Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
high and well modeled—a type of Gallic intellectuality, in short.
He swung past the Irishman hurriedly, intent upon his chase, but favored him with a searching scrutiny—which O'Rourke returned with composure, if not with impudent interest.
But the evening was yet young, and there was nothing in the encounter to particularly engage his fancy; he dismissed it from his mind, and turned into the house of Paz.
He knocked peculiarly: the familiar signal of old. A minute passed, and then a panel in the door slid back, exposing a small grating, behind which was the withered face of the concierge, with a background of dim, religious light.
"O'Rourke," announced the Irishman, languidly, turning his face to the window for identification.
That was scarcely needed. His name was a magic one; the concierge knew, and had a welcome for one who had been so liberal in the matter of gratuities in days gone by. The doors swung wide.
"M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke!" murmured the concierge, bowing respectfully.
O'Rourke returned the greeting and passed in, with the guilty feeling of a trespasser. He disposed of his inverness and hat, and ascended the stairway directly to the second floor.
Here was one huge room, in floor space the width and depth of the building, infinitely gorgeous in decoration, shimmering with light reflected from gold leaf, from polished wood and marble.
Around the walls were chairs and small refreshment tables; the floor was covered with rugs of heavy pile, well-nigh invaluable, the walls with paintings of note and distinction.
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