Explore "Stolen Idols" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
At half-past twelve on the following morning Mr. Peter Johnson, dressed in a blue serge suit and patent shoes -- a costume which, after much deliberation, he deemed suitable for the enterprise on which he was bent -- mounted his two-seated car, drove through the village, exchanging polite greetings with one or two of his recent acquaintances, and, after a moment's wait at the lodge gates, proceeded at a subdued pace along the winding road which crossed the park and up through the great avenue to the front entrance of the Hall. He left his automobile in a secluded place and found the door open as he mounted the steps. Rawson, unrecognising, stony of face and feature, took his name. A footman relieved him of his hat and gloves. Another subordinate, lurking in the background, threw open the door of the library, into which the visitor was ushered.
"Mr. Johnson," the man announced.