OUT of the greyness of the New York winter afternoon she came into the saloon. Schulte's, on Third Avenue, was not used to visitors like this. Slim and well-groomed and alluring, she was quite young—not more than twenty-three or twenty-four, Major Hartigan judged—and beautifully dressed. Her hat, tall of crown and rakish like a Napoleonic hussar's, was modish, and a very faint breath of perfume clung to her furs, all glistening with a fine powdering of snow. Sinking into a chair, she said to Hartigan, " Where's Robert Dallas ? " " Now, Patricia," the grey-haired man who accompanied her broke in, " you promised if I'd let you come . . ." " Be quiet, Willie ! " she bade and spoke to Hartigan again. " This Englishman's a friend of yours, isn't he ? Where's he to be reached ? " The brusqueness of her tone seemed to nettle the major. " Supposing he is," was the blunt retort, " what do you want with him ? " " My brother," she answered in the same hurried tone she had used before, " he's vanished. In Germany. Your friend Dallas has got to find him."
Valentine Williams   Thompson
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