Number Seventeen A Mystery of London
By Louis Tracy
Still, a popular light opera could hardly fail to draw many patrons from the upper ranks of society, and, in the crush at the main exit, Francis Berrold Theydon, hesitating whether to walk or wait for the hazard of a cab, deemed himself fortunate when a panting commissionaire promised to secure a taxi “in half a minute.”
Automobiles of every known variety were snorting up to the curb and bustling off again as promptly as their users could enter and bestow themselves in dim interiors. Being considerate and wishful of lighting a cigarette, Theydon moved out of the way. In so doing, he was cannoned against by an impetuous footman, whose cry, “Your car, sir,” led him to follow the man’s alert eyes. He saw a tall, elderly gentleman with clean-shaven, wise, and brilliant features, of the type which finance, the law, or a combination of both, seems to evolve only in big cities, escorting a young lady from the vestibule. Then Theydon remembered that he had noticed this self-same girl’s remarkable beauty as she was silhouetted in white against the dark background of a first-tier box. He had even speculated idly about her identity and concluded, on catching her face in profile, that she must be the daughter of the man seated by her side but half-hidden behind a heavy curtain.
The likeness was momentarily lost now while the two neared him, yet discovered anew when they halted for a second at his elbow. Oddly enough, the man was carrying an umbrella, which he proceeded to open, and his daughter’s astonished question put their relationship beyond doubt.
“Dad,” she said, with a charming smile in which there was just a hint of a pout, “aren’t you coming home with me?”
“No. I must look at the Constitutional Club. It’s only a step. I’ll take no harm. This sleet looks worse than it is when every drop shines in the glare of so many lamps. Now, in with you, Evelyn! Tell Downs to come back, and don’t forget which club. Anyhow, I’ll tell him myself.”
“Shall I wait up for you?”
“Well— er— I shan’t be late. I’ll be free by the time Downs returns.”
Read or download Book
Louis Tracy
Louis Tracy (1863–1928) was a British journalist and prolific fiction writer.
Biography.
He used the pseudonyms Gordon Holmes and Robert Fraser, which were sometimes shared with M. P. Shiel, a collaborator from the start of the twentieth century.
He was born in Liverpool to a well-to-do middle-class family. At first, he was educated at home and then at the French Seminary at Douai. Around 1884, he became a reporter for a local paper, The Northern Echo at Darlington, circulating in parts of Durham and North Yorkshire; later, he worked for papers in Cardiff and Allahabad. From 1892 to 1894, he was closely associated with Arthur Harmsworth in The Sun and The Evening News and Post.
His fiction included mystery, adventure, and romance.
Louis Tracy
