Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: The Siege of the Seven Suitors by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: Otherwise Phyllis by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: Rosalind at Red Gate by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: Rosalind at Red Gate by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: A Hoosier Chronicle by Meredith Nicholson

Reproduction of the original: The Port of Missing Men by Meredith Nicholson

Meredith Nicholson (December 9, 1866 - December 22, 1947) was a bestselling author from Indiana, United States, a politician, and a diplomat.

A country house mystery involving a missing actress of exceptional talents and virtues, a bogus widow, a returned soldier, spies, plots and suspicions.

Come, sweetheart, let us ride away beyond the city's bound, And seek what pleasant lands across the distant hills are found. There is a golden light that shines beyond the verge of dawn, And there are happy highways leading on and always on; So, sweetheart, let us mount and ride, with never a backward glance, To find the pleasant shelter of the Valley of Romance. Before us, down the golden road, floats dust from charging steeds, Where two adventurous companies clash loud in mighty deeds; And from the tower that stands alert like some tall, beckoning pine, E'en now, my heart, I see afar the lights of welcome shine So loose the rein and cheer the steed and let us race away To seek the lands that lie beyond the Borders of To-day.

Billy Deering let himself into his father's house near Radford Hills, Westchester County, and with a nod to Briggs, who came into the hall to take his hat and coat, began turning over the letters that lay on the table. "Mr. Hood has arrived, sir," the servant announced. "I put him in the south guest-room." Deering lifted his head with a jerk. "Hood-what Hood?" "Mr. Hood is all I know, sir. He said he was expected-you had asked him for the night. If there's a mistake--" Deering reached for his hat and coat, which Briggs still held. His face whitened, and the outstretched hand shook visibly. Briggs eyed him with grave concern, then took a step toward the stairway.

"Stuff's all packed, Phil, and on the wagon. Camera safe on top and your suit-case tied to the tail-gate. Shall we march?" "Not crazy about it, daddy. Why not linger another week? We can unlimber in a jiffy." "It's a tempting proposition, old lady, but I haven't the nerve." Kirkwood dropped an armful of brush on the smouldering camp-fire and stood back as it crackled and flamed. There came suddenly a low whining in the trees and a gust of wind caught the sparks from the blazing twigs and flung them heavenward. He threw up his arm and turned his hand to feel the wind. "The weather's at the changing point; there's rain in that " "Well, we haven't been soaked for some time," replied Phil. "We've been awfully respectable." "Respectable," laughed her father.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. Stoddard's telegram was brought to me on the Glenarm pier at four o'clock Tuesday afternoon, the fifth of June. I am thus explicit, for all the matters hereinafter described turn upon the receipt of Stoddard's message, which was, to be sure, harmless enough in itself, but, like many other scraps of paper that blow about the world, the forerunner of confusion and trouble. My friend, Mr. John Glenarm, had gone abroad for the summer with his family and had turned over to me his house at Annandale that I might enjoy its seclusion and comfort while writing my book on Russian Rivers. If John Glenarm had not taken his family abroad with him when he went to Turkey to give the sultan's engineers lessons in bridge building; if I had not accepted his kind offer of the house at Annandale for the summer; and if Paul Stoddard had not sent me that telegram, I should never have written this narrative. But such was the predestined way of it. I rose from the boat I was caulking, and, with the waves from the receding steamer slapping the pier, read this message: STAMFORD, Conn., June 5. Meet Miss Patricia Holbrook Annandale station, five twenty Chicago express and conduct her to St. Agatha's school, where she is expected. She will explain difficulties. I have assured her of your sympathy and aid. Will join you later if necessary. Imperative engagements call me elsewhere. STODDARD.

The House of a Thousand Candles By Meredith Nicholson