Sir Wilton Oakes was a man of about five and forty years of age, although he looked younger, he didn’t feel like it. He had all the attributes of his ancient race – the face of a hawk, a short upper lip, and the easy manner of one who was born to be the commander of people. He recently took over the beautiful Elizabethan house that was his legacy. And now the old baronet was dead, and the man sitting at the library table reigned in his stead.
The Ends Of Justice
