What would happen if she told this man that she was a Gipsy--the daughter
of a Gipsy ruler, which was no more than being head of a clan of the
world's transients, the leader of the world's nomads. Money--her father
had that, at least--much money; got in ways that could not bear the light
at times, yet, as the world counts things, not dishonestly; for more than
one great minister in a notable country in Europe had commissioned him,
more than one ruler and crowned head had used him when "there was trouble
in the Balkans," or the "sick man of Europe" was worse, or the Russian
Bear came prowling. His service had ever been secret service, when he
lived the life of the caravan and the open highway. He had no stable
place among the men of all nations, and yet secret rites and mysteries
and a language which was known from Bokhara to Wandsworth, and from
Waikiki to Valparaiso, gave him dignity of a kind, clothed him with
importance.
Yet she wanted to tell this man beside her the whole truth, and see what
he would do. Would he turn his face away in disgust? What had she a right
to tell? She knew well that her father would wish her to keep to that
secrecy which so far had sheltered them--at least until Jethro Fawe's
coming.
At last she turned and looked him in the eyes, the flush gone from her
face.
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