The click of the horses' feet upon the deserted roadway kept time
to the murmurs of a most coy Delilah, who molded as wax in her
slender hands the ardent military Samson, who was all unmindful
of his flowing locks! And the silent moon shimmered down upon the
waste of waters!
Alan Hawke was seated for an hour alone in his room, enjoying the
cigars offered up by the "Universal Provider," who had yielded up
so liberally. The strong brandy and soda had at last restored his
shaken nerves, for he had played with his life staked upon the
outcome! He then grimly counted up his winnings. "Four-hundred and
eighty-eight good pounds! That will take me back to Delhi in very
good shape," he soliloquized. "I wonder if there is anyway to get
at that girl? If I mistake not, she will have a half a million!
The old Commissioner always liked me, too. By God! If I could only
get in between him and this baronetcy I might creep in on the girl's
friendship! But the old curmudgeon keeps her locked up! Rather
risky in India!" He leaned back, enjoying memories of the women with
pulses of flame and hearts of glowing coal whom he had met in the
days when he was "dead square." This strange woman! Who is she?
What does she know?
He dozed off until the clattering return of the Misses Phemie and
Genie Forbes, of Chicago, aroused him. His broad grin accentuated
the easily overheard strident remark: "Say, Genie, I wish we had
had those two English Lords at our opera supper.
Pages:
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41