Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Trust; Or, Never Say Die онлайн

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This room had the appearance of an upholstered and decorated cell. The windows were masked and the doors sunk into the walls. Overhead were handsome bronze chandeliers, fitted with incandescent lights, each gleaming coil hidden and softened by ground-glass bulbs. Under foot was a carpet of texture so deep and velvety that one’s footfalls were perfectly noiseless. Here their top-coats and hats were taken.

As Herrick led them into this reception-room and paused for Frank to admire its impressive beauty, three men came down the stairs from the gaming-rooms above. All were dressed in evening clothes. Two of them had faces that told of dissipated lives. The third was a youth with clear, clean-cut features, but now pale as death, while in his eyes gleamed a wild light of despair.

The three men paused a moment before going out. One of them was coolly drawing on his gloves, but he kept his eyes on the lad with the marble face and glaring eyes. The other man also watched the youth, whose lips were beginning to tremble, and he suddenly said: