He advanced, holding out a hand. This was not the same Rossland who had
told Alan to attend to his own business on board the _Nome_. His
attitude was that of one greeting a friend, smiling and affable even
before he spoke. Something inspired Alan to return the smile. Behind
that smile he was admiring the man's nerve. His hand met Rossland's
casually, but there was no uncertainty in the warmth of the
other's grip.
"How d' do, Paris, old boy?" he greeted good-humoredly. "Saw you going
in to Helen a few minutes ago, so I've been waiting for you. She's a
little frightened. And we can't blame her. Menelaus is mightily upset.
But mind me, Holt, I'm not blaming you. I'm too good a sport. Clever, I
call it--damned clever. She's enough to turn any man's head. I only wish
I were in your boots right now. I'd have turned traitor myself aboard
the _Nome_ if she had shown an inclination."
He proffered a cigar, a big, fat cigar with a gold band. It was
inspiration again that made Alan accept it and light it. His blood was
racing. But Rossland saw nothing of that. He observed only the nod, the
cool smile on Alan's lips, the apparent nonchalance with which he was
meeting the situation. It pleased Graham's agent. He reseated himself in
the desk-chair and motioned Alan to another chair near him.
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