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"The Lost Ambassador" through E. Phillips Oppenheim is a fascinating espionage thriller that unravels a complex and gripping tale of worldwide intrigue. The novel follows the disappearance of Baron Hermann von Dincklage, a German ambassador, causing a stir in diplomatic circles. The protagonist, Peter Ruff, an artful and innovative private detective, is tasked with the task of finding the missing diplomat. Ruff's research takes him into an internet of political schemes, secret societies, and clandestine operations across Europe. As he delves deeper into the thriller, Ruff uncovers a world of hidden agendas, perilous alliances, and sudden revelations. His adventure includes navigating via the shadowy realm of espionage and encountering a spectrum of characters, every with their very own motivations and secrets. Oppenheim's narrative expertly combines suspense and intrigue, portraying Ruff's strategic maneuvering and short-witted technique to unraveling the fact at the back of the ambassador's disappearance. The novel intricately weaves collectively espionage factors with elements of thriller and adventure, keeping readers engaged with its unpredictable plot twists and the enigmatic global of global international relations. "The Lost Ambassador" is a captivating narrative that immerses readers in a world of secrecy and danger, skillfully painted by way of Oppenheim's storytelling finesse, imparting an interesting exploration of espionage and the pursuit of fact within the midst of political turmoil.
The Lost Ambassador By E. Phillips Oppenheim
"The Lost Ambassador" by E. Phillips Oppenheim is a gripping mystery novel that follows the search for missing Delora. The story is filled with unexpected twists and turns as the protagonist uncovers a web of deceit and betrayal in his quest to find Delora.
Excerpt from The Lost Ambassador: Or the Search for the Missing Delora The night was Clear, and breathlessly still. The full yellow moon was shining in an absolutely cloudless sky. The match an English wax one, by the way burned without a flicker. I lit my cigarette, and turning around found my companion still standing by my side. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
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There was no particular reason why, after having left the Opera House, I should have retraced my steps and taken my place once more amongst the throng of people who stood about in the entresol, exchanging greetings and waiting for their carriages. A backward glance as I had been about to turn into the Place de l'Opera had arrested my somewhat hurried departure. The night was young, and where else was such a sight to be seen? Besides, was it not amongst some such throng as this that the end of my search might come? I took up my place just inside, close to one of the pillars, and, with an unlit cigarette still in my mouth, watched the flying chausseurs, the medley of vehicles outside, the soft flow of women in their white opera cloaks and jewels, who with their escorts came streaming down the stairs and out of the great building, to enter the waiting carriages and motor-cars drawn up in the privileged space within the enclosure, or stretching right down into the Boulevard. I stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little nearer to the door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most cases, to hear the directions of the men as they followed their womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case their destination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in most capitals, and the cafés of Paris are never so full as after a great night at the Opera. To-night there had been a wonderful performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable. Young women and old, -sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type, whose dark eyes seemed half closed with a languor partly passionate, partly of pride; women of the truer French type, -brilliant, smiling, vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, always attractive. A few Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion still of Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole company. I was not sorry that I had returned. It was worth watching, this endless stream of varying types.