and moving on to something else

    "Why do I keep on doing this?"

    That was the question on Harold Lister's lips as he pushed through
into the Diogenes Club's employee section.

    "Because no one else would take you?"

Good reason

    Jack Wildman's rejoinder stung since it was rather close to the
truth. Lister was not exactly top grade material for a servant. Almost
every household he had been in had eventually thrown him out. Only in
Diogenes, where eccentricity was the norm, had Harry stayed on for more
than six months.

Ah, a perfect fit, then

    "So what's the problem then? You've dealt with folks like that since
you've arrived. You just don't talk about it."

    "This particular egg's kind of hard not to talk about. Heard of
Cranston?"

He's like a shadow, and gets around.

    Jack blinked.

    "Who hasn't? Another reclusive multimillionaire from a line of
reclusive multimillionaires. If you ask me there's something in American
water that makes all of 'em go bonkers. Pfah, give me good decent
English nobility anyday."

Yes, good old inbred, emaciated, British snobbery. :P

    "Oh, c'mon, Harry. He's probably in the room already and I can't
exactly sneak in."

    "Well, you'll see him sooner or later. But trust me, be ready for
the fright of your life."

    "Why's that?"

    Eyes that held a strange lambent glow, like a predator's... a pale
thin hawk face like a mask, as if there was another face beneath. Harry
shook himself and looked up at the taller man's gold-flecked eyes.

Missing quotes if there was dialogue in that

    "Oh, hush, Miranda. Can't you see we're just being friendly to the
bloke?" That was Howard Blakeney, needling Miranda again. If this were a
schoolyard I'd say those two were attracted to each other, Tarrant
smugly thought. Blakeney had mastered the art of playing the fop, but
those delicate hands of his had killed more men for Queen and Country
than other members combined.

My, he does do dirty work, doesn't he?

    "Strange name to use, Mr. Allard," John Steed,

Well, he was famous for his rather low body counts. He rarely killed anyone.

    The hawkish face smiled. In the dim light, the shadows around him
seemed to swim and ripple. The hand, girasol ring shifting color from
blue to violet to red, ran through black hair, smoothing it back. Red
eyes glowed faintly, in rhythm with the crimson tip of the smoking cigar
in the mouth. The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. The
council's attention was glued to Cranston as he began.

    "I have some things I'd like to tell you about."

Always a bad sign.

Nice work.

DB Sommer



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