"
Tremayne accepted the rebuke in the friendly spirit in which it
appeared to be conveyed. "Sorry, O'Moy," he said. "You're quite
right. We should have thought of it. Everybody isn't to know what
our relations are." And again he was so manifestly honest and so
completely at his ease that it was impossible to harbour any thought
of evil, and O'Moy felt again the glow of shame of suspicions so
utterly unworthy and dishonouring.
CHAPTER VIII
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER
In a small room of Count Redondo's palace, a room that had been set
apart for cards, sat three men about a card-table. They were Count
Samoval, the elderly Marquis of Minas, lean, bald and vulturine of
aspect, with a deep-set eye that glared fiercely through a single
eyeglass rimmed in tortoise-shell, and a gentleman still on the fair
side of middle age, with a clear-cut face and iron-grey hair, who
wore the dark green uniform of a major of Cacadores.
Considering his Portuguese uniform, it is odd that the low-toned,
earnest conversation amongst them should have been conducted in
French.
There were cards on the table; but there was no pretence of play.
You might have conceived them a group of players who, wearied of
their game, had relinquished it for conversation.
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