Manchurian Books

St. George?"
Before St. George could reply there entered the room, behind a low
announcement of his name, a man of sixty-odd years, nervous,
slightly stooped, his smooth pale face unlighted by little deep-set
eyes.
"Ah, Mr. Frothingham!" said Mrs. Hastings in evident relief, "you
are just in time. Mr. St. John was just telling me horrible things
about this frightful mulatto creature. This is Mr. St. John. Mr.
Frothingham is my lawyer and my brother Otho's lawyer. And so I
telephoned him to come in and hear all about this. And now do go on,
Mr. St. John, about this hideous woman. What is it you think?"
"How do you do, Mr. St. John?" said the lawyer portentously. His
greeting was almost a warning, and reminded St. George of the way in
which certain brakemen call out stations. St. George responded as
blithely to this name as to his own and did not correct it. "And
what," went on the lawyer, sitting down with long unclosed hands
laid trimly along his knees, "have you to contribute to this most
remarkable occurrence, Mr.


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