Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
cursed his folly, and ordered brandy to keep his heart warm. Hardly had he swallowed it ere a shadow detached itself from the dense blackness on the farther side of the street and shambled uncertainly across to and up the terrace steps.
"Sure, 'tis a giant!" muttered O'Rourke.
It was almost that; a huge Nubian, black as a patent-leather shoe, his burly form enveloped in a Bedouin cloak. He made for O'Rourke with no hesitancy, as one who acts upon instructions to "seek out the man at such-and-such a table," and, without a word, handed him a little sealed note.
O'Rourke opened it, shifting his position to bring the sheet into the brilliant moonlight.
It was of light, flimsy paper, laden with an elusive perfume which went to O'Rourke's head—the identical indefinable fragrance that had mounted to his brain when he stooped over the hand of his Egyptian goddess. With some difficulty, because of the uncertain light, he deciphered its few words:
"Come to me at once, mon colonel, if your words to me an hour gone were not mere gallantry."
It was unsigned. But O'Rourke was beyond doubting. He rose, wrapping his inverness about him and looking the Nubian over with a calculating eye.
"If ye are not trustworthy, boy," he said slowly, "I shall break your neck. Walk ahead of me—and go quickly, lest the toe of me boot assists ye."
The spherical black head seemed to split precisely in half as the man laughed silently.
"Yaas, sar," he said; and without another word turned and stalked away, O'Rourke following at his heels, his keen eyes searching every shadow that they encountered.
Their journey was long—unconscionably so, O'Rourke
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