The Wings of Victory by Fred M. White

A thin drift of cigarette smoke sifted over the dining-table at Baron's Court, where four men were seated in deep enjoyment of the coffee and liqueurs that followed a perfectly served meal. At the upper end of the table de Barsac, in his capacity as deputy host, lounged back idly in his chair, for he liked to sit there for half an hour or so after the evening meal talking idly on the events of the day. The big room was half in shadow, with a couple of lamps casting pools of light on flowers and ferns and fruit, on the ruby flush of wines in Venetian decanters and glinting on certain matchless old silver and priceless Sevres. Here and there, on the dark walls, a spot of light gleamed upon the electric bulbs that stood like lighted shrines in front of Bevill's famous pictures. It was one harmonious scene of luxury and refinement and wealth, and suggested nothing of the tragedy that was hanging like a black and sinister cloud over that fine old house.

Seated at the head of the table there, de Barsac looked the role he was playing to the life. He gave the impression of power and strength and success in every line of him. His handsome face was lit up with a pleasant smile, though there were people who declared that his eyes were a little too close together and that those strong lips of his were thin and cruel. But then, no great man is without his enemies.