He had so long buffeted the waves of adversity
himself that he was a past master of the art of measuring the depth
of a hidden purse. He recalled the brilliant Casimir Wieniawski
of eight years past--the curled darling of the hot-hearted ladies
of Calcutta, Madras, Bombay and Singapore. In a glance of cursory
inspection Alan Hawke had noted the doubtful gloss of the dress suit;
it was the polish of long wear, not the velvety glow of newness.
There was a growing bald spot, scarcely hidden by the Hyperion Polish
curls; there were crows'-feet around the bold, insolent eyes, and
the man's smile was lean and wolfish when the glittering white teeth
flashed through the professional smirk of the traveling artist.
The old, easy assurance was still there, but cognac had dulled the
fires of genius; the tones of the violin trembled, even under the
weakening but still magic fingers, and the splendid sapphire and
diamond cluster ring of old was replaced by a too evident Palais
Royal work of inferior art.
"Poor devil! It is the downward fluttering of the wearied eagle!"
mused Alan Hawke. "Women, roulette, champagne, and high life--all
these past riches fade away into the gloomy pleasures of restaurant
cognac, dead-shot absinthe, and the vicarious smiles of a broken
soubrette or so! And all the more you can be now dangerous to me,
Monsieur Casimir Wieniawski, for the old maneater forgets none of
his tricks, even when toothless.
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