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Then they pinch her, but she makes her get-away, and comes here, and, if the dope I've got is right, you hand Rough Rorke one, and help her to beat it again. It looks blamed funny doesn't it? when you come to consider that there's a leak somewhere!" "Is that so!" Rhoda Gray flashed back. "And did you know before last night that it was the White Moll who was queering our game?"
"I know Fletcher or, rather, I know of him. His father was a shopkeeper in Gort, the nearest town to Mount Rorke Castle." "He is a journalist, isn't he? I hear he is doing pretty well." "In London, I know, you associate with that class, but in Ireland we wouldn't think of knowing them." "I thought you were more liberal-minded than that. If they come up here, what shall I do?
What was there to say and, above all, to this man, whose reputation for callous brutality in the handling of those who fell into his hands had earned him the sobriquet of "Rough" Rorke? Sick at heart, desperate, but with her hands clenched now, she stood there, while the man felt unceremoniously over her clothing for a concealed weapon.
"Her spirit must be broken; she cannot be allowed to remain here to drive dear Maggie into a lunatic asylum. I am with you in that, James, but I cannot think you did well to let Frank Escott slip through your fingers. Had you not talked so much about money your daughter might have been Lady Mount Rorke." "Talked too much about my money? Who would talk about it, I should like to know, if I didn't?
Maggie did not like the idea of Sally getting two to her one. She would have liked to have introduced a proviso about Alfred, but the title Mount Rorke slipped between her thoughts, and she refrained.
She sat up suddenly, snarling. Rorke had found the key, left the bottle with the short stub of guttering candle standing on the floor, and was back again. "By God!" he gritted through his teeth, as he jabbed the key with frantic haste into the lock. "I'll fix you for this!" He made a clutch at her throat, as he swung the door open. She jerked herself backward, eluding him, her revolver leveled.
Stiffening himself therefore and again resuming his lofty tone, he proceeded: "Indeed I am truly grateful to you, Miss Rorke, for all your goodness an' all ye done for me father and mother. Jack McEvoy's afther tellin' me that they are in the height o' comfort. Indeed I'd never have thought of lookin' for them there at all; I never have expected you to be puttin' yourself about that way for them."
Let's have some oysters three dozen. We'll have a Chateaubriand what do you say? And an omelette soufflée what do you think? And a bottle of champagne. Waiter, bring me the wine-list." Frank had spoken to Mike because he felt lonely; the world had turned a harsh face on him. Lord Mount Rorke had married, and the paper was losing its circulation. "And how is the paper going?"
The words seemed to freeze in her throat, the chair, the lamp, the shadowy figure of the man in the match flame to swirl before her eyes, and a sick nausea to come upon her soul itself. With a short, triumphant oath, Rough Rorke had stopped suddenly and reached in under the chair. And now he was dangling a new, black kid glove in front of her. Caught! Yes, she was caught!
But Peter Rorke was not dead yet, and to the surprise of all who had known him, soon demonstrated that he was going to cheat a certain Old Gentleman who had been considered his intimate friend during his long life of his company at the close of it. His end in fact was most edifying. He made his peace with both God and man before he departed.
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