E Phillips Oppenheim

Oppenheim featured on the cover of Time magazine on September 12, 1927, he was the self-styled "prince of storytellers." He composed some one hundred and fifty novels, mainly of the suspense and international intrigue nature, but including romances, comedies, and parables of everyday life. He was the earliest writer of spy fiction as understood today, and invented the "Rogue Male" school of adventure thrillers that was later exploited by John Buchan and Geoffrey Household.

The Spymaster is another intriguing novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim, first published in 1940. Known for his expertise in crafting stories of espionage and intrigue, Oppenheim delivers a gripping tale set against the backdrop of international politics and covert operations. The novel centers around a brilliant and enigmatic spymaster who orchestrates complex espionage operations across Europe. As tensions rise and political landscapes shift, the spymaster must navigate a world of deceit, betrayal, and danger. The protagonist is often tasked with uncovering vital secrets, foiling plots, and maintaining a delicate balance of power between nations. Edward Phillips Oppenheim (1866-1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. He wrote more than 100 novels between 1887 and 1943.

A german espionage in England during World War I. Dreymarsh is a fictional "backwater" area in England with no apparent military value. The story begins with Dreymarsh residents discovering an observation car from a German zeppelin along with a Homburg hat near Dreymarsh. The mystery is further complicated when an Englishman, Mr. Hamar Lessingham, presents himself at Mainsail Haul which is the residence of Sir Henry Cranston. Lessingham bears with him, hand-carried letters from Major Richard Halstead, and a British prisoner of war in Germany. He presents them to Halstead's sister, Phillipa and Helen, Halstead's fianc e who have had no word of Richard's fate and are deeply concerned. Phillipa, Sir Henry's wife, is smitten with Lessingham, after Sir Henry appears to her to be a coward since he will not become involved in the war effort. Lessingham appears to be the perfect gentlemen but he is not who he pretends to be. Eventually, Phillipa and Helen discover that the delivery of Halstead's letters come with a price. All becomes clear near the end to discover the secret of Lessingham, Sir Henry, and Mainsail Haul.

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (22 October 1866 - 3 February 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born 22 October 1866 in Leicester, the son of Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and Edward John Oppenheim, a leather merchant. He worked in his father's business for almost twenty years. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School. Oppenheim's literary success enabled him to buy a villa in France and a yacht, then a house in Guernsey, though he lost access to this during the Second World War. Afterwards he regained the house, le Vanqui dor in St. Peter Port, and he died there on 3 February 1946

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (22 October 1866 - 3 February 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born 22 October 1866 in Leicester, the son of Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and Edward John Oppenheim, a leather merchant. He worked in his father's business for almost twenty years. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School. Oppenheim's literary success enabled him to buy a villa in France and a yacht, then a house in Guernsey, though he lost access to this during the Second World War. Afterwards he regained the house, le Vanqui dor in St. Peter Port, and he died there on 3 February 1946

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (22 October 1866 - 3 February 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born 22 October 1866 in Leicester, the son of Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and Edward John Oppenheim, a leather merchant. He worked in his father's business for almost twenty years. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School. Oppenheim's literary success enabled him to buy a villa in France and a yacht, then a house in Guernsey, though he lost access to this during the Second World War. Afterwards he regained the house, le Vanqui dor in St. Peter Port, and he died there on 3 February 1946

"I come at this hour," he said slowly, "because the view does not attract me so much at any other time. It is only when the twilight falls that one can see-properly." The newcomer took his pipe from his mouth. "You must have marvelous eyesight, my young friend," he remarked. "To me everything seems blurred and uncertain." "You don't understand " said the boy impatiently. "I do not come here to see the things that anyone can see at any hour of the day. There is nothing satisfying in that. I come here to look down and see the things which do not really exist. It is easy enough when one is alone," he added, a little pointedly. The newcomer laughed softly-there was more banter than humor in his mirth. "So my company displeases you," he remarked. "Do you know that I have the right to tell you to get up, and never to pass through that gate again?" The boy shrugged his shoulders.

I stifled an imaginary yawn in faint protest against her unbecoming exhilaration. I have not many weaknesses, but I hate scandal and scandal-mongering. All the same I was interested, although I did not care to gratify Lady Naselton by showing it. "Remember, that I have only been here a week or two," I remarked; "certainly not long enough to have mastered the annals of the neighborhood. I have not asked any one before. No one has ever mentioned her name. Is there really anything worth hearing?" Lady Naselton looked down and brushed some crumbs from her lap with a delicately gloved hand. She was evidently an epicure in story-telling. She was trying to make it last out as long as possible.

"There is, alas " Mr. Wadham replied, "no next step." "Exactly what do you mean by that?" the Marquis demanded, knitting his brows slightly as he sipped his sherry. "We have reached the end," the lawyer pronounced. "The decision given by the Court to-day is final." The Marquis set down his glass. The thing was absurd "Surely," he suggested, "the House of Lords remains?" "Without a doubt, your lordship," Mr. Wadham assented, "but it is of no use to us in the present instance. The judge of the Supreme Court-this is, by-the-by, our third appeal-has delivered a final decision.