tailieunhanh - The Yellow Crayon By E. Phillips Oppenheim

It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him stretched the gardens—Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with here and there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew hedge bordered the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle of a lake. A wooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a smooth rolling park, with little belts of pine pla | The Yellow Crayon E. Phillips Oppenheim DODO I WI PRESS The Yellow Crayon CHAPTER I It was late summer-time and the perfume of flowers stole into the darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced its way through a chink in the blind and stretched across the floor in strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of bees and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds resting for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purple splendour. And inside in a high-backed chair there sat a man his arms folded his eyes fixed steadily upon vacancy. As he sat then so had he sat for a whole day and a whole night. The faint sweet chorus of glad living things which alone broke the deep silence of the house seemed neither to disturb nor interest him. He sat there like a man turned to stone his forehead riven by one deep line his straight firm mouth set close and hard. His servant the only living being who had approached him had set food by his side which now and then he had mechanically taken. Changeless as a sphinx he had sat there in darkness and in light whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight and the songs of the birds had given place to the low murmuring of frogs from a lake below the lawns. At last it seemed that his unnatural fit had passed away. He stretched out his hand and struck a silver gong which had been left within his reach. Almost immediately a man pale-faced with full dark eyes and olive complexion dressed in the sombre garb of an indoor servant stood at his elbow. Duson. Your Grace Bring wine Burgundy. It was before him served with almost incredible despatch a small cobwebbed bottle and a glass of quaint shape on which were beautifully emblazoned a coronet and fleur-de-lis. He drank slowly and deliberately. When he set the glass down it was empty. Duson Your Grace

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