THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
There was not a shadow of doubt in his mind; everything now dovetailed so nicely. For what reason had Camden stolen his wallet, his letter of credit, set rogues upon him in Rome and Florence and Cairo? To put him out of the way so as to leave Ruth without protection. No one on board the Ajax would have bothered to watch over her.
Orestes! Just a little word like that to rend the veil completely. From under the ports of the yacht Elsa he had heard that name, and Camden himself had spoken it. Hadn't Camden's voice been familiar yet unplaceable? And yet, day after day, they had been together, and the man's voice had awakened no recollection. William's pride in his ability to reduce complexities into simplicities, after the fashion of his favorite detectives, had received a rude buffet.
"You scum! If I wasn't the biggest boob that ever wore a collar, you wouldn't be in that boat, standing up. Laughing behind my back all these weeks, and nearly getting me in Cairo. Orestes, huh? You wait; I've got a trick yet. You're going away without knowing I know, and there's where I'm going to get you when the time comes. And when I get through with you and your master, neither of you'll ever bother another woman. Scum!"
He had often heard and read of men like Colburton, but he had not credited their actual existence. William knew the man as a hunter of women, but that he would let his fancy lead him around the world was a revelation as to what
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