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Updated: October 27, 2025
Abbott had never envied Courtlandt his riches; but often the sight of Courtlandt's physical superiority, his adaptability, his knowledge of men and affairs, the way he had of anticipating the unspoken wishes of women, his unembarrassed gallantry, these attributes stirred the envy of which he was always manly enough to be ashamed.
The silent dark-skinned Sikh, with his fierce curling whiskers, his flashing eyes, the semi-military, semi-oriental garb, topped by an enormous brown turban, claimed Courtlandt's attention; and it may be added that he was glad to have something to look at unembarrassedly.
Courtlandt's hand went instinctively to his collar, not to ascertain if it were properly adjusted, but rather to relieve the sudden pressure. He was enraged at his weakness. He wanted to turn away, but he could not. A woman issued forth, muffled in silks and light furs. She was followed by another, quite possibly her maid.
On the very day before, some 220 men of one of General Courtlandt's regiments, called the Kuthar Mookhee, who had been placed in an advanced battery, deserted to the enemy, and endeavoured to carry off Lieutenant Pollock with them; but he was rescued by the rest of the regiment, who remained faithful; and in spite of this defection, he, assisted in a true comrade spirit by Lieutenant Bunny, of the Artillery, and Lieutenant Paton, of the Engineers, held the post with unflinching constancy till day.
He addressed most of this to the back of her head, for she was already walking toward the villa into which she disappeared with the proud air of some queen of tragedy. She was a capital actress. A heavy hand fell upon Courtlandt's shoulder. He was irresistibly drawn right about face. "Now, then, Mr. Courtlandt," said Harrigan, his eyes blue and cold as ice, "perhaps you will explain?"
What's it about?" "Best story of the London prize-ring ever written. You're Mr. Harrigan, aren't you?" "Yes," diffidently. "My name is Edward Courtlandt. If I am not mistaken, you were a great friend of my father's." "Are you Dick Courtlandt's boy?" "I am." "Well, say!" Harrigan held out his hand and was gratified to encounter a man's grasp. "So you're Edward Courtlandt?
Little rivulets ran down Courtlandt's arm, raised as it was against the bars. "I do not see how it may concern me," replied Herr Rosen finally with an insolence more marked than Courtlandt's. "In Paris we met one night, at the stage entrance of the Opera, I pushed you aside, not knowing who you were. You had offered your services; the door of Miss Harrigan's limousine." "It was you?" scowling.
Thus, the padre liked Courtlandt's voice, his engaging smile, his frank unwavering eyes; and he liked the leanness about the jaws, which was indicative of strength of character. In fact, he experienced a singular jubilation as he walked beside this silent man. "There has been a grave mistake somewhere," he mused aloud, thoughtfully. "I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt. "I beg yours.
He had sent a barbed arrow up the tube to disturb the felicity of the dove-cote. The duke would be rather curious to know what was meant in referring to the night she had come to his, Courtlandt's, room. He laughed. It would be a fitting climax indeed if the duke called him out. But what of the pretty woman in the Taverne Royale? What about her? At whose bidding had she followed him?
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