The Sword-Pen had written something in
the dark.
"I go find out"; and Wutzler was away, as keen as a village gossip.
"Trouble's comin'," Nesbit asserted glibly. "There's politics afloat.
But I don't care." He stretched his arms, with a weary howl. "That's the
first yawn I've done to-night. Trouble keeps, worse luck. I'm off--seek
my downy."
Alone with the grunting sleeper, the two friends sat for a long time and
watched the flooding daylight.
"What," began Rudolph, suddenly, and his voice trembled, "what is your
true opinion? You are so kind, and I was just a fool. That other day, I
would not listen. You laughed. Now tell me, so--as you were to die next.
You were joking? Can I truly be proud of--of her?"
He leaned forward, white and eager, waiting for the truth like a dicer
for the final throw.
"Of yourself, dear old chap. Not of the lady. She's the fool, not you.
Poor old Gilly Forrester slaves here to send her junketing in Japan,
Kashmir, Ceylon, Home. What Chantel said--well, between the two of us,
I'm afraid he's right. It's a pity."
Heywood paused, frowning.
"A pity, too, this quarrel.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118