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McAllister and His Double   By: (1875-1945)

McAllister and His Double by Arthur Cheney Train

First Page:

[Illustration: McALLISTER AND HIS DOUBLE ARTHUR TRAIN]

[Illustration: McAllister whispered sharply in his ear. (Page 68.)]

McALLISTER AND HIS DOUBLE

BY ARTHUR TRAIN

ILLUSTRATED

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK:::::::::::::::::1905

COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published, September, 1905

TROW DIRECTORY PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK

CONTENTS

PAGE MCALLISTER'S CHRISTMAS 1 THE BARON DE VILLE 53 THE ESCAPE OF WILKINS 77 THE GOVERNOR GENERAL'S TRUNK 113 THE GOLDEN TOUCH 141 MCALLISTER'S DATA OF ETHICS 177 MCALLISTER'S MARRIAGE 205 THE JAILBIRD 233 IN THE COURSE OF JUSTICE 255 THE MAXIMILIAN DIAMOND 283 EXTRADITION 311

ILLUSTRATIONS

McAllister whispered sharply in his ear Frontispiece

FACING PAGE "What do you know about it? I tell you it's all rot!" 6

"Throw up your hands!" 10

"Do you know who you've caught?" 16

"Merry Christmas, Fatty!" 24

"I think you've got Raffles whipped to a standstill." 64

"You think you're a sure winner. But I know you. I know your face ." 88

"Wot do you want?" drawled the fat man, blinking at the lantern 102

"Who in thunder are you ?" 110

Deftly tied the two ends of string around it 130

"Hands up, or I'll shoot!" yelled the detective, as a fat, wild eyed individual sprung from within 136

He hesitated a moment as if giving the matter the consideration it deserved 324

McAllister's Christmas

I

McAllister was out of sorts. All the afternoon he had sat in the club window and watched the Christmas shoppers hurrying by with their bundles. He thanked God he had no brats to buy moo cows and bow wows for. The very nonchalance of these victims of a fate that had given them families irritated him. McAllister was a clubman, pure and simple; that is to say though neither simple nor pure, he was a clubman and nothing more. He had occupied the same seat by the same window during the greater part of his earthly existence, and they were the same seat and window that his father had filled before him. His select and exclusive circle called him "Chubby," and his five and forty years of terrapin and cocktails had given him a graceful rotundity of person that did not belie the name. They had also endowed him with a cheerful though somewhat florid countenance, and a permanent sense of well being.

As the afternoon wore on and the pedestrians became fewer, McAllister sank deeper and deeper into gloom. The club was deserted. Everybody had gone out of town to spend Christmas with someone else, and the Winthrops, on whom he had counted for a certainty, had failed for some reason to invite him. He had waited confidently until the last minute, and now he was stranded, alone.

It began to snow softly, gently. McAllister threw himself disconsolately into a leathern armchair by the smouldering logs on the six foot hearth. A servant in livery entered, pulled down the shades, and after touching a button that threw a subdued radiance over the room, withdrew noiselessly.

"Come back here, Peter!" growled McAllister. "Anybody in the club?"

"Only Mr. Tomlinson, sir."

McAllister swore under his breath.

"Yes, sir," replied Peter.

McAllister shot a quick glance at him... Continue reading book >>




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