She thought that this must be the
man whose voice had proclaimed him English. He had a fair face,
lined and shadowed and dissipated, with tired blue eyes and a blond
mustache that failed to altogether hide a well-shaped mouth. It was
the kindest and saddest face Allie had ever seen there. She read its
story. In her extremity she had acquired a melancholy wisdom in the
judgment of the faces of the men drifting through Durade's hall.
What Allie had heard in this Englishman's voice she saw in his
features. He did not look at her again. He played cards wearily,
carelessly, indifferently, with his mind plainly on something else.
"Ancliffe, how many cards?" called one of the black-garbed men.
The Englishman threw down his cards. "None," he said.
The game was interrupted by a commotion in the adjoining room, which
was the public gambling-hall of Durade's establishment.
"Another fight!" exclaimed Durade, impatiently. "And only Mull and
Fresno showed up to-day."
Harsh voices and heavy stamps were followed by a pistol-shot. Durade
hurriedly arose.
"Gentlemen, excuse me," he said, and went out. One of the gamblers
also left the room, and another crossed it to peep through the door.
This left the Englishman sitting at the table with the last gambler,
whose back was turned toward Allie.
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