He was still stiffly erect in his chair, and would be
till the very moment consciousness left him, but his eyes were misty,
and when he spoke his lips moved slowly, as though numbed by cold.
Beside him stood a tall, black bottle with a little whisky glass to
flank it. He made his bets with apparent carelessness, but with a real
and deepening gloom. Once or twice he glanced up sharply as though
reckoning his losses, though it seemed to Pierre le Rouge almost like
an appeal.
And what appeal could affect Mac Hurley? There was no color in the
man, either body or soul. No emotion could show in those pale, small
eyes or change the color of the flabby cheeks. If his hands had been
cut off, he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, but
the hands saved him.
They seemed to belong to another body--beautiful, swift, and strong,
and grafted by some foul mischance onto this rotten hulk. Very white
they were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion,
continually hovering around the cards with little touches which were
almost caresses.
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