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Updated: June 22, 2025
The cloth was of blue Cheviot which reminded him abruptly that he was Richard Frencham Altar masquerading in someone else's clothes, a circumstance which in no way admitted him to the use of short cuts to the affections of their real owner's admirers.
The old lady seemed painfully deaf and employing the most regrettable language, Oliver Laurence descended from his mount, leant it against the fence and came nearer to yell his inquiry into her ear. He did not have time to recover from his surprise, when the voice of Richard Frencham Altar replied: "Yes, I have." The sand-bag descended on the top of his head directed by a full arm swing.
He had heard the rumble of talk which had followed the first stifled cry from Doran when the sponge of chloroform was thrust into his face, and every now and again he had heard Frencham Altar's voice ring out high and mocking and exasperatingly like his own. Finally the front door had slammed but he remained concealed for over an hour in case of misadventure.
But boys are very much alike and very dissimilar from the men they grow into and though there were several dozen who might well have passed for Barraclough in infancy no particular one could have been selected with positive assurance. Cranbourne made a list of twenty names and Frencham Altar's was not among them. Rather despondent he said goodbye to the photographer and entered the taxi.
Madrooba, I'd be glad to come off this perch and offer it." "I reckon if I can stand eight men on my chest," came the reply, "I don't need to take a lot of notice of this little misunderstanding. Let yourself drop and I'll catch you." And from sheer relief Barraclough began to laugh and laughed solidly for ten miles of the journey. Richard Frencham Altar was exceedingly affable in the car.
He could hear the ice-cold wind whining through the registers as though in derision of his boast. It cut him to the bone through his thin silk pyjamas. For the rest of the night Richard Frencham Altar paced the floor, stamping his feet and beating one hand against the other.
At a pawnshop in the Gray's Inn Road, Richard Frencham Altar disposed of the last of his worldly goods. Four suits from a tailor in Saville Row, two pairs of shoes in brown and patent by a craftsman of Jermyn Street, some odds and ends of hosiery, a set of dressing table brushes with black monograms on ivory and the gold cigarette case Doreen had given him on the day of their engagement.
His eyes wide open in the dark began to sting violently. He caught his breath and burst into a spasm of coughing. Somewhere from the wall by the bedside came the faint sound of gas hissing from a cylinder. "Phosgene!" shouted Richard Frencham Altar. "You dirty swine! Phosgene!" It is a smell that once learnt can never be forgotten a smell pregnant with memories.
Swinging from the lintel, shadowy against the grey light beyond was, apparently, the figure of Richard Frencham Altar dangling on a rope. Even the perfectly trained Blayney deserted his post to leap forward and see, and in that instant of neglect, Richard and Auriole darted from the room and slammed and bolted the door.
Suppose they've made it uncomfortable for Frencham Altar, what? Well it was only to be expected." The callous practicality of tone fired Cranbourne to answer: "Expected, yes. But one of these days if there's any justice knocking about this old world of ours we shall have to pay." "Five thousand was the price," retorted Cassis. It is probable there might have been a row had not Mr.
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