Mrs. Haxton,
pallid, striving desperately to regain her self-possession, draped
herself artistically in a comfortable camp chair. Von Kerber, scowling
and depressed, stood near the entrance, and Mr. Fenshawe was seated in
the center of the tent. The red light of the declining sun was full on
his face, and Dick fancied that he had aged suddenly. Nor was this to
be wondered at. No enthusiast, not even a wealthy one, likes to have
his hopes of realizing a great achievement dashed to the ground, nor is
it altogether gratifying that a woman who has won one's high esteem
should be associated with a piece of contemptible trickery.
Mr. Fenshawe's first question told Dick that a serious dispute was
toward.
"It has been stated," said Mr. Fenshawe, looking at him in a curiously
critical way, "that a valuable document was stolen from Baron von
Kerber at Marseilles--what do you know about it?"
Dick, hourly expecting a strenuous turn to the placid marching and
camping of the past few weeks, was not taken unaware.
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