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Updated: June 28, 2025
You, Wilmore, are Ledsam's friend, and you happen to have an interest in this particular party. Therefore, I am glad to have you all here together. The superficial part of my entertainment you have seen. The part which renders it necessary for me to keep closed doors, I shall now explain. I give prizes here of considerable value for boxing contests which are conducted under rules of our own.
I listened and answered, spoke and listened again. And when she told her story, she went. I can't shake off the effect she had upon me, Andrew. I feel as though I had taken a step to the right or to the left over the edge of the world." Andrew Wilmore studied his friend thoughtfully. He was full of sympathy and understanding. His one desire at that moment was not to make a mistake.
Every one of our appliances is of the latest possible description, and our bathrooms are an exact copy of those in a famous Philadelphia club." "What is the subscription?" Wilmore asked. "Five shillings a year." "And how many members?" "Two thousand." The manager smiled as he saw his two visitors exchange puzzled glances. "Needless to say, sir," he added, "we are not self-supporting.
"Look well at me!" said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his face. "Well, the abbe the Abbe Busoni." Monte Cristo took off the wig which disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the beauty of his pallid features. "Oh?" said Caderousse, thunderstruck, "but for that black hair, I should say you were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore."
"I am free for a few moments. We will wander round together." They found Lady Cynthia and Wilmore, and looked in at the supper-room, where people were waiting now for tables, a babel of sound and gaiety. The grounds and winter-gardens were crowded. Their guide led the way to a large apartment on the other side of the hall, from which the sound of music was proceeding. "My theatre," he said.
"Yes, that is true, reverend sir." "Who was your liberator?" "An Englishman." "What was his name?" "Lord Wilmore." "I know him; I shall know if you lie." "Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth." "Was this Englishman protecting you?" "No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion." "What was this young Corsican's name?" "Benedetto." "Is that his Christian name?"
Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist. "By George, that's it!" he exclaimed. "Who hasn't!" "I remember Baker talking about one last year," Francis continued, "never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints a sort of mixture between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the 'Arabian Nights' singers from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and fighting men from Chicago."
Francis Ledsam, and his friend the world-famed novelist, Mr. Andrew Wilmore, I er unobtrusively made my way, half a yard at a time, in your direction and here I am. I came stealthily, you may object? Without a doubt. If I had come in any other fashion, I should have disturbed a conversation in which I was much interested."
Wilmore demanded, leaning forward in his chair and gazing at his friend with increasing uneasiness. "A woman who met me outside the Court and told me the story of Oliver Hilditch's life." "A stranger?" "A complete stranger to me. It transpired that she was his wife." Wilmore lit a cigarette. "Believe her?" "There are times when one doesn't believe or disbelieve," Francis answered. "One knows."
The whole affair " Francis broke off abruptly in the middle of his sentence. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the door, silent and speechless. "What in Heaven's name is the matter, old fellow?" Wilmore demanded, gazing at his companion in blank amazement. The latter pulled himself together with an effort.
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