: Fred M. White
: Rafat Allam
: The Sage of Tyburn Short Stories
: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
: 9784223610680
: 1
: CHF 5.70
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: Science Fiction, Fantasy
: English
: 280
: DRM
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The Sage of Tyburn by Fred M. White is a thrilling dive into a world of high-stakes mystery and historical intrigue. Set against the backdrop of Victorian London, the story follows the enigmatic figure of the Sage, a mysterious and wise man whose predictions and insights have captivated and bewildered those around him. When a string of seemingly unrelated crimes begins to plague the city, the Sage's cryptic warnings become the key to unraveling a larger, more sinister conspiracy. As the stakes rise and danger looms, the Sage must use his unparalleled intellect to decipher the clues and expose the truth. Can he solve the mystery before it's too late, or will his own secrets be his undoing? Dive into this captivating novel and uncover the secrets of the Sage of Tyburn.

Fred M. White (1859-1935) was a British author known for his prolific output of mystery, adventure, and speculative fiction. He is most famous for his early science fiction disaster novels, particularly 'The Doom of London' series, which depicted catastrophic events befalling the city. White wrote hundreds of short stories and serialized works, which were popular in magazines during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His works contributed significantly to the development of early science fiction and thriller genres.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE BLUE-EYED SYNDICATE


First published in The London Magazine, Vol. XV, No. 86, Sep 1905, pp 153-165

Collected in Paul the Sage, Ward Lock& Co, London, 1910

CHAPTER I. — THE BLUE-EYED SYNDICATE


"I DON'T make a point of it," the Duke said,"but as a matter of fact, I have been waiting nearly five minutes."

"That is precisely what the Prince of —— said yesterday," Beggarstaff replied genially."But won't your Grace sit down?"

The Duke of Rotherfield declined the proffered invitation. He stood up against the background with the strange, weird resemblance to an elderly stork after a night of unwonted dissipation. His long face and drooping whiskers might have passed him almost perilously for a retired undertaker; but this unhappy suspicion was somewhat tempered by a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses and linen of the most immaculate kind. As for the rest, his wardrobe would have fetched no more than a few shillings in Soho. Beggarstaff took in all these details with a flashing eye.

"Really, your Grace,"we should get on a great deal better if you sat down," he said."I take it that you have come to consult me professionally?"

The Duke was not quite prepared to admit that. His manner was official, not to say extra-Parliamentary.

"But you owe me a great deal more than you seem to be aware of," Paul murmured."That little affair of the ball programme, for instance. I have no wish to violate the sanctity of the domestic hearth, but you must admit that that little matter was awkward."

His Grace of Rotherfield fell into a reverie and one of the big saddle-bag armchairs simultaneously; then he caught Beggarstaff's eye and blushed ingenuously. The blush of a duke is a rare and precious thing.

"Upon my word, it was no fault of mine," he said eagerly."I was dining with my old regiment, you see. It was an outrage, a positive outrage, for someone to have slipped that programme into my pocket—a programme of some smoking concert dance.... Naturally her Grace was a little inclined to—er—"

"Of course," Paul said with great sympathy."I was glad to be the means of smoothing matters."

There was a florid flush on the face of the Duke; he had lost a considerable portion of his large, departmental manner, In a less illustrious personage one might say that he was fairly gaping at Beggarstaff.<