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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"A Millionaire of Yesterday"

There! Now, don't
you want to run away?"
She shook her head and smiled up at him. She was immensely
interested.
"If that is the worst," she said gently, "I am not at all frightened.
You know that it is my profession to write about men and women. I
belong to a world of worn-out types, and to meet any one different
is quite a luxury."
"The worst!" A sudden fear sent an icy coldness shivering through
his veins. His heart seemed to stop beating, his cheeks were
blanched. The worst of him. He had not told her that he was a
robber, that the foundation of his fortunes was a lie; that there
lived a man who might bring all this great triumph of his shattered
and crumbling about his ears. A passionate fear lest she might
ever knew of these things was born in his heart at that moment,
never altogether to leave him.
The sound of a footstep close at hand made them both turn their
heads. Along the winding path came Da Souza, with an ugly smirk
upon his white face, smoking a cigar whose odour seemed to poison
the air. Trent turned upon him with a look of thunder.
"What do you want here, Da Souza?" he asked fiercely.
Da Souza held up the palms of his hands.
"I was strolling about," he said, "and I saw you through the trees.


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