There was no
passion in his face now, and his evening dress was quite unruffled,
and only a black spot on the shirt front showed where the powder had
burnt the linen. It had made a great impression on him then, for he
was at the height of his fortunes, with crowds of sycophantic friends
and a retinue of dependents at his heels. And now that he was quite
alone and disinherited by even these sorry companions there seemed no
other escape from the pain in his brain but to end it, and he sought
this place of all others as the most fitting place in which to die.
So, after Walters had given the proper papers and checks to the
commissioner who handled his debts for him, he left Paris and took the
first train for Monte Carlo, sitting at the window of the carriage,
and beating a nervous tattoo on the pane with his ring until the old
gentleman at the other end of the compartment scowled at him. But
Harringford did not see him, nor the trees and fields as they swept
by, and it was not until Walters came and said, "You get out here,
sir," that he recognized the yellow station and the great hotels on
the hill above. It was half-past eleven, and the lights in the Casino
were still burning brightly.
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