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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"The Profiteers"

She ignored her husband's words. Lord Dredlinton
was looking around him in disgust.
"What on earth are we in this mausoleum for?" he demanded.
"Domestic reasons," Josephine answered, with her finger upon the bell.
"Have you men had your coffee?"
"We had it in the dining room," Jimmy assured her.
"I can't think why you hurried so," Sarah grumbled. "How dared you only
stay away a quarter of an hour, Jimmy! You know I love to have a gossip
with Josephine."
"Couldn't stick being parted from you any longer, my dear," the young man
replied complacently.
Sarah made a grimace.
"To be perfectly candid," Lord Dredlinton intervened, throwing away his
cigar and lighting a cigarette, "I am afraid it was my fault that we
came in so soon. Poor sort of host, eh, Jimmy? Fact is, I'm nervous
to-night. Every damned newspaper I've picked up seems to be launching
thunderbolts at the B. & I. And now this is the third day and there's
no news of Stanley."
"Every one seems to know about his disappearance," Jimmy remarked. "They
were all talking about it at the club to-day."
"What do they say?" Lord Dredlinton asked eagerly. "They all leave off
talking about it when I am round."
"Blooming mystery," the young man pronounced. "That's the conclusion
every one seems to arrive at. A chap I know, whose chauffeur pals up with
Rees' valet, told me that he's been having heaps of threatening letters
from fellows who'd got the knock over the B.


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