A strange romance of beautiful Isobel de Sorrens.
all, whether the game is worth the candle."
"One in a thousand," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yet think what that one may mean--a walking drama, a tragedy, a comedy, an epitome of life or death. There is more to be read in the face of that one than in the three hundred pages of the novel over which we yawn ourselves to sleep. Here is the train! Now let us watch the people together--that is, if you really mean that you have no friends to look out for."
"I really mean it," I assured him. "I am here out of the idlest curiosity. I am by profession a scribbler, and I am in search of an idea."
Once more he regarded me curiously.
"Your name is Greatson, is it not--Arnold Greatson? You were pointed out to me once at the Vagabonds' Club, and I never forget a face. Here they come! Look! Look!"
The train had come to a standstill. People were streaming out upon the platform. My companion laid his fingers upon my arm. He talked rapidly but lightly.
"You see them, my young friend,"