After
a time he sat down and considered what to do next. He would have
to move on some time. As well now as ever. He was sick of the
place.
He began preparations to move on, gathering up the accumulation of
months of careless living for destruction. He picked up some
newspapers preparatory to throwing them away, and a name caught his
attention. Standing there, inside his doorway in the Mexican dusk,
he read of Graham's recent wounding, his mending, and the fact that
he had won the Croix de Guerre. Supreme bitterness was Rudolph's
then.
"Stage stuff!" he muttered. But in the depths of his warped soul
there was bitter envy. He knew well with what frightened yet
adoring eyes Anna Klein had devoured that news of Graham Spencer.
While for him there was the girl in the compound back of the "Owl,"
with Anna Klein's eyes, filled when she looked at him with that
bitterest scorn of all, the contempt of the wholly contemptible.
That night he went to the Owl. He had shaved and had his hair cut
and he wore his only remaining decent suit of clothes.
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