He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. After a while he spoke again. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. CHAPTER II. Like most officers, he’d had it especially made, for a man who loved danger had need of a precision instrument of defence. Kneebone?" "He'd better not," muttered Blueskin. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you.
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