Achmed Abdullah

“ That Higgins person knows. I daresay Tomps knows. But”—and frothing, corroding laughter bubbled to his lips—“don’t you be afraid. The world shall never know. For—God pity me!—you are my first-born son! You are the future Earl of Dealle!”
It had always been so with the earl, with all the Wades of Dealle: a drawling, slangy, ironic outer mask, the result of Eton and the army, beneath which slumbered a lawless, turbulent personality, an atavistic throwback to the mythical Castilian ancestor that would rise like a mighty wind in his brain, suddenly, dramatically, and scotch all sobering impulses. ”

“ It was about a foot long, leaflike in shape, and nine inches across half way between hilt and tapering point. Hilt as well as blade were covered with a delicate, inlaid gold pattern that the Hand of Time had wiped into an indistinct blur.
As his sensitive, groping fingers touched the naked steel, he had the sudden impression of if something in his brain was being wrenched violently loose from its fastenings. It was as if his entire soul life and soul understanding were shifting within him with utter completeness. ”

“ Suddenly Tollemache burst into speech, hectic, slurred, rather bitter:
“I don’t understand. I don’t know what it is all about. They were my cards. I took them from my room. A brand-new pack with the seal unbroken, and ...”
“Silence!” thundered his father. “You bad son! You wicked brother! You—you ...” his voice peaked to a high-pitched, senile screech—“to cheat! At cards! Like a low Piccadilly cad—like some swine of a racetrack tout! God! To bring shame and disgrace on an honorable English name, for the sake of some damned, trashy, pinchbeck jewel for some damned, painted London harlot ...” ”