Books with author E Phillips Oppenheim

There were very few people upon Platform Number Twenty-one of Liverpool Street Station at a quarter to nine on the evening of April 2—possibly because the platform in question is one of the most remote and least used in the great terminus. The station-master, however, was there himself, with an inspector in attendance. A dark, thick-set man, wearing a long travelling ulster and a Homburg hat, and carrying in his hand a brown leather dressing-case, across which was painted in black letters the name MR. JOHN P. DUNSTER, was standing a few yards away, smoking a long cigar, and, to all appearance absorbed in studying the advertisements which decorated the grimy wall on the other side of the single track.

It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here on Thursday evening next, at teno clock. SOGRANGE. THE man looked up from the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand, and gazed through the open French windows before which he was standing. It was a very pleasant and very peaceful prospect. There was his croquet lawn, smoothshaven, the hoops neatly arranged, the chalk mark firm and distinct upon the boundary. Beyond, the tennis court, the flower gardens, and to the left the walled fruit garden. A little farther away was the paddock and orchard, and a little farther still the farm, which for the last four years had been the joy of his life. His meadows were yellow with buttercups; a thin line of willows showed where the brook wound its lazy way through the bottom fields.(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)About the Publisher Forgotten Books is a publisher of historical writings, such as: Philosophy, Classics, Science, Religion, History, Folklore and Mythology.Forgotten Books' Classic Reprint Series utilizes the latest technology to regenerate facsimiles of historically important writings. Careful attention has been made to accurately preserve the original format of each page whilst digitally enhancing the aged text. Read books online for free at

Nothing is as it seems at Wood Norton. A Zeppelin on a midnight flight over the English coast nearly crashes, leaving behind its observation car–and a Homberg hat. A mysterious stranger who appears from nowhere bearing news of Lady Cranston’s brother, who languishes as a German prisoner of war. And Sir Henry Cranston, who refuses to come out of retirement at a time when his country is in need, but prefers instead to spend his time fishing. The fate of nations and of two lovers separated by war depends on discovering the secret of... The Zeppelin’s Passenger!

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (1866 – 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Oppenheim featured on the cover of Time magazine on September 12, 1927. He was the self-styled "prince of storytellers." He composed some one hundred and fifty novels, mainly of the suspense and international intrigue nature, but including romances, comedies, and parables of everyday life. He was the earliest writer of spy fiction as understood today, and invented the "Rogue Male" school of adventure thrillers that was later exploited by John Buchan and Geoffrey Household. Undoubtedly his most renowned work was The Great Impersonation: it was filmed thrice, the last time as a strong piece of wartime propaganda. Perhaps Oppenheim's most enduring creation is the character of General Besserley,. Much of Oppenheim's work possesses a unique escapist charm, featuring protagonists who delight in Epicurean meals, surroundings of intense luxury, and the relaxed pursuit of criminal practice, on either side of the law.

"You're in luck, Alfred," he declared. "That's the most interesting man in New York-one of the most interesting in the world. That's Sanford Quest." "Who's he?" "You haven't heard of Sanford Quest?" "Never in my life." The young man whose privilege it was to have been born and lived all his days in New York, drank half a glassful of wine and leaned back in his chair. Words, for a few moments, were an impossibility. "Sanford Quest," he pronounced at last, "is the greatest master in criminology the world has ever known. He is a magician, a scientist, the Pierpont Morgan of his profession." "Say, do you mean that he is a detective?" The New Yorker steadied himself with an effort. Such ignorance was hard to realise-harder still to deal with. "Yes," he said simply, "you could call him that-just in the same way you could call Napoleon a soldier or Lincoln a statesman..."