He threw open the bottom sash and leaned out. A hansom cab was waiting at the entrance to the flats. Wrayson glanced once more instinctively towards the clock. Who on earth of his neighbours could be keeping a cab waiting outside at that hour in the morning? With the exception of Barnes and himself, they were most of them early people. Once more he looked out of the window. The cabman was leaning forward in his seat with his head resting upon his folded arms. He was either tired out or asleep. The attitude of the horse was one of extreme and wearied dejection. Wrayson was on the point of closing the window when he became aware for the first time that the cab had an occupant. He could see the figure of a man leaning back in one corner, he could even distinguish a white-gloved hand resting upon the apron. The figure was not unlike the figure of Barnes, and Barnes, as he happened to remember, always wore white gloves in the evening
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Oppenheim has, among other irritating quirks, a tendency to tease by offering the beginning of clues, only to withdraw or interrupt them as an artificial means of maintaining mystery. Despite that, chances are you\\\'ll identify the murderer before he confesses.
What\\\'s more, neither hero or heroine respopnd rea
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What's more, neither hero or heroine respopnd realistically to motivation.
While the author does a good job with some of the plot aspects and I enjoyed his descriptive abilities (especially the part set in France), the work overall is rather uneven. Some blatant anti-Semitism involving greedy ugly-looking Jewish characters, beyond the usual for the time period, intruded on the experience, as did a rather abrupt and explicitly jingoistic ending. The author can and has done better, I'd give this one a pass.