The
lace was of a delicate ivory color, faintly tinted with yellow.
The handkerchief was in the shape of a heart, and in one corner of
it, so finely wrought that he could barely make out the silken
letters, was the word "Camille."
The scent of heliotrope rose more strongly in the closed room, and
from the handkerchief Philip's eyes turned to the face of Eileen
Brokaw looking at him from out of Gregson's sketch. It was a
curious coincidence. He reached over and placed the picture face
down. Then he loaded his pipe, and sat smoking, his vision
traveling beyond the table, beyond the closed door to the lonely
black rock where he had come upon Jeanne and Pierre. Clouds of
smoke rose about him, and he half closed his eyes. He saw the girl
again, as she stood there; he saw the moonlight shining in her
hair, the dark, startled beauty of her eyes as she turned upon
him; he heard again the low sobbing note in her voice as she cried
out her hatred against Churchill. He forgot Eileen Brokaw now,
forgot in these moments all that he and Gregson had talked of that
day. His schemes, his fears, his feverish eagerness to begin the
fight against his enemies died away in thoughts of the beautiful
girl who had come into his life this night.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72