Sucks books

There was a delightful warmth about the place, and the seductive
scents and delicate odours betokened the haunt of the twentieth-
century Sybarite.
Both O'Connor and Leslie, strangely out of place in the enervating
luxury of the now deserted beauty-parlour, were still waiting for
Kennedy with a grim determination.
"A most peculiar thing," whispered O'Connor, dashing forward the
moment the elevator door opened. "We can't seem to find a single
cause for her death. The people up here say it was a suicide, but
I never accept the theory of suicide unless there are undoubted
proofs. So far there have been none in this case. There was no
reason for it."
Seated in one of the large easy-chairs of the reception-room, in a
corner with two of O'Connor's men standing watchfully near, was a
man who was the embodiment of all that was nervous. He was
alternately wringing his hands and rumpling his hair. Beside him
was a middle-sized, middle-aged lady in a most amazing state of
preservation, who evidently presided over the cosmetic mysteries
beyond the male ken.


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