Explore "The Avenger" by Edgar Wallace on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
IMMERSED in her beloved script, Adele Leamington sat on her bed, a box of _marron glacé_ by her side, her knees tucked up, and a prodigious frown on her forehead. Try as hard as she would, she found it impossible to concentrate upon the intricate directions with which Foss invariably tortured the pages of his scenarios. Ordinarily she could have mastered this handicap, but, for some reason or other, individual thoughts which belonged wholly to her and had no association with her art came flowing forth in such volume that the lines were meaningless and the page, for all the instruction it gave to her, might as well have been blank.
What _was_ Michael Brixan? He was not her idea of a detective, and why was he staying in Chichester? Could it be. ? She flushed at the thought and was angry with herself. It was hardly likely that a man who was engaged in unravelling a terrible crime would linger for the sake of being near to her. Was the Head-Hunter, the murderer, living near Chichester? She dropped her manuscript to her knees at the appalling thought.