/0/4921/coverbig.jpg?v=755611d3894f02e3b068467ad5eb9c30)
E. Phillips Oppenheim was a popular 20th century writer best known for penning suspenseful thriller novels like The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown. Many of his more than 100 novels are still read today, including The Lighted Way, one of the stories that Oppenheim bragged about in calling himself "prince of storytellers."
Mr. Samuel Weatherley, sole proprietor of the firm of Samuel Weatherley & Co., wholesale provision merchants, of Tooley Street, London, paused suddenly on his way from his private office to the street. There was something which until that second had entirely slipped his memory. It was not his umbrella, for that, neatly tucked up, was already under his arm. Nor was it the Times, for that, together with the supplement, was sticking out of his overcoat pocket, the shape of which it completely ruined.
As a matter of fact, it was more important than either of these-it was a commission from his wife.
Very slowly he retraced his steps until he stood outside the glass-enclosed cage where twelve of the hardest-worked clerks in London bent over their ledgers and invoicing. With his forefinger-a fat, pudgy forefinger-he tapped upon a pane of glass, and an anxious errand boy bolted through the doorway.
"Tell Mr. Jarvis to step this way," his employer ordered.
Mr. Jarvis heard the message and came hurrying out. He was an undersized man, with somewhat prominent eyes concealed by gold-rimmed spectacles. He was possessed of extraordinary talents with regard to the details of the business, and was withal an expert and careful financier. Hence his hold upon the confidence of his employer.
The latter addressed him with a curious and altogether unusual hesitation in his manner.
"Mr. Jarvis," he began, "there is a matter-a little matter-upon which I-er-wish to consult you."
"Those American invoices-"
"Nothing to do with business at all," Mr. Weatherley interrupted, ruthlessly. "A little private matter."
"Indeed, sir?" Mr. Jarvis interjected.
"The fact is," Mr. Weatherley blundered on, with considerable awkwardness, for he hated the whole affair, "my wife-Mrs. Weatherley, you know-is giving a party this evening-having some friends to dinner first, and then some other people coming to bridge. We are a man short for dinner. Mrs. Weatherley told me to get some one at the club-telephoned down here just an hour ago."
Mr. Weatherley paused. Mr. Jarvis did his best to grasp the situation, but failed. All that he could do was to maintain his attitude of intelligent interest.
"I don't know any one at the club," continued his employer, irritably. "I feel like a fish out of water there, and that's the truth, Mr. Jarvis. It's a good club. I got elected there-well, never mind how-but it's one thing to be a member of a club, and quite another to get to know the men there. You understand that, Mr. Jarvis."
Mr. Jarvis, however, did not understand it. He could conceive of no spot in the city of London, or its immediate neighborhood, where Mr. Samuel Weatherley, head of the firm of Messrs. Weatherley & Co., could find himself among his social superiors. He knew the capital of the firm, and its status. He was ignorant of the other things which counted-as ignorant as his master had been until he had paid a business visit a few years ago, in search of certain edibles, to an island in the Mediterranean Sea. He was to have returned in triumph to Tooley Street and launched upon the provision-buying world a new cheese of astounding quality and infinitesimal price-instead of which he brought home a wife.
"Anything I can do, sir," began Mr. Jarvis, a little vaguely,-
"My idea was," Mr. Weatherley proceeded, "that one of my own young men-there are twelve of them in there, aren't there?" he added, jerking his head in the direction of the office-"might do. What do you think?"
Mr. Jarvis nodded thoughtfully.
"It would be a great honor, sir," he declared, "a very great honor indeed."
Mr. Weatherley did not contradict him. As a matter of fact, he was of the same opinion.
"The question is which," he continued.
Mr. Jarvis began to understand why he had been consulted. His fingers involuntarily straightened his tie.
"If I could be of any use personally, sir,-"
His employer shook his head.
"My wife would expect me to bring a single man, Jarvis," he said, "and besides, I don't suppose you play bridge."
"Cards are not much in my line," Mr. Jarvis admitted, "not having, as a rule, the time to spare, but I can take a hand at loo, if desired."
"My wife's friends all play bridge," Mr. Weatherley declared, a little brusquely. "There's only one young man in the office, Jarvis, who, from his appearance, struck me as being likely."
"Mr. Stephen Tidey, of course, sir," the confidential clerk agreed. "Most suitable thing, sir, and I'm sure his father would accept it as a high compliment. Mr. Stephen Tidey Senior, sir, as you may be aware, is next on the list for the shrievalty. Shall I call him out, sir?"
Mr. Weatherley looked through the glass and met the glance, instantly lowered, of the young man in question. Mr. Stephen Tidey Junior was short and stout, reflecting in his physique his aldermanic father. His complexion was poor, however, his neck thick, and he wore a necktie of red silk drawn through a diamond ring. There was nothing in his appearance which grated particularly upon Mr. Weatherley's sense of seemliness. Nevertheless, he shook his head. He was beginning to recognize his wife's point of view, even though it still seemed strange to him.
"I wasn't thinking of young Tidey at all," he declared, bluntly. "I was thinking of that young fellow at the end of the desk there-chap with a queer name-Chetwode, I think you call him."
Mr. Jarvis, human automaton though he was, permitted himself an exclamation of surprise.
"Young Chetwode! Surely you're not in earnest, sir!"
"Why not?" Mr. Weatherley demanded. "There's nothing against him, is there?"
"Nothing against him, precisely," Mr. Jarvis confessed, "but he's at the lowest desk in the office, bar Smithers. His salary is only twenty-eight shillings a week, and we know nothing whatever about him except that his references were satisfactory. It isn't to be supposed that he would feel at home in your house, sir. Now, with Mr. Tidey, sir, it's quite different. They live in a very beautiful house at Sydenham now-quite a small palace, in its way, I've been told."
Mr. Weatherley was getting a little impatient.
"Send Chetwode out for a moment, anyway," he directed. "I'll speak to him here."
Mr. Jarvis obeyed in silence. He entered the office and touched the young man in question upon the shoulder.
"Mr. Weatherley wishes to speak to you outside, Chetwode," he announced. "Make haste, please."
Arnold Chetwode put down his pen and rose to his feet. There was nothing flurried about his manner, nothing whatever to indicate on his part any knowledge of the fact that this was the voice of Fate beating upon his ear. He did not even show the ordinary interest of a youthful employee summoned for the first time to an audience with his chief. Standing for a moment by the side of the senior clerk in the middle of the office, tall and straight, with deep brown hair, excellent features, and the remnants of a healthy tan still visible on his forehead and neck, he looked curiously out of place in this unwholesome, gaslit building with its atmosphere of cheese and bacon. He would have been noticeably good-looking upon the cricket field or in any gathering of people belonging to the other side of life. Here he seemed almost a curiously incongruous figure. He passed through the glass-paned door and stood respectfully before his employer. Mr. Weatherley-it was absurd, but he scarcely knew how to make his suggestion-fidgetted for a moment and coughed. The young man, who, among many other quite unusual qualities, was possessed of a considerable amount of tact, looked down upon his employer with a little well-assumed anxiety. As a matter of fact, he really was exceedingly anxious not to lose his place.
"I understood from Mr. Jarvis that you wished to speak to me, sir," he remarked. "I hope that my work has given satisfaction? I know that I am quite inexperienced but I don't think that I have made any mistakes."
Mr. Weatherley was, to tell the truth, thankful for the opening.
"I have had no complaints, Chetwode," he admitted, struggling for that note of condescension which he felt to be in order. "No complaints at all. I was wondering if you-you happened to play bridge?"
Once more this extraordinary young man showed himself to be possessed of gifts quite unusual at his age. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he show the least surprise or amusement.
"Bridge, sir," he repeated. "Yes, I have played at-I have played occasionally."
"My wife is giving a small dinner-party this evening," Mr. Weatherley continued, moving his umbrella from one hand to the other and speaking very rapidly, "bridge afterwards. We happen to be a man short. I was to have called at the club to try and pick up some one-find I sha'n't have time-meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel to attend. Would you-er-fill the vacant place? Save me the trouble of looking about."
It was out at last and Mr. Weatherley felt unaccountably relieved. He felt at the same time a certain measure of annoyance with his junior clerk for his unaltered composure.
"I shall be very much pleased, sir," he answered, without hesitation. "About eight, I suppose?"
Again Mr. Weatherley's relief was tempered with a certain amount of annoyance. This young man's savoir faire was out of place. He should have imagined a sort of high-tea supper at seven o'clock, and been gently corrected by his courteous employer. As it was, Mr. Weatherley felt dimly confident that this junior clerk of his was more accustomed to eight o'clock dinners than he was himself.
"A quarter to, to-night," he replied. "People coming for bridge afterwards, you see. I live up Hampstead way-Pelham Lodge-quite close to the tube station."
Mr. Weatherley omitted the directions he had been about to give respecting toilet, and turned away. His youthful employee's manners, to the last, were all that could be desired.
"I am much obliged to you, sir," he said. "I will take care to be punctual."
Mr. Weatherley grunted and walked out into the street. Here his behavior was a little singular. He walked up toward London Bridge, exchanging greetings with a good many acquaintances on the way. Opposite the London & Westminster Bank he paused for a moment and looked searchingly around. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he stepped quickly into a very handsome motor car which was drawn up close to the curb, and with a sigh of relief sat as far back among the cushions as possible and held the tube to his mouth.
"Get along home," he ordered, tersely.
* * *
Arnold Chetwode, after his interview with his employer, returned unruffled to his place. Mr. Jarvis bustled in after him. He was annoyed, but he wished to conceal the fact. Besides, he still had an arrow in his quiver. He came and stood over his subordinate.
"Congratulate you, I'm sure, Chetwode," he said smoothly. "First time any one except myself has been to the house since Mr. Weatherley's marriage."
Mr. Jarvis had taken the letters there one morning when his employer had been unwell, and had waited in the hall. He did not, however, mention that fact.
"Indeed?" Chetwode murmured, with his eye upon his work.
"You understand, of course," Mr. Jarvis continued, "that it will be an evening-dress affair. Mrs. Weatherley has the name of being very particular."
He glanced covertly at the young man, who was already immersed in his work.
"Evening dress," Chetwode remarked, with a becoming show of interest. "Well, I dare say I can manage something. If I wear a black coat and a white silk bow, and stick a red handkerchief in underneath my waistcoat, I dare say I shall be all right. Mr. Weatherley can't expect much from me in that way, can he?"
The senior clerk was secretly delighted. It was not for him to acquaint this young countryman with the necessities of London life. He turned away and took up a bundle of letters.
"Can't say, I'm sure, what the governor expects," he replied, falsely. "You'll have to do the best you can, I suppose. Better get on with those invoices now."
Once more the office resounded to the hum of its varied labors. Mr. Jarvis, dictating letters to a typist, smiled occasionally as he pictured the arrival of this over-favored young man in the drawing-room of Mrs. Weatherley, attired in the nondescript fashion which his words had suggested. One or two of the clerks ventured upon a chaffing remark. To all appearance, the person most absorbed in his work was the young man who had been singled out for such especial favor.
A detective and very mysterious story. Mr. Sabin is called out of blissful retirement to search for his missing wife. He believes Lucille to be kidnapped by members of a secret society of aristocrats. It is interesting to watch Mr. Sabin control himself and walk with such dignity and aristocratic bearing and tact, even as he plots to save his own life and reunite with his beloved Lucille. "The Yellow Crayon" presents a fascinating picture of the political mindset of the day to go along with the twists and turns of the story. Readers of Mr. Oppenheim's novels may always count on a story of absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with dexterous craftsmanship.
E. Phillips Oppenheim was a popular 20th century writer best known for penning suspenseful thriller novels like The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown. Many of his more than 100 novels are still read today.
Alfred Burton, a smooth-talking salesman, is having a perfectly ordinary day on the job when he stumbles across a strange plant with green leaves and a cluster of queer little brown beans hanging down from them in an old house. The virtue of the beans is that he who eats one shall see nothing, think nothing, say nothing but the truth. Alfred Burton has a well-meaning, rather ordinary wife who becomes unendurable to him, and he falls in love with a charming girl who would have no appeal for the man he formerly was. What Alfred really doesn't realize is that the fruit of the plant, when eaten, will change not merely the entire course of his life, but in fact his very self.
A novel of crime and conscience by Edward Phillips Oppenheim (1866-1946), the self-styled „prince of storytellers." „The Profiteers" was written about the stock market post-World War I and pre-1929 crash. The tale of the Bechtel family dynasty is a classic American business story. It begins with Warren A. Bechtel, who led a consortium that constructed the Hoover Dam. From that auspicious start, the family and its eponymous company would go on to „build the world," from the construction of airports in Hong Kong and Doha, to pipelines and tunnels in Alaska and Europe, to mining and energy operations around the globe. Like all stories of empire building, the rise of Bechtel presents a complex and riveting narrative. In The Profiteers, Sally Denton, exposes Bechtel's secret world and one of the biggest business and political stories of our time.
On the day of their wedding anniversary, Joshua's mistress drugged Alicia, and she ended up in a stranger's bed. In one night, Alicia lost her innocence, while Joshua's mistress carried his child in her womb. Heartbroken and humiliated, Alicia demanded a divorce, but Joshua saw it as yet another tantrum. When they finally parted ways, she went on to become a renowned artist, sought out and admired by everyone. Consumed by regret, Joshua darkened her doorstep in hopes of reconciliation, only to find her in the arms of a powerful tycoon. "Say hello to your sister-in-law."
"Ahh!" She was in a moaning mess. She did not want to feel anything for this man. She hated him. His hands began to move all over her body. She gasped when he pulled down the back chain of her dress. The chain stopped at her lower waist, so when he zipped it off, her upper back and waist were exposed. "D-Don't touch m-ummm!" His fingers rolled around her bare back, and she pressed her head against the pillow. His touches were giving her goosebumps all over her body. With a deep angry voice, he whispered in her ear, "I am going to make you forget his touches, kisses, and everything. Every time you touch another man, you will only think of me." - - - Ava Adler was a nerdy omega. People bullied her because they thought she was ugly and unattractive. But Ava secretly loved the bad boy, Ian Dawson. He was the future Alpha of the Mystic Shadow Pack. However, he doesn't give a damn about rules and laws, as he only likes to play around with girls. Ava was unaware of Ian's arrogance until her fate intertwined with his. He neglected her and hurt her deeply. What would happen when Ava turned out to be a beautiful girl who could win over any boy, and Ian looked back and regretted his decisions? What if she had a secret identity that she had yet to discover? What if the tables turned and Ian begged her not to leave him?
Elin spent twenty years deeply loving her husband, finally marrying him just as she'd always dreamed. But reality shattered her illusions—he wasn't the man she believed. Instead, he callously destroyed her family, crushing her heart beyond repair. At her lowest point, Ruben, equally betrayed that night, approached her steadily. "Marry me, Elin. I'll help you take revenge." Yet, after their wedding, she quickly discovered he was dangerously unpredictable. "I made a mistake. Let's divorce..." Ruben slid his arm possessively around her waist, whispering a chilling promise, "Only in death."
In her previous life, Kimberly endured the betrayal of her husband, the cruel machinations of an evil woman, and the endless tyranny of her in-laws. It culminated in the bankruptcy of her family, and ultimately, her death. After being reborn, she resolved to seek retribution against those who had wronged her, and ensure her family's prosperity. To her shock, the most unattainable man from her past suddenly set his sights on her. "You may have overlooked me before, but I shall capture your heart this time around."
"Is it considered betrayal to develop feelings for your best friend's boyfriend? What about when fate intervenes, and he turns out to be your destined mate? You might think it's luck and thank the moon goddess for such a twist of fate. That's what I believed until the love of my life uttered those dreaded words: 'I want a divorce!' As I stared at the pregnancy test in my hands, I realized it was better to keep my secret to myself. My name is Violet, and this is my story."
Madisyn was stunned to discover that she was not her parents' biological child. Due to the real daughter's scheming, she was kicked out and became a laughingstock. Thought to be born to peasants, Madisyn was shocked to find that her real father was the richest man in the city, and her brothers were renowned figures in their respective fields. They showered her with love, only to learn that Madisyn had a thriving business of her own. "Stop pestering me!" said her ex-boyfriend. "My heart only belongs to Jenna." "How dare you think that my woman has feelings for you?" claimed a mysterious bigwig.