Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
As for the latter, he appreciated the fact that it was a ticklish moment for him, an encounter fraught with peril. His only course was to face the man down, to defy him, to rely upon his effrontery—if it so happened that Chambret had indeed recognized him.
He was not long to be left in doubt,—if he did honestly doubt.
Deliberately, Chambret approached the table, halting by its edge, not a yard distant from the Irishman, his brow black with rage, his eyes scintillating with hate. Abruptly he brought his gloves down, with a sharp slap, upon the polished wood.
"So, canaille!" he said sharply.
"What?" demanded O'Rourke audaciously. His manner said plainly enough, "Is it possible? Can I believe me ears? What does he mean?"
Chambret quickly swung up the shade of the lamp, nodding in satisfaction as the glare disclosed the lineaments of the Irishman.
"I thought so," he said. "I was not mistaken."
O'Rourke dropped languidly, easily, into the chair, swinging a careless leg over one of its arms.
"Upon me word!" he mused aloud. "What is he driving at now, d'ye think? Is the man mad?"
Chambret's attitude was a puzzle to him. If the man had immediately identified him, why had he not been denounced to the princess at once? Why this delay, this playing to the gallery for melodramatic effect?
"Of course," he admitted, "the man's a Frenchman; 'tis not in the likes of him to miss a chance of showing off. But nobody's watching him now, save me. What for is he waiting?"
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