PublicBookshelf Book Club
Mary Roberts Rinehart
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
Old Anthony's excursion to his daughter's house had not prospered. During the drive to Cardew Way he sat forward on the edge of the seat of his limousine, his mouth twitching with impatience and anger, his stick tightly clutched in his hand. Almost before the machine stopped he was out on the pavement, scanning the house with hostile eyes.
The building was dark. Paul, the chauffeur, watching curiously, for the household knew that Anthony Cardew had sworn never to darken his daughter's door, saw his erect, militant figure enter the gate and lose itself in the shadow of the house. There followed a short interval of nothing in particular, and then a tall man appeared in the rectangle of light which was the open door.
Jim Doyle was astounded when he saw his visitor. Astounded and alarmed. But he recovered himself quickly, and smiled.
"This is something I never expected to see," he said, "Mr. Anthony Cardew on my doorstep."
"I don't give a damn what you expected to see," said Mr. Anthony Cardew. "I want to see my daughter."
"Your daughter? You have said for a good many years that you have no daughter."
"Stand aside, sir. I didn't come here to quibble."
"But I love to quibble," sneered Doyle. "However, if you insist--I might as well tell you, I haven't the remotest intention of letting you in."