His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow,
in one hand he carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I
breathed an exclamation.
Hobart nodded.
"Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has
business with our wan friend yonder. See!"
And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man
straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not
place him. His lips were set; in their grim line--determination;
whatever his exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a
respect for this weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was
not so sure that he was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the
waiter. The Rhamda began talking. I noted the poise in his manner;
it was not evil, rather was it calm--and calculating. He made an
indication. The young man drew back. He smiled; it was feeble and
weary, but for all of that disdainful. Though one had a pity for
his forlornness, there was still an admiration. The waiter brought
glasses.
The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his
up and sipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped
his hand upon the table, a pale blue light followed the movement
of his fingers. The older man pointed. So that was their
contention? A jewel? After all our phantom was material enough to
desire possession; his solicitude was calmness, but for all that
aggression.
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