Cards on the Table
grieved the Russian that the other had shown no surprise at seeing him. Monsey had fancied his visitor would be startled, afraid.
"You do well to be civil, Mr. Donovan Khan, sometimes called the Falcon. I'll have you know I'm master here. It's very convenient you walked in just now. Miss Rand has been telling me about you—how you deserted the army to be a renegade chief of the Yakka Arik scum. I've heard you have a father who is a knight and an uncle who is a minister of God. They'll be proud of you"
"I didn't," cried Edith, heedless of Abbas' warning mutter, "say anything of the kind."
"My father is dead." Donovan's words were very cold. His brown, boyish face was quiet except for the eyes that now held Monsey's wavering stare—the Russian had had a sleepless night and his nerves were none of the best.
The self-possession of good breeding was Donovan's; his was the high code of one who has been a law to others for many years; his also was the calmness that comes through long contact with this other world of the Orient.
"Answering the rest of your question, Monsey," he went on, "I have come to ask Miss Rand to marry me."
Sheer surprise made the Russian gape. Edith's glance flew to Donovan's honest eyes, then fell. She had grown quite pale.
"So," Monsey grinned, "you still want her, after she's been in the hands of the natives? Or maybe you have to marry her?"
Donovan took not the slightest notice of the other's insulting remark.
233
