The Yellow House; Master of Men. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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       E. Phillips Oppenheim

      The Yellow House; Master of Men

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664622167

       CHAPTER I THE YELLOW HOUSE

       CHAPTER II ON THE MOOR

       CHAPTER III MR. BRUCE DEVILLE

       CHAPTER IV OUR MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBORS

       CHAPTER V A SOUTH AMERICAN LETTER

       CHAPTER VI THE MILLIONAIRE

       CHAPTER VII A FRUITLESS APPEAL

       CHAPTER VIII THE COMING OF MR. BERDENSTEIN

       CHAPTER IX A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION

       CHAPTER X CANON OF BELCHESTER

       CHAPTER XI THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUD

       CHAPTER XII MR. BERDENSTEIN’S SISTER

       CHAPTER XIII FOR VENGEANCE

       CHAPTER XIV ADELAIDE FORTRESS’S GUEST

       CHAPTER XV THE LIKENESS OF PHILIP MALTABAR

       CHAPTER XVI “IT WAS MY FATHER”

       CHAPTER XVII A CONFERENCE OR TWO

       CHAPTER XVIII FRIENDS

       CHAPTER XIX A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN

       CHAPTER XX I AM THE VICTIM

       CHAPTER XXI OUT OF DANGER

       CHAPTER XXII AN UNHOLY COMPACT

       CHAPTER XXIII IN THE PLANTATION

       CHAPTER XXIV MY DILEMMA

       CHAPTER XXV A PROPOSAL

       CHAPTER XXVI THE EVIDENCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES

       CHAPTER XXVII A GHOST IN WHITECHAPEL

       CHAPTER XXVIII EASTMINSTER

       CHAPTER XXIX THE BREAKING OF THE STORM

       CHAPTER XXX THE MASTER OF COLVILLE HALL

       THE YELLOW HOUSE

       Table of Contents

      Positively every one, with two unimportant exceptions, had called upon us. The Countess had driven over from Sysington Hall, twelve miles away, with two anæmic-looking daughters, who had gushed over our late roses and the cedar trees which shaded the lawn. The Holgates of Holgate Brand and Lady Naselton of Naselton had presented themselves on the same afternoon. Many others had come in their train, for what these very great people did the neighborhood was bound to endorse. There was a little veiled anxiety, a few elaborately careless questions as to the spelling of our name; but when my father had mentioned the second “f,” and made a casual allusion to the Warwickshire Ffolliots—with whom we were not indeed on speaking terms, but who were certainly our cousins—a distinct breath of relief was followed by a gush of mild cordiality. There were wrong Ffolliots and right Ffolliots. We belonged to the latter. No one had made a mistake or compromised themselves in any way by leaving their cards upon a small country vicar and his daughters. And earlier callers went away and spread a favorable report. Those who were hesitating, hesitated no longer. Our little carriage drive, very steep and very hard to turn in, was cut up with the wheels of many chariots. The whole county within a reasonable distance came, with two exceptions. And those two exceptions were Mr. Bruce Deville of Deville Court, on the borders of whose domain our little church and vicarage lay, and the woman who dwelt in the “Yellow House.”

      I asked Lady Naselton about both of them one afternoon. Her ladyship, by the way, had been one of our earliest visitors, and had evinced from the first a strong desire to become my sponsor in Northshire society. She was middle-aged, bright, and modern—a thorough little cosmopolitan, with a marked absence in her deportment and mannerisms of anything bucolic or rural. I enjoyed talking to her, and this was her third visit. We were sitting out upon the lawn, drinking afternoon tea, and making the best of a brilliant October afternoon. A yellow gleam from the front of that oddly-shaped little house, flashing through the dark pine trees, brought it into my mind. It was only from one particular point in our garden that any part of it was visible at all. It chanced that I occupied that particular spot, and during a lull in the

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