Schomberg, looking up from the stern-sheets of his steam-launch, which
he used for boarding passenger ships on arrival, discovered a dark
sunken stare plunging down on him over the rail of the first-class part
of the deck. He was no great judge of physiognomy. Human beings, for
him, were either the objects of scandalous gossip or else recipients of
narrow strips of paper, with proper bill-heads stating the name of his
hotel--"W. Schomberg, proprietor, accounts settled weekly."
So in the clean-shaven, extremely thin face hanging over the mail-boat's
rail Schomberg saw only the face of a possible "account." The
steam-launches of other hotels were also alongside, but he obtained the
preference.
"You are Mr. Schomberg, aren't you?" the face asked quite unexpectedly.
"I am at your service," he answered from below; for business is
business, and its forms and formulas must be observed, even if one's
manly bosom is tortured by that dull rage which succeeds the fury of
baffled passion, like the glow of embers after a fierce blaze.
Presently the possessor of the handsome but emaciated face was seated
beside Schomberg in the stern-sheets of the launch. His body was long
and loose-jointed, his slender fingers, intertwined, clasped the leg
resting on the knee, as he lolled back in a careless yet tense attitude.
On the other side of Schomberg sat another passenger, who was introduced
by the clean-shaven man as--
"My secretary.
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