Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
He made a gesture expressive of his humorous resignation.
"Tell me," she continued in another tone, "were you followed?"
"To me knowledge? No, madame."
"You are not sure, then?"
"Madame, I am a soldier; a soldier is sure of nothing good until it is a proven fact. I was careful to watch, but saw not even a shadow move after us. Still—" He waved his hand with broad significance.
"Still," she amended, "one can trust for the best."
"One—or two, madame?"
She gave him a fleeting smile, then sat in silence for a space, which she terminated with a faint sigh of relief.
"Then," she remarked, as if to herself, "we dare hope that they do not know where you are."
"They—"
"Your enemies, monsieur."
"Ah, yes," said O'Rourke, scanning her face narrowly, "me enemies."
"And my friends," she added.
He opened his eyes very wide indeed. "Faith," he exclaimed, "madame, ye speak in riddles. I fail to comprehend. 'Tis meself that's the bad hand at riddles."
She did not reply directly, but contented herself with watching closely through her long and upcurled lashes the play of expression upon the Irishman's ingenuous and open features. She could have read therefrom naught in the world but bewilderment; for that was coming to be O'Rourke's sole emotion at such times as the strangeness of the affair made him forget to admire this woman.
Presently, growing restive under her long and silent critical appraisal, he took up his complaint.
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