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A very few pages of Crime in Kensington are sufficient to warn the reader that he Is in for something very drastic In the way of thrillers. The atmosphere of sinlsterforebodlng which has settled down on the private hotel at which, on the suggestion of Lady Viola Buxley, Charles Venables has taken up his abode, the queer collection of guests—the furtive young Egyptian, the psychic and hysterical spinster, the clergyman who holds a medical degree — the no less mysterious proprietor and proprietress, all seem to presage some pecuiiar and calamitous disaster. |