The Words of Delilah
is to stay quiet-like here in the hotel, I'm thinking, until Aurora's rosy fingers paint the dawn, and meself is on the train to Port Said. Faith, but 'tis meself that despises a Russian!"
He was, indeed, inclined to caution. If he remained at Shepheard's, without doubt he would keep himself within the bounds of safety. But if he chose to wander in the streets—well, there would undeniably be danger.
"And the worst of it is," he rebelled, "that 'tis all for a scruple. For why should I respect the man's confidence, when he forces it upon me?"
Honor is a subtle thing, of much seeming inconsistency at times; now it was keeping the man's lips sealed when he had cause to speak—grave cause, in point of fact.
But for his own skin he held such a profound respect that he found comfort in the weight of the revolver that was sagging his evening coat out of shape. There was little likelihood that he would be called upon to use it, in Shepheard's; and yet, your Russian is a strange man, with kinks in his brain that move his feet into devious ways, beyond the understanding of men who fight in the open. O'Rourke was taking no chances.
He spent the best part of the evening miserably enough; the music of the orchestra tired him; he strolled into the gaming rooms, but the rattle of coin and the whirring and the click of the roulette wheel had no fascination for the born gambler, that night; his brain teemed with other thoughts of a more absorbing interest.
Barring companionship of one of his own kind—which he craved—the next best thing seemed a solitude absolute. He paused in a doorway leading to the terrace.
Out there he might find what he desired; it was cool enough
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