Explore "A Secret Service" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Honorable John Glasgow strode along in the direction of Grosvenor-square with the air of a man who has no trouble in the world, and whose life is given over entirely to pleasure. His morning coat fitted him to perfection, his glossy hat gleamed in the sunshine, and the perfectly creased trousers terminated in a pair of patent-leather boots. Apparently he was nothing more than the society man going off to lunch with friends. As a matter of fact, that was exactly his object. He stopped presently and rang the bell of Baron Ruperra's house, and for the next half-hour or so was discussing small talk with his hostess. It was nearly 2 o'clock before Ruperra rolled up in his big motor, full of apologies for the delay.
"My dear Baron, don't mention it," Glasgow said. "It is a mystery to me how you get away at all. You really are a wonderful man! How many City magnates manage to lunch at home in the course of a year?"