THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
possible that he should slip through every trap. Sooner or later, he would have to pay dearly for his devotion. For Camden could not get away from the fact that he liked the Irishman. Supposing he surrendered to the impulse to clear out? Within six months' time he would be absolutely penniless, living in some cheap boarding-house which would automatically grow cheaper as the days went by. His good clothes and his jewels would be in pawn. … No use. H was no good; it was too late now even if he wanted earnestly to be good. He was too deeply in the web. It was written; he would have to go on to the end. He would probably die alone in some Oriental rat-hole.
Camden laughed suddenly. There was a chance for him, if he played his cards carefully. It was worth trying. It was, in truth, his main reason for accepting this equivocal adventure.
Midnight.
The Elsa tugged at her cables. Somewhere out in the Indian Ocean a great storm was running. Colburton's guests had returned to the town, and he sat alone among the empty bottles and scattered cards. The little silk curtains over the open ports flapped and snapped. Outside, the davits creaked, now to starboard, now to port.
The saloon was richly furnished. It served both as dining-room and lounge during rough weather. Port and starboard ran low book-shelves, and there were several hundred books in exquisite
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