The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

Adela said no more. Burton would have his own way, and seemed so sure of his ground, so absolutely certain of his reception, that she could offer no further opposition. He strode gaily along by the side of the others, chatting in his light and clever way. It was almost impossible that this well-dressed, well-spoken, light-hearted old man could be the broken-down, desperate creature whom Adela had gone to visit in a London slum on that eventful night which she was not likely to forget. She was feeling the vague dreamy sensation that had come upon her on the night when she had first met Samuel Burton. Could this man be the penniless, desperate adventurer, who required all his mother wit to escape from the toils of the police? She wondered whether Denne knew anything, whether he had guessed at the truth. But Denne was talking to Burton as he would have talked to an equal. There was something almost respectful in his manner. Still, it was hard to infer anything from Denne's inscrutable face; whether winning or losing, he always looked the same. No one had ever seen behind his mask.

They came to the Castle at length, and walked through the open door into the great hall, now blazing with scores of electric lights. One or two men were smoking, and the click of the balls could be heard from the billiard-room. In a room beyond three or four tables were set out for cards. Burton was expatiating on the beauty of the house, and the fine proportions of the hall, when Callader appeared. He stood in the doorway regarding Burton with a malignant scowl, apparently petrified by the intruder's audacity.