21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) - E. Phillips Oppenheim

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of passionate emotion. The memory of those earlier days of his return came back to him with all their poignant longings. He felt again the same tearing at the heart-strings, the same strange, unnerving tenderness. The great world’s drama, in which he knew that he, too, would surely continue to play his part, seemed like a thing far off, the concern of another race of men. Every fibre of his being seemed attuned to the magic and the music of one wild hope. Yet when there came what he had listened for so long, the hope seemed frozen into fear. He sat a little forward in his easy-chair, his hands gripping its sides, his eyes fixed upon the slowly widening crack in the panel. It was as it had been before. She stooped low, stood up again and came towards him. From behind an unseen hand closed the panel. She came to him with her arms outstretched and all the wonderful things of life and love in her shining eyes. That faint touch of the somnambulist had passed. She came to him as she had never come before. She was a very real and a very live woman.

      “Everard!” she cried.

      He took her into his arms. At their first kiss she thrilled from head to foot. For a moment she laid her head upon his shoulder.

      “Oh, I have been so silly!” she confessed. “There were times when I couldn’t believe that you were my Everard—mine! And now I know.”

      Her lips sought his again, his parched with the desire of years. Along the corridor, the old doctor tiptoed his way to his room, with a pleased smile upon his face.

       THE END

      LAST TRAIN OUT

       Table of Contents

       Chapter I

       Chapter II

       Chapter III

       Chapter IV

       Chapter V

       Chapter VI

       Chapter VII

       Chapter VIII

       Chapter IX

       Chapter X

       Chapter XI

       Chapter XII

       Chapter XIII

       Chapter XIV

       Chapter XV

       Chapter XVI

       Chapter XVII

       Chapter XVIII

       Chapter XIX

       Chapter XX

       Chapter XXI

       Chapter XXII

       Chapter XXIII

       Chapter XXIV

       Chapter XXV

       Chapter XXVI

       Chapter XXVII

      CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      Mr. Paul Schlesser, number-one cashier to the banking firm of Leopold Benjamin & Co., Ludenstrasse, Vienna, broke off in his conversation with the distinguished-looking young Englishman who was leaning over his portion of the counter and, in an undertone, directed the latter’s attention to the taller of the two men who were issuing from the private office the other side of the marble tiled floor.

      “That,” he announced with bated breath and a note of deep respect in his tone, “is the present head of our firm—Mr. Leopold Benjamin. He comes here very seldom nowadays. It is a great pleasure for us to welcome him.”

      Mr. Schlesser, who was an insignificant-looking person, seemed to expand and grow almost into dignity as he bowed low to the tall, thin man who was passing by. Mr. Leopold Benjamin did not in the least resemble his cashier. No one would have imagined them to belong to the same race, a race which in those days stood in hourly peril of its life. His smile was scarcely cheerful, but pleasant enough in its way as he half paused to return his employee’s greeting. His eyes looked enquiringly at the stranger. The cashier slipped open the wire partition which separated him from the outside world.

      “If you will pardon me, Mr. Benjamin,” he said, “this gentleman, Mr. Charles Mildenhall, has a Letter of Credit here from Barclay’s in London. This is the head of our firm, Mr. Mildenhall—Mr. Leopold Benjamin.”

      The banker let his fingers slip from his companion’s shoulder. He held out his hand. His voice was pleasant, almost musical.

      “You are perhaps related to my old friend—Sir Phillip Mildenhall?” he asked.

      “Sir Philip is my uncle, sir,” the young man replied. “He was First Secretary here in his younger days.”

      Mr. Benjamin nodded reminiscently.

      “He was a delightful companion. He dined with me often. A connoisseur, too, of pictures—in fact, of all objects d’art, I missed him very much when he went to Bucharest.”

      “I think in a way he was sorry to go,” Mildenhall remarked. “He had many friends here. Amongst them I have heard him speak of you, sir. I heard from him of your marvellous collection of Old Masters.”

      “You are in the Diplomatic Service yourself?” the banker asked.

      “In a way I am,” the young man answered. “Just now I am on long leave.”

      “Your uncle is well, I trust?”

      “In excellent

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