Chapter 9 - Page 2

success, life, so far, at least, had been just as stale and flat as it had promised to be on that night when he and Martel had ridden away from the feast at Terranova. He had made good, to his own satisfaction, in all respects save one, and even in that he had gained the form if not the substance, for the world regarded him as a man of proven courage. It seemed to him a grim and hideous joke, and he wondered what his friends would think if they knew that the very commonplace adventure planned for this evening filled him with a cringing horror. The prospect of this trip into the Italian quarter with the probability of encountering Narcone turned him cold and sick. His hands were like ice and the muscles of his back were twitching nervously; he could feel his heart pound as he let his thoughts have free play. But these symptoms were only too familiar; he had conquered them too many times to think of weakening.

After five years of intimate self-study he was still at a loss to account for his phenomenal cowardice. He wondered again to-night if it might not be the result of a too powerful imagination. Donnelly had no imagination whatever, and the same seemed true of others whom he had studied. As for himself, his fancies took alarm at the slightest hint and went careering off into all the dark byways of supposition, encountering impossible shapes and improbable dangers. Whatever the cause, he had long since given up hope of ever winning a permanent victory over himself and had learned that each trial meant a fresh battle.

When he saw by the clock that the hour of his appointment had come, he arose, although his body seemed to belong to some one else and his spirit was crying out a mad, panicky warning. He opened the drawer of his desk and, extracting a revolver, raised it at arm's-length. He drew it down before his eye until the sights crept into alignment, and held it there for a throbbing second. Then he smiled mirthlessly, for his hand had not shown the slightest tremor.

Donnelly was waiting as Blake walked into headquarters, and, exhuming a box of cigars from the remotest depths of a desk drawer, he offered them, saying:

"I've sent O'Connell over to reconnoiter. There's no use of our starting out until he locates Sabella. You needn't be so suspicious of those perfectos; they won't bite you."

"The last one you gave me did precisely that."

"Must have been one of my cooking cigars. I keep two kinds, one for callers and one for friends."

"Then if this is a Flor de Friendship I'll accept," Blake said with a laugh.

"I see Mr. Dreux didn't change his mind and decide to join us."

"No, this is a little too rough for Bernie. He very cheerfully acknowledged that he was afraid Narcone might recognize me and make trouble."

"I thought of that," Donnelly acknowledged. "Is there any