Curiously enough, he had lost something of his
old furtiveness; he no longer examined, suspiciously, every stranger who
approached his neighborhood; for as the worshipers of old came by the
gate of Fear into the invisible presence of Moloch, so he--of equally
untutored mind--had entered the presence of Mr. King! And no devotee
of the Ammonite god had had greater faith in his potent protection than
Soames had in that of his unseen master. What should a servant of Mr.
King fear from the officers of the law? How puny a thing was the law
in comparison with the director of that secret, powerful, invulnerable
organization whereof to-day he (Soames) formed an unit!
Then, oddly, the old dormant cowardice of the man received a sudden
spurring, and leaped into quickness. An evening paper lay upon the
marble top of the table, and carelessly taking it up, Soames, hitherto
lost in imaginings, was now reminded that for more than a week he had
lain in ignorance of the world's doings. Good Heavens! how forgetful he
had been! It was the nepenthe of the catacombs. He must make up for lost
time and get in touch again with passing events: especially he must post
himself up on the subject of... the murder....
The paper dropped from his hands, and, feeling himself blanch beneath
his artificial tan, Soames, in his old furtive manner, glanced around
the saloon to learn if he were watched.
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