Irwin Will
William Henry Irwin (Will) (1873 - 1948) was a U.S. author, writer and journalist. For the Bohemian Club, he wrote the Grove Play The Hamadryads in 1904. Irwin attended Stanford University, where he was a member of the Stanford Chaparral.
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The House of Mystery
An Episode in the Career of Rosalie Le Grange,Clairvoyant
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Unknown
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Unknown
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4/5
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The Readjustment
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4.5/5
William Henry Irwin (Will) (1873-1948) was an American author, writer and journalist. He wrote the poetry collection The Hamadryads in 1904. Irwin attended Stanford University, where he was a member of the Stanford Chaparral. Other works include: The City That Was: A Requiem of Old San Francisco (1906), Old Chinatown (1908), The House of Mystery (1910), The Thirteenth Chair (with Bayard Veiller) (1916), Reporter in Armageddon (1918), The Next War (1921) and Christ or Mars? (1923).
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The House of Mystery
Series:
Unknown
Year:
Unknown
Raiting:
3/5
"If they could come back they would come, Bulger. Especially those we loved. Not to let us see them, you understand, but to assure us it is all right—that we'll live again. That's what I want—proof—I can't take it on faith." His voice lowered. "Thirty years!" he whispered. "What's thirty years?" The secretary knocked, entered, set a small, steel box on the glass top of the desk. Norcross dismissed him with a gesture, drew out his keys, opened the box. It distilled a faint scent of old roses and old papers. Norcross looked within for a moment, as though turning the scent into memories, before he took out a locket. He opened it, hesitated, and then extended it to Bulger. It enclosed an exquisite miniature—a young woman, blonde, pretty in a blue-eyed, innocent way, but characterless, too—a face upon which life had left nothing, so that even the great painter who made the miniature from a photograph had illuminated it only with technical skill. "Don't tell me what you think of her," Norcross said quietly; "I prefer to keep my own ideas. It was when I was a young freight clerk. She taught school up there. We were—well, the ring's in the box, too. They took it off her finger when they buried her. That's why—" to put the brake on his rapidly running sentiment, he ventured one of his rare pleasantries at this point—"that's why I'm still a stock newspaper feature as one of the great matches for ambitious society girls." Bulger, listening, was observing also. Within the front cover of the case were two sets of initials in old English letters—"R.H.N." and "H.W." His mind, a little confused by its wanderings in strange fields, tried idly to match "H.W." with names.As Bulger stood there, immovable except for the nervous hands which still twisted and worried the telegram, he saw a sign on the building opposite. The first line, bearing the name, doubtless, was illegible; the second, fully legible, lingered for a long time merely in his perceptions before it reached and touched his consciousness. "CLAIRVOYANT," it read. He started, leaned on a table as though from weakness, and continued to stare at the sign. "Who is the cleverest fakir in that business?" he said at length to himself. And then, after a few intent minutes: "When he was a freight clerk—thirty years ago—that was at Farnham Mills—'H.W.'—granite shaft—sure it can be done!"
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Book list
The House of Mystery
An Episode in the Career of Rosalie Le Grange,Clairvoyant
Series:
Unknown
Year:
Unknown
Raiting:
4/5
Show more
add to favoritesadd In favorites
The Readjustment
Series:
Unknown
Year:
Unknown
Raiting:
4.5/5
William Henry Irwin (Will) (1873-1948) was an American author, writer and journalist. He wrote the poetry collection The Hamadryads in 1904. Irwin attended Stanford University, where he was a member of the Stanford Chaparral. Other works include: The City That Was: A Requiem of Old San Francisco (1906), Old Chinatown (1908), The House of Mystery (1910), The Thirteenth Chair (with Bayard Veiller) (1916), Reporter in Armageddon (1918), The Next War (1921) and Christ or Mars? (1923).
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The House of Mystery
Series:
Unknown
Year:
Unknown
Raiting:
3/5
"If they could come back they would come, Bulger. Especially those we loved. Not to let us see them, you understand, but to assure us it is all right—that we'll live again. That's what I want—proof—I can't take it on faith." His voice lowered. "Thirty years!" he whispered. "What's thirty years?" The secretary knocked, entered, set a small, steel box on the glass top of the desk. Norcross dismissed him with a gesture, drew out his keys, opened the box. It distilled a faint scent of old roses and old papers. Norcross looked within for a moment, as though turning the scent into memories, before he took out a locket. He opened it, hesitated, and then extended it to Bulger. It enclosed an exquisite miniature—a young woman, blonde, pretty in a blue-eyed, innocent way, but characterless, too—a face upon which life had left nothing, so that even the great painter who made the miniature from a photograph had illuminated it only with technical skill. "Don't tell me what you think of her," Norcross said quietly; "I prefer to keep my own ideas. It was when I was a young freight clerk. She taught school up there. We were—well, the ring's in the box, too. They took it off her finger when they buried her. That's why—" to put the brake on his rapidly running sentiment, he ventured one of his rare pleasantries at this point—"that's why I'm still a stock newspaper feature as one of the great matches for ambitious society girls." Bulger, listening, was observing also. Within the front cover of the case were two sets of initials in old English letters—"R.H.N." and "H.W." His mind, a little confused by its wanderings in strange fields, tried idly to match "H.W." with names.As Bulger stood there, immovable except for the nervous hands which still twisted and worried the telegram, he saw a sign on the building opposite. The first line, bearing the name, doubtless, was illegible; the second, fully legible, lingered for a long time merely in his perceptions before it reached and touched his consciousness. "CLAIRVOYANT," it read. He started, leaned on a table as though from weakness, and continued to stare at the sign. "Who is the cleverest fakir in that business?" he said at length to himself. And then, after a few intent minutes: "When he was a freight clerk—thirty years ago—that was at Farnham Mills—'H.W.'—granite shaft—sure it can be done!"
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The City That Was; a requiem of old San Francisco
Series:
Unknown
Year:
Unknown
Raiting:
3.5/5
1906. The author describes San Francisco as it was before the 1906 Earthquake. He begins: The old San Francisco is dead. The gayest, lightest hearted, most pleasure loving city of the western continent, and in many ways the most interesting and romantic, is a horde of refugees living among ruins. It may rebuild; it probably will; but those who have known that peculiar city by the Golden Gate, have caught its flavor of the Arabian Nights, feel that it can never be the same. It is as though a pretty, frivolous woman had passed through a great tragedy. She survives, but she is sobered and different. If it rises out of the ashes it must be a modern city, much like other cities and without its old atmosphere. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.
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