The Black Edgar Wallace The Black JAMES LEXINGTON MORLAKE, gentleman of leisure, Lord of the Manor of Wold and divers other titles which he rarely employed, unlocked the drawer of his elaborate Empire writing-table and gazed abstractedly into its depths. It was lined with steel and there were four distinct bolts. Slowly he put in his hand and took out first a folded square of black silk, then a businesslike automatic pistol, then a roll of fine leather. He unfastened a string that was tied about the middle and unrolled the ...
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The Black Edgar Wallace The Black JAMES LEXINGTON MORLAKE, gentleman of leisure, Lord of the Manor of Wold and divers other titles which he rarely employed, unlocked the drawer of his elaborate Empire writing-table and gazed abstractedly into its depths. It was lined with steel and there were four distinct bolts. Slowly he put in his hand and took out first a folded square of black silk, then a businesslike automatic pistol, then a roll of fine leather. He unfastened a string that was tied about the middle and unrolled the leather on the writing-table. It was a hold-all of finely-grained sealskin, and in its innumerable pockets and loops was a bewildering variety of tools, grips, ratchets each small, each of the finest tempered steel. He examined the diamond-studded edge of a bore, no larger than a cheese tester, then replacing the tool, he rolled up the hold-all and sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed meditatively upon the articles he had exposed. James Morlake sflat in Bond Street was, perhaps, the most luxurious apartment in that very exclusive thoroughfare. The room in which he sat, with its high ceiling fantastically carved into scrolls and arabesques by the most cunning of Moorish workmen, was wide and long and singular. The walls were of marble, the floor an amazing mosaic covered with the silky rugs of I spahan. Four hanging lamps, delicate fabrics of silver and silk, shed a subdued light. With the exception of the desk, incongruously gaudy in the severe and beautiful setting, there was little furniture. A low divan under the curtained window, a small stool, lacquered a vivid green, and another chair was all. The man who sat at the writing-table might have been forty he was four years less or fifty.
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Seller's Description:
Acceptable. Acceptable condition. No Dust Jacket (Fiction, Mystery, Crime) A readable, intact copy that may have noticeable tears and wear to the spine. All pages of text are present, but they may include extensive notes and highlighting or be heavily stained. Includes reading copy only books.
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Seller's Description:
Near Fine in Very Good (Minus) jacket. 8vo-over 7¾"-9¾" tall. Here is a "mistifier" from the prolific Edgar Wallace (1875-1932). First published in England in 1925 as "The Man from Morocco" and followed by Doubleday a year later [cf. Hubin, 421]. This is a Near Fine copy of Burt's reprint. Not common. Bright red cloth binding with titling on the spine and front cover in red and black Clean text; ix, 339 pages. There is no publication date; arbitrarily assigned to 1931, although sometimes the reprints came out in the same year as the First. Tiny bit of rub to the tips and a small stain on the foot of the spine. The dustjacket reproduces the Doubleday edition. It is complete but has edgewear, with chips to the spine. In an archival plastic protector.
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Seller's Description:
Used-Good. Good hardback in Fair dust jacket. Book no.283. Meets the requirements of Kiddle W12 for a 1st edition. Pages very yellowed; spine darkened, with 'gilt' worn away; dust jacket worn & chipped at edges, with loss at foot of spine; dj protected in removable clear film.
