Paris. Craig's thought flew back to the prosperous days when he was plying his trade between New York and Cherbourg, on the Atlantic liners, the annual fortnight in Paris and the Grand-Prix. He had had his diamonds, then, and his wallet of yellow-backs; and when he had called for vintage wines and choice Havanas it had been for genuine love of them. In his heart he despised Mallow. He knew himself to be a rogue, but Mallow without money would have been a bold predatory scoundrel. Craig knew also that he himself was at soul too cowardly to be more than despicably bad. He envied Mallow's absolute fearlessness, his frank brutality, his strength upon which dissipation had as yet left no mark; and Mallow was easily forty-five. Paris. He might never see that city again. He had just enough to carry him to Hongkong and keep him on his feet until the races. He sent a bitter glance toward the sea where the moonlight gave an ashen hue to the forest of rigging. The beauty of the scene did not enter his eye. His mind was recalling the luxurious smoke-rooms.
"When you go to Paris, I'd like to go along."
"You've never let on why they sent you hiking out here," Mallow suggested.
"One of my habits is keeping my mouth shut."
"Regarding your own affairs, yes. But you're willing enough to talk when it comes to giving away the other chap."
"You can play that hand as well as I can." Craig scowled toward the dining-room doors.
"Ha! There they come," said Mallow, as a group of men and women issued out into the cafe-veranda. "By gad! she is a beauty, and no mistake. And will you look at our friend, the colonel, toddling behind her?"
"You're welcome."
"You're a fine lady-killer." Mallow tore the band from a fresh cigar and struck a match.
"I know when I've got enough. If you could get a good look at her when she's angry, you'd change your tune."