In the marble hall of the gay Hôtel Continental, Ostend, that reckless center of bathing, gambling and dancing, stood two Englishmen, chatting together. The younger of the pair, about twenty-two, and dressed in tennis flannels, was a young sprig of the Stock Exchange named Claude Peyton; the elder, a handsome, dark man, about ten years his senior, was Frank Aylmer.…
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