"
She was a big aggressive woman, full of energy. Hargrave could
not see her very well, but that much was abundantly clear. The
carriage turned out of Piccadilly Circus, crossed Trafalgar
Square and stopped before Blackwell's Hotel. Blackwell's has had
a distinct clientele since the war; a sort of headquarters for
Southeastern European visitors to London.
When the carriage stopped Mrs. Farmingham opened the door
herself, before the footman could get down, and got out. It was
the restless American impatience always cropping out in this
woman.
"Come along, young man," she said, "and tell me whether this
stuff is O. K. or junk."
They got in a lift and went up to the top floor of the hotel.
Mrs. Farmingham got out and Hargrave followed her along the hall
to a door at the end of a corridor. He could see her now clearly
in the light. She had gray eyes, a big determined mouth, and a
mass of hair dyed as only a Parisian expert, in the Rue de la
Paix, can do it. She went directly to a door at the end of the
corridor, rapped on it with her gloved hand, and turned the latch
before anybody could possibly have responded.
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