Explore "The White Glove" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Rayne stepped off the Hamburg steamer and looked furtively around him.
He appeared to have no baggage, nothing but the clothes he stood up in; his linen was dirty, and he wanted shaving badly. He might have been two or three days on the road, he might have been sleeping in his tweed suit. He saw nothing of a man who followed him at a respectful distance, a man with a hairy face and big glasses. He would hardly have recognised Clifford Marsh in that guise.