It is the mere
sensation of a night; the talk of an idle day. On the next evening
the "El Dorado" is thronged with a great multitude. It is eager
to gaze on the wondrous woman's face, for which "French Charlie"
died. Their quest is vain. Another daughter of the Paphian divinity
presides at the shrine of rouge et noir. The blood-stains are
effaced from the floor. A fresh red mound in the city cemetery
is the only relic of French Charlie. Philip Hardin, released upon
heavy bail, awaits a farcical investigation. After a few days he
bears no legal burden of this crime. Only the easy load upon his
conscience. Although the mark of Cain sets up a barrier between
him and his fellows, and the murder calls for the vengeance of God,
Philip Hardin goes his way with unclouded brow. His eyes have a
strange new light in them.
The "Queen of the El Dorado" sits no more at the wheel of fortune.
Day succeeds to day. Nightly expectation is balked. Her absent
charms are magnified in description. The memory of the graceful,
dazzling Hortense Duval fades from the men who struggle around the
gaming boards of the great "El Dorado." She never shows her charming
face again in the hall.
The secret of the disappearance of this mysterious sovereign of
chance is known to but few.
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