The excitement of his escape from the plague-ridden camp had scarcely subsided.

The glitter of the silver on the table, the shaded candles, the subtle sensuality of refinement and daintiness appealed to his hot-blooded nature.

He was a little off his feet perhaps.

He took the decanter and put it to the worst use he could have selected.
"Not so soon as that," he said; "but in time--in time." "Lucky beggar!" muttered Maurice Gordon, with a little sigh.
"I don't mind telling you," said Durnovo, with a sudden confidence begotten of Madeira, "that it's Simiacine--that's what it is.

I can't tell you more." "Simiacine," repeated Gordon, fingering the stem of his wine-glass and looking at him keenly between the candle-shades.