in much discomfort, being the eleventh occupant of a third-class carriage in a particularly unpunctual and dilatory train. Arrived at Waterloo, she shook out her skirts with a little gesture of relief and started off to walk to the Strand.
Word Of The Day