"Dead And he's carried his secret with him to his grave " "Never " "But he has. Look His jaw has dropped. Can't you see the change, man " "Then he's carried out his threat after all " "By Heaven, he has We've been fools, Reggie-utter idiots " I whispered. "So it seems. I confess that I fully expected he'd tell us the truth when he knew that the end had really come." "Ah you didn't know him as I did," I remarked bitterly. "He had a will of iron and a nerve of steel."

During half a century of constant wandering over the silent sunlit sands, of tribal feuds, of revolts, battle and pillage, of bitter persistent hatreds, of exploit, foray, and fierce resistance against the lounging Spahis, cigarette-smoking Zouaves, black-faced Turcos, and swaggering Chasseurs of the French, I have met with some curious adventures, and have witnessed wonders more remarkable, perhaps, than many of the romances related by the Arab story-tellers.

"Then, plainly speaking, the whole thing remains a mystery?" "Absolutely," I responded. "All my efforts have unfortunately failed." "And you entertain no suspicion of anyone?" "None whatever." "Not of that woman Yolande-or whatever her name is?" "Certainly not of her," I answered quickly. "She would assist us, if necessary." "Why are you so sure of that? She has only been in Paris a week." "Because I happen to know her."

Let me gaze down the vista of the tristful past. Ah there are things that cannot be uttered; there are scenes that still entrance me, and incidents so unexpected and terrible that they cause me even now to hold my breath in horror. The prologue of this extraordinary drama of London life was enacted three years ago; its astounding denouement occurred quite recently. During those three weary, anxious years the days have glided on as they glide even with those who suffer most, but alas I have the sense of having trodden a veritable Via Dolorosa during a century, the tragedy of my life, with...

"No. I mean the girl in black. The one leading the pom." "By jove Yes. She's uncommonly smart, isn't she?" "Her friend isn't half bad-looking, either?" "I don't think so very much of her, Raife. But Southport at this time of year is always full of pretty girls." "Not one of them can compare with the girl in black-she's ripping " declared Raife Remington, a tall, well-set up, dark-haired, hatless undergraduate, who, in grey flannels, was walking beside his college chum, Edward Mutimer, at whose father's house he was staying during the vac. Both were at Trinity, Cambridge, and both, being in...

"And he died mysteriously?" "The doctors certified that he died from natural causes-heart failure." "That is what the world believes, of course. His death was a nation's loss, and the truth was hushed up. But you, Phil Poland, know it. Upon the floor was found something-a cigar-eh?"

Wrapped in furs until only my nose and eyes were visible, I was walking along the Nevski Prospekt in St. Petersburg one winter's evening, and almost involuntarily turned into the Dominique, that fashionable restaurant which, garish in its blaze of electricity, is situated in the most frequented part of the long, broad thoroughfare. It was the dining-hour, and the place, heated by high, grotesquely-ornamented stoves, was filled with officers, ladies, and cigarette smoke, while the savoury smell of national dishes mingled judiciously with those of foreign lands.

"Then you really don't intend to marry me, Wilfrid?" "The honour of being your husband, Tibbie, I must respectfully decline," I said. "But I'd make you a very quiet, sociable wife, you know. I can ride to hounds, cook, sew clothes for old people, and drive a motor. What higher qualifications do you want?" "Well-love, for instance."

From a derelict shed adjoining a lonely road which stretched for miles across the Norfolk fens, a strange shape slid silently into the night mist. It was a motor-car of an unfamiliar design. The body, of gleaming aluminium, was of unusual width, and was lifted high above the delicate chassis and spidery bicycle wheels that seemed almost too fragile to bear the weight of an engine.

"M'sieur Colin Trewinnard?" "That is my name, Captain Stoyanovitch," I replied in surprise. "You know it quite well." "The usual formality, mon cher ami " And the tall, handsome equerry in the white uniform of the Imperial Guard laughed lightly, clicked his heels together, and handed me a letter which I saw bore the Imperial cipher upon its black seal. "From His Imperial Majesty the Emperor," he added in Russian. I held my breath. Had the blow fallen?