He who prigs what isn't his'n,When he's cotched will go to prison;
He who prigs what isn't his'n,When he's cotched will go to prison;
He who prigs what isn't his'n,
When he's cotched will go to prison;
or, to put it in simpler form still, 'the penalty for abstracting quids by electricity will be quod'—you are a Latin scholar, I believe, Emile?"
The Frenchman made an impatient and angry gesture of his hands.
"There is no time forblague," he said, "with your quids and your quods. I know nothing of your piggish English play upon words. Of course, if it is the fear of discovery that deters you, and the possibilities of arrest, well——"
He did not conclude, but shrugged his shoulders, and puffed out his lips with a peculiarly French contempt.
Basil was quite unmoved. "It is not that," he said, "as you know very well, Emile. I would risk anything upon any chance. Our lives at the present moment are very like two puddings in a fog. Prison could not be much worse. But I do not quite see how one is going to reconcile this marvellously ingenious plan of yours with ordinary morals. There have been lots of times when you and I have wanted a bottle of wine or a packet of cigarettes very badly, and hadn't the money to pay for them. If I had proposed to you to take a bottle of chambertin while the wine-merchant was not looking—well!"
The two little Frenchmen had been listening with keen attention to this dialogue. Basil's English irony had been lost upon them, but they understood the main lines of his objections well enough.
It was Brother Edouard who came to the rescue.
"Permit me to say a word," he interrupted in his gentle, high-pitched voice. "The cases of robbing a wine-merchant and the Administration of Monte Carlo have not the slightest analogy.Your premises are false, Monsieur Gregoire. This organisation at Monte Carlo is simply a soulless machine for the making of money by exploiting one of the baser passions of men. I and my brother—I freely confess it—have been parts of that machine for years. But you know the sad event"—his voice trembled a little—"which opened our eyes. We said to each other, 'If our hopes in life have all been utterly swept away in an instant by the Casino at Monte Carlo, how many other homes have been ruined, young lives sacrificed, prospects blighted?' A soldier who assists to exterminate, or, at any rate, to harass and injure a dangerous and unfriendly tribe of savages is generally looked upon as doing a fine and meritorious thing. Nor does he disdain to take the pay of his country for so doing. You and Monsieur Deschamps will be in exactly the same case. You will be seriously injuring the Casino. It may be that when the idea is developed roulette will become impossible, though that is only a side issue, and also—here you must listen to me carefully—you are not proposing to obtain a large sum of money for the meregratification of low pleasures, to acquire a soulless ease and comfort. You have invented something which will be of the highest benefit to mankind. Want of fortune alone prevents you conferring that benefit upon the world. As inventors, it is your duty—at least, so it appears to me—to take advantage of the opportunity which the genius of Monsieur Deschamps has provided. No one will be hurt except people who can well afford to suffer."
His voice had gathered strength as he went on, and as he concluded there was an almost prophetic note in it, a gravity and seriousness of conviction which had an instant effect upon Basil Gregory's wavering mind.
He thought for a minute, and then looked up.
"So be it," he said. "You have convinced me, though I will say I was ready enough to be convinced. We will try it. Like all other gamblers, we will risk everything upon a single throw."
As if by common consent, they all rose to their feet.
"And now," said Brother Charles, who hadhitherto been silent, "let us form ourselves into a committee of ways and means."
Deschamps' face grew pale. "Mon Dieu!" he cried, "fool that I am! I have been carried away by the splendour of the prospect, and have forgotten the most essential fact of all. Our friends here"—he was speaking to Basil—"can prepare the wheel with my assistance. But how about the apparatus, which, as you know, is costly enough for ordinary purposes? The particular apparatus I shall want with all our own modifications and specialities will cost about five thousand francs. And then there is the getting to Monte Carlo, the putting up at an expensive hotel to avoid suspicion—for the Administration has its spies and detectives everywhere. It may be necessary to bribe, a thousand emergencies may occur, which only money can overcome."
He dived one hand into the pocket of his trousers, and withdrew four coins. He flung them on the floor with a curse.
"Three francs fifty!" he cried; "three francs fifty! Basil, I am a fool and a dreamer! You can preserve your morality unspotted, after all!"
Basil looked blankly at his friend, who was now limp with an almost ferocious dejection and self-contempt. He nodded slowly.
"Same old thing," he said; "we ought to have expected it. We are stumped, old chap, for want of three or four hundred pounds."
An odd hissing noise, like the escape of steam from a very small pipe, recalled him to his surroundings. The brothers Carnet were regarding the two young men with pity. "Ah!" said Brother Charles, almost wringing his hands, "What fools these men of genius are, Edouard! Messieurs! Messieurs! my brother and I will, of course, provide the funds. Haven't we already told you that we are quite well-to-do for people in our position? You will draw on us for any money you may require. Nor must you spare the francs. This is a great affair, conduct it greatly, and you will earn our undying gratitude."
Once more the volatile Deschamps was transformed from limp dejection to painful excitability. He leapt at both the little men, and embraced each in turn. He called down blessings upon their heads, and then, in an instant,assumed the manner of a calm business-like man.
He took a fountain-pen and an envelope from his pocket.
"You will, of course, take whatever proportion of our winnings you think fit, gentlemen," he said, "and as far as the amount of the winnings is concerned, you have only to say the word. It will be as well to make a note of the terms at once, and we will have a proper agreement drawn out."
The Carnets looked at Basil Gregory as much as to say, "What a hopeless person this Southerner is!" Basil, far quicker than Deschamps to understand the odd little men, changed the subject at once. "Never mind about that now, Emile," he said. "Our friends have very kindly offered to advance the money necessary for the great coup. We had now better go into other details, so as not to lose time. Financial affairs can be arranged later."
Deschamps nodded. "Very well, then," he said, "let us recapitulate what is absolutely necessary to be done, immediately. In the first place, you and I must give up our positions at the Société Générale."
Basil started at this. "Is that really necessary?" he asked. "Couldn't we get leave?"
Deschamps shook his head. "I feel almost sure they won't give us leave," he said. "We are only members of the rank and file, remember. But 'nothing venture, nothing have,'—we must resign."
"Very well," Basil replied, "we will give them notice to-morrow." But as he said it he had a curious heart-pang as he thought of Ethel, and that, if anything went wrong, he must resign for ever any hopes of calling her his own.
"Now, about experiments and the construction of the apparatus," Deschamps continued. "We must have a workshop, to begin with."
"This is at your service," the brothers said eagerly.
Deschamps bowed. "A thousand thanks," he said. "Nothing could be better fitted for the purpose. Here we shall be absolutely secret. You have a forge and many appliances which will be useful. To-morrow I must buy other machinery and certain tools. Fortunately you have the electric light here, and I can tap one ofthe plugs for all the current that I shall require for experimental purposes."
Basil snapped his fingers as if an idea had just come to him. "By Jove, Emile!" he said, "how on earth shall we manage at Monte Carlo? We cannot work with batteries. First of all, we could never get them into the hotel without being seen, and even if we did, we shouldn't have enough power."
"You don't know the Principality," Emile answered. "All the hotels have the completest installation of electric light possible. It will be the simplest thing to tap one of the mains and connect it with our new portable transformer. We can get exactly what current we require."
"Good," Basil said, realising how deeply his friend had gone into the technical side of the great coup.
Edouard Carnet spoke. "If you will come here to-morrow at midday," he said, "having already resigned your posts at the Société Générale, I will have drawn a sufficient sum of money from the bank to enable you to make all necessarypurchases. Then we can go ahead as fast as we like."
"But don't forget this, brother," Charles Carnet interposed, "our new wheels must be dispatched to Monaco. As a matter of fact, they are expecting them immediately, but a telegram saying that we require another fortnight will put that right. We have had to take a little extra time before now, during the past years. A fortnight, however, is as much grace as we shall be able to get and preserve our friendly relations with the Administration. Will you be able to do all that is necessary in the construction of the apparatus within a fortnight?"
"It will be quick work," Deschamps replied, "but it can be done. My friend and myself can construct the necessary apparatus for sending the waves, and we can also, with your co-operation, prepare the wheel and tune the slots for the reception of the vibrations."
Then Basil spoke. "Look here, Emile," he said, "a thought strikes me. Of course, I don't know anything about the Casino, and I have never been to the South of France, but won't it lookstrangely suspicious if we win day by day at the same table? Won't they change the wheel?"
"That is exactly what they will do, monsieur," Edouard Carnet replied to him. "Of course, when a man wins a large sum at one table he always goes to the same table to play. It is his lucky table. But there was a case some years ago when a little syndicate of players—by means of the most careful calculations—noticed that the wheel of the table where they made their game had a slight bias. They traded on the fact for several days, and won an enormous sum of money. It was one of our wheels, but there must have been a flaw in the wood, or we had not allowed for the expansion of the metal, owing to the greater heat of the South. At any rate, as a result, the wheels have been constantly changed ever since."
"Then, how can we carry out our plan?" Basil asked.
"The wheels are not taken away entirely," Edouard went on; "they are simply changed from table to table. The prepared wheel will have some distinguishing mark by which you will knowit. We must think that out; it must be some very slight thing—a knot in the wood, a mere scratch on the outside, would do."
A dry little chuckle came from Brother Charles.
"We are getting on! We are getting on!" he said, with a grotesque mirth. "My brother, what is to prevent us preparing three wheels? They should be 'tuned'—as Monsieur Deschamps calls it—exactly alike. Each will be marked in some way, so that our friends can distinguish them from the unprepared wheels. There are twelve roulette wheels in all used in the Salle des Jeux."
"Bien!" Edouard replied; "your brain moves quickly. By this means our friends will be able to move from table to table as they wish."
"And I would suggest," Deschamps broke in, "that we do not play for more than a week in all. In a week's time we shall be able to win an enormous sum of money, without unduly exciting suspicion. Great runs of luck, I have observed, generally last for about seven or eight days. If, as Monsieur Charles suggests, we movefrom table to table, a week should be sufficient. We can go away with enormous sums, and no one will be any the wiser."
"And another thing," Edouard Carnet said, "which of you is going to be the actual operator of the telegraphic instrument, and which the player at the tables?"
"Oh, I'd much better play," Deschamps answered, "and Basil work the instrument."
Both the Carnets shook their heads at this.
"No," they said together, "that will be unwise. Monsieur Gregoire is typically English. It is always best for a foreigner to make these great coups. Moreover, the luck of the English and the Americans is proverbial. Monsieur Gregoire must be thought an English millionaire. No one thinks it strange when a millionaire wins another million! But, to safeguard the future, it would be as well that monsieur were disguised."
Basil shook his head. "Disguised!" he cried. "Oh, I don't like that idea at all!"
"It is necessary," Edouard Carnet said firmly; "but all that you have to do, monsieur, is to shave off that blonde moustache, darken your skin alittle, and wear pince-nez. It is only ordinary caution, after all. When you return with the spoils of war and grow your moustache again, nobody will ever connect you with the winner of millions upon the Côte d'Azur."
"And I have another idea," twittered Brother Charles, his little face beaming with joy. "Monsieur Deschamps shall go to Monte Carlo as the valet of Monsieur Gregoire. It will all seem so natural—the assiduous valet, the heavy luggage, which the man-servant must guard! You see it?"
The situation struck Basil as humorous. He threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Emile," he said.
Deschamps entered into the spirit of the thing. "Bien, monsieur," he answered.
"Sit down at the table and teach me the rules of the game of roulette!"
Two men sat alone in a first-class compartment of the Riviera train-de-luxe.
The night before the most luxurious train in Europe had left the Gare de Lyon at Paris. The night had been bitterly cold, and as the vast machine swung out of the station all the suburbs of Paris and, indeed, the plains of mid-France, were seen through the dark windows of the corridors to be covered with a white sprinkling of snow.
A special carriage was reserved for a Monsieur Montoyer and his valet, and the two persons mentioned upon the ticket had spent the whole night in the luxurious cabin, with its beds and little tables, talking earnestly.
Monsieur Charles Edouard Montoyer was an athletic, burly looking young man, dressed in the height of French fashion, clean-shaved, dark-complexioned, and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles,which only partially concealed a pair of blue eyes which seemed oddly at variance with his otherwise Southern appearance. His hair also was a dead black, and in certain lights it had an almost metallic lustre.
The valet presented no very extraordinary appearance, except that he seemed markedly intelligent and alert. His black hair was closely cropped to a large and well-shaped head. His complexion was of the true Southern swarthy tint, glowing out below the skin, as it were. He wore a small black moustache, and the long first finger of his right hand was deeply stained with the juice of cigarettes.
Once, about an hour after the start, the valet went to the restaurant car, and brought back two bowls of soup, and a bottle of Pomard, explaining to the waiter who gave them that his master was very hungry and one tureen would be insufficient. But when the door of the sleeping-car was locked, the blinds looking on the corridor drawn down, the table set, and all the electric lights switched on, a spectator—had there been one there—would have seen with some surprise that master and manshared the meal equally. And perhaps he would have thought it a touching testimony of the theoretical equality of Republican France that master and man addressed each other by their Christian names.
In short, the great enterprise was begun, Basil and Emile, their apparatus made, their plan of campaign concluded, were roaring and crashing through France to the fairy-like shores of the Mediterranean.
It was now close upon nine o'clock in the morning. The blinds of the sleeping-car were still drawn upon the corridor side, but the two men were dressed. Their hand luggage was strapped and they were smoking cigarettes.
"In a moment more, Basil," said Emile, his voice trembling with excitement, "in a moment more you shall have your first vision of the South! I would not let you look before and, indeed, as we went through Avignon it was too dark to see much, but Marseilles—my beloved native city—is the Gate of the South. You will see little of it, as within an hour we shall be pulling out again for the Côte d'Azur, but you will seesomething; you will at least breathe the enchanted air!"
Deschamps' voice was most powerfully affected. For a moment he had forgotten the enterprise entirely. He was only consumed with an over-mastering eagerness that his dearest friend and partner should breathe with him that subtle, intoxicating air, and realise for the first time in his life what the South means.
There was a long grinding of the brakes, and the train stood still. Emile drew up the blinds, opened the door into the corridor, and led Basil to the end of the car. Then they stepped down to the low platform.
They had left Paris in sullen bitter winter weather. Here, early as it was, the sun was shining brilliantly in the cool, quiet station. Exactly facing them was a huge stall of flowers, masses of purple violets, delicate ivory-coloured roses from Grasse, the pale golden plumes of the mimosa.
But the air! the air was the thing! So warm and sweet it was, it came upon them with such a veritable caress, it so bathed them with golden light and sweet odours, that tears started intoDeschamps' eyes, and Basil forgot his disguise.
"How wonderful! how wonderful!" he said in English, breathing like a man who had been stifled all his life.
And that was their first glimpse of the enchanted country to which they had come.
Through all the morning until mid-afternoon the train moved, slowly and sleepily now, through scenes of loveliness such as the Englishman, at any rate, had never dreamed of. Everywhere the Mediterranean gleamed like an immense sapphire, flecked here and there with white fire. The low cliffs of sandstone were crimson. The sky was an inverted bowl of glowing turquoise, and everywhere tall, feathery palms were silhouetted against it in brilliant green. And there were flowers, flowers everywhere! Every station with its familiar name was full of flowers—Grasse, Cannes, Nice, Villefranche—there were flowers everywhere; flowers, exotic trees, and great white hotels that gleamed jewel-like in terrace after terrace from the sea till they were lost in the high places of the Maritime Alps.
And then—at last—Monaco, a few tunnels cutin the cliffs, and the long, low station of Monte Carlo at last!
During the whole period of the slower journey along the seashore Basil Gregory's excitement had been gradually growing. He and Deschamps had talked but little, but both of them had been obsessed by the great idea that they were getting nearer and nearer to the world-famous theatre of their colossal enterprise.
Monte Carlo! Monte Carlo! The words had beaten themselves into a rythm in Basil's brain, a rythm in tune with the regular pulsing of the engine.
They were to stay at the Hôtel Malmaison, for the brothers Carnet had insisted that the two young men should lack nothing, and that Basil should appear to be a person of great wealth and consequence. There was to be no hole-and-corner business about the great coup. Suspicion was to be averted by every possible means. "Il fait aller en regal," Brother Charles had insisted, and so it was to be. Rooms had been engaged in advance, a sitting-room and bedroom for Monsieur Charles Edouard Montoyer, and a bedroom forhis valet. It had been stipulated, however, that the valet's bedroom should be at the very top storey of the hotel, as that personage suffered from asthma.
The Malmaison was only some four hundred yards from the station, and in consequence some three hundred from the Casino. They drove there in the waiting omnibus, however, and at five o'clock were installed in their rooms.
It was a little difficult to account for two large boxes among the luggage, of extraordinary heaviness, which were placed in the sitting-room of Monsieur Montoyer. But the ready Deschamps in his rôle of valet explained that monsieur was a great student, and always travelled with many books.
"I go now,mon ami" Emile said, "to my own room. All your clothes are unpacked. I must not stay here too long at present. I shall have to meet all the other servants and gossip with them, but I will come at seven to assist you to dress, and then we can make our plans."
Basil was left alone in the brightly furnished sitting-room. He looked down into a terracedgarden, brilliant still with the declining rays of the sun. Somewhere near by a band of guitars was playing accompanied by voices as sweet and passionate as they.
He strolled up and down the room thinking deeply. But it was not of the fairyland in which he found himself, it was not of the glories he was soon to witness, it was not even of the great hazard he was to try—the bold and reckless bid for fortune. It was of Ethel he was thinking.
About ten o'clock in the morning of the day on which Basil Gregory and Emile Deschamps had arrived at Monte Carlo, another train had pulled into the long low station on the Mediterranean shore.
This train was very different from the huge, luxurious machine that brought the adventurers to the City of Fortune earlier in the day. It was the ordinary slow train, the third class, not even arapide, and only a few second-class carriages were included in its make-up. Moreover, it had taken two whole days, and nights in its journey from Paris, being everywhere shunted aside for therapidesandtrains de luxeto pass through.
From this train of poorer people two English ladies, quietly dressed, and pale and stained with travel under none too pleasant conditions, had descended.
They were driven at once with their trunks to amodestpensionin the Rue Grimaldi in Monaco, and spent some hours in sleep.
Ethel McMahon had told her lover in Paris that she had obtained a fortnight's leave of absence from her school, had saved a little money, and was about to take her mother to Switzerland for a change of air.
Basil had accepted the statement implicitly, glad to hear that the girl he loved was to have a short respite from her labours, and, for his own part, finding that the proposed holiday would coincide with his own absence from Paris, he said nothing of his plans. So it had been arranged, and the two lovers were mutually ignorant of each other's purposes and without the slightest idea that they were bound for the same destination. Mrs. McMahon had absolutely refused to allow Ethel to communicate a word of their project to Gregory, and the girl was all the more ready because by now she was thoroughly infected with her mother's enthusiasm, and was absolutely convinced in her own mind that they were to gain a small fortune at the tables.
How splendid it would be to come to Basil andto tell him that they could be married at once! That funds for the launching of the great invention were forthcoming, that all was to end as happily as some old song!
About six o'clock Ethel went into her mother's room. The rest had refreshed her. Her eyes were glowing with excitement, and with her long hair falling over her dressing-gown she seemed the personification of radiant hope.
"Now, what are we to do, mother?" she said excitedly. "How do you feel?"
The older woman was seated in the one arm-chair the little bedroom of thepensionboasted, and was anxiously scrutinising a bundle of faded papers covered with figures and bold masculine handwriting.
"It is certain, Ethel!" she said. "I have been going through your father's figures for the hundredth time. I am sure it can't fail. You know he only invented this particular system just before he died, and we never had an opportunity to try it properly."
Ethel nodded. "I feel just as you do, mother, dear," she answered. "Itcan'tfail. But whatare we to do? Are you thoroughly rested?"
"I feel in better health," the old lady answered, "than I have felt for years. Excitement would keep me up if nothing else would, but, as it is, I have no trace of fatigue. What's the use of spending the evening in this dullpensionwith these third-rate people, for such of the guests as I have seen are rather a seedy-looking lot, and Madame de Bonville is just the ordinary Southern Frenchwoman who keeps a place of this sort? No! We will dress, have dinner, and take a cab to the Casino. There will be no difficulty about obtaining our tickets for this evening. We shall have to renew them each day, until we have been here for some time—if, indeed, it is necessary to remain here. After a week or two they give you a ticket for a month, but I don't suppose we shall need that."
"Then we are to begin to-night!" Ethel cried, a flush mounting in her cheeks and her voice ringing with anticipation.
The elder lady smiled. "We will not begin the system to-night," she answered. "That, I dothink, would be unwise. We will take a louis or two and get a place at one of the tables, if we can, and just see what happens. I want you to get accustomed to a scene which will seem extraordinarily strange to you. We will take it that we are merely reconnoitring this evening, and begin serious play upon the morrow. Dinner is at half-past seven, so go and prepare yourself, my child, and then come and help me."
Ethel left the room and crossed the passage to her own, singing for sheer lightness of heart. Already the beauty of the South had caught hold of her, and such glimpses of it as she had seen only intensified her mood. In her innocence she had not the slightest misgiving. She would have laughed to scorn anyone who had told her that there was a chance of losing the little unexpected capital that had come to them from the lottery.
Dinner at thepension de Bonvillewas the ordinary polyglot affair. An English major—no regiment specified—some stolid Germans, three shrill-voiced American girls, and some nondescript and rather haggard looking young men made upthe company. Doings at the Casino during the day were compared and discussed. The little cards, printed in red and black, which are provided by the Casino authorities for recording the play, and pricked each time the wheel is spun, were handed about, and in this atmosphere, so familiar to her in the past, old Mrs. McMahon seemed like a changed being. She talked with the rest, in English or fluent French; she was like some old war horse once more snuffling the breeze of battle, and Ethel was no less interested and entranced, though her knowledge of roulette—for none of thepensionnairesseemed to indulge in the more expensivetrente-et-quarante—was purely theoretical.
After dinner the major gallantly offered to escort the ladies to the Casino and to obtain their tickets. Shortly afterwards, muffled in opera cloaks, for between eight and nine is often the coldest hour of the day on the Riviera, the three walked up the steep, winding way towards the Palace of Chance.
A full moon hung in the sky; everywhere were brilliant illuminations; the air as it proved wasnot at all cold upon this night, but soft and odorous of flowers.
The gardens of the Casino were like enchantment to Ethel McMahon. It was indeed a scene from the "Arabian Nights." The tall palms clicked faintly in the breeze with a sound like distant castanets. The electric lights shone down upon enormous beds of flowers which everywhere studded the lawns. Faint music was heard on every side, and gaudily painted and luxurious automobiles flitted noiselessly along the polished roadways.
Here was the great Hôtel de Paris, its long façade glowing with colour, full of the wealthiest people in the world, dining very differently from the way in which the major and his new friends had dined in the Rue Grimaldi. Beyond, on the other side of the square, were the gardens of the Métropole, and the glass Café de Paris at its side winked and glittered like a gigantic topaz.
"That, my dear," said Mrs. McMahon, pointing to a modest looking restaurant in an arcade, "that is Ciro's."
Ethel's sense of humour was tickled by the calmpatronage of the information. She knew, of course, that she was looking upon the most famous restaurant in the whole world, but her mother's tone amused her.
And then, in a moment, she had no thought but one.
Before her was a magnificent building of white marble with many steps leading to a wide entrance, glistening against the background of dark sky, spangled with golden stars.
Mrs. McMahon clutched her daughter's arm. "There!" she said, almost in an awed whisper. "Now you see it for the first time. That is the Casino!"
For a moment all three were silent. The spirit of chance, the terrible fever of the gambler was in their blood, and even the tough old major, anhabituéof every gambling hell in Europe, shared for a moment the emotion of his companions as they surveyed the supreme Temple of Chance.
They went up the steps, Ethel alert to everything she saw, and turned into a long office to the left, rather more like a small bank than anything else.
Two or three civil, quickly glancing Frenchmen, in black frock coats, were standing in this room before the counter. Ethel was conscious of a quick all-embracing scrutiny from three pairs of dark eyes, she heard her name spoken in French by one of the officials, and shortly afterwards two purple cards, bearing the mystic words:
"Cercle des Etrangers,Valable pour un jour,"
and with their names written upon the back in thin clerkly script, were handed to them.
From there, into a vestibule where cloaks were exchanged for metal discs with a number upon them, and then in their evening frocks, but still wearing their hats, the two ladies passed with their cavalier into the Atrium.
The huge hall, with its galleries, marble columns and tesselated floor, its gleaming lights in the roof, and its little groups of people dotted here and there under the galleries or in the centre space, reminded Ethel of a dance she had once attended in England at the magnificent town hall of a great Northern city. Everyone was in evening dress,everyone talked animatedly, new arrivals kept constantly pouring in. But at one end of this enormous hall, where the huge marble pillars clustered more thickly, was a series of great swing doors of an abnormal height, doors which constantly opened noiselessly and closed again. And round the doors were innumerable officials in their long frock coats, standing there watching and waiting as the votaries of Chance pressed inwards to the very sanctum of the Temple.
Mrs. McMahon nodded. "Come, Ethel," she said in a voice that was positively hoarse with excitement, "the rooms are in there; let us go."
The two ladies walked up the long hall, presented their cards to an official who glanced at them and bowed, and then one of the great doors swung open and they entered. Although it was early yet, the rooms were fairly full.
Ethel found herself in an enormous salon of great height, and with a polished parquet floor. It resembled nothing so much as an immense ball-room in some royal palace. The walls were covered by huge pictures let into the gilded panelling, separated from each other by pilaster after pilasterof gold. The ceilings, also, where electric lights glowed brilliantly, were painted, and the general effect was one of almost overpowering magnificence. Beyond this huge salon she saw, under an immense archway, there was another and even larger one crossing it at right angles, and beyond that still another. The size and splendour of the place made her catch her breath and dazzled her eyes. "How wonderful!" she whispered to her mother.
Her next impression was that she was in some church! Despite the gorgeous decoration certainly not in the least ecclesiastical, the size and shape, the curious hush and silence that pervaded everything, helped the impression. There was only the very lowest murmur of conversation perceptible. Women in astonishingly gorgeous toilets, with gold purses hanging from their wrists by jewel-studded chains, moved slowly up and down the parquet floor with a rustling of skirts. The air was full of mingled perfume and suggested that odour of incense in a cathedral.
As all these impressions crowded into her mind, the girl's eyes became more used to thesurroundings, and she saw, at intervals under the high dome-like roof, long tables were set, each one as long as two billiard tables. There were four of them in this first salon, and many more stretched away in the vista of brilliance. The air was quite clear, nobody was smoking, and she could see everything very distinctly.
Around each table was a thick cluster of people, men and women, almost entirely hiding it from view.
She turned to the table nearest her.
Around it, without any intervals, people were sitting in chairs. Behind them stood other people, at some tables two deep. Above the tables were suspended huge lamps with green shades—like the lights over a billiard table, though not so brilliant.
"Why, they are oil lamps!" Ethel said in a low voice to her mother. "How strange and antiquated!"
Mrs. McMahon smiled.
"If they had electric lights immediately over the tables," she said, "or even gas, some of the gangs of bad characters who infest Monte Carlowould find means to cut the pipes or wires, and in the confusion anybody could take what money he pleased." She clutched her daughter's arm tightly. "Child," she said, in an impressive voice, "at any one of these tables at the present moment, lying about, unprotected, in notes and gold, there is at least fifty thousand pounds!"
At that moment the major drew their attention to the fact that at a table immediately ahead of them there was a little stir and movement.
A very tall and handsome young man had risen from his chair. His face was a little flushed and his eyes sparkled, while he tried in vain to conceal the smile of pleasure and excitement upon his lips. Several of the other people at this table, who all appeared to know him, rose also and began to congratulate him in low voices.
"That is the Archduke Theodore," the major said in a husky whisper. "He is a cousin of the Tsar. For the last week he has been winning enormous sums, and apparently he has done so again to-night. His pockets are simply bulging with notes!"
Mrs. McMahon looked significantly at Ethel.Then she saw her chance. "Come," she said, "we can sit down at this table. This is a very fortunate chance." They went to the table and found two chairs unoccupied, slipping into them quickly in the momentary diversion created by the Archduke's success, and for the first time Ethel McMahon sat actually a guest of the unknown goddess of Fortune, and about to woo her.
To the girl's unaccustomed eyes the scene was bewilderingly strange. The long expanse of green baize cloth stretched away on either side of her. It was marked with numbered squares and triangles, while at one end were two huge diamonds of red and black in either corner. She faced a row of people, men and women in correct evening costume, save that the women, like herself, wore the large hats which arede rigueurin the Casino. Jewels gleamed bewilderingly almost everywhere. Exactly opposite her was a woman who was simply plastered with diamonds, and yet next this gorgeous vision with the painted face and laughing eyes, with a king's ransom round her throat and in her hair, sat an elderly yellow-faced woman in a black dress and without a singleornament—more quietly and even shabbily dressed than Mrs. McMahon herself. There were two fresh-faced English boys, who looked like soldiers, there was an enormous black-bearded Bulgarian, with eyes like black velvet and hands like fat claws.
And all these people, on the green baize before them, had wads of notes or piles of gold, save only the old lady, before whom were only a few five-franc pieces—the minimum stake allowed at Monte Carlo.
And on the numbers themselves money was already beginning to be placed from every part of the table. Sometimes the people pushed it themselves on the chosen numbers, sometimes, when they were too far away, they gave it to one of the silent croupiers who sat round among the people and pushed the coins to the destined spot with their long india-rubber-tipped rakes.
Dividing the long table in the centre was the wheel itself, and the croupier in charge of it was already fingering the ivory ball. Behind him, on a higher seat, sat the official in charge of all the others engaged at this table, and from his lipscame the occasional croak of the famous "Faites vos jeux, messieurs: faites vos jeux."
Ethel had three golden louis in her purse. It was all the money that they had brought with them.
Her mother had told her that beginners nearly always won the first time they played—a very common superstition among gamblers, and one which, for some reason or other, seems to be amply justified.
"What shall I do, mother?"
"Do whatever you like," Mrs. McMahon answered quickly. "I mustn't influence you or it will spoil the luck."
Ethel hesitated, and as she did so the croupier swung the capstan and spun the ball.
A low, humming whirr broke the silence.
"Quick! quick!" whispered Mrs. McMahon, "make your stake or it will be too late."
Hardly knowing what she did, Ethel pushed her three louis on to the green cloth, and as she did so the ball began to rattle on the diamond-shaped pieces of silver at the side of the bowl, and the croupier called out sharply, "Rien ne va plus,"announcing that no more stakes could be put upon the table.
Ethel had pushed her three golden louis exactly upon the edge of the line which divided six numbers, from 13 to 18, unconsciously played what is called atransversale simple.
If any of these six numbers turned up she would win five times her original stake. And now—it all passed in a few seconds—the ball was rattling among the compartments, clicking like a pair of castanets. There was a final click as it fell into the slot, the croupier put out his finger and stopped the capstan, announcing the number—"Rouge—dix-huit!"
Red had turned up, but with that Ethel had no concern as she had not backed the colour, but 18 had won, though for a moment she did not realise it.
Then followed what to her was an extraordinary scene. The long rakes of the croupiers shot out from every part of the table, threading their way in and out among the masses of gold, silver and bank notes with extraordinary rapidity and the most delicate manipulation.
A small fortune was swiftly swept away into the bank until the table was comparatively bare. It was all done with the precision of a machine, without a single mistake, and hardly was it completed when the stakes of those who had won were being added to in a golden shower.
It takes a croupier at Monte Carlo a whole year to learn his business, but when he has learnt it no juggler upon the stage can provide a more startling exhibition. Coins flew from rapidly moving hands in a continuous stream, as if liquid gold was being squirted from a hose. No single coin rolled off its appointed square, but fell flat and motionless within an inch of the stake at which it was aimed. And now the rakes were pushing money towards the fortunate, not gathering it in any more, and, almost ere eager or indifferent hands had gathered up what Fortune had sent them, stakes were again being spread over the board for the next coup. To Ethel, who had not in the least known what had happened, there suddenly came a shower of gold falling just before her upon her original three louis.
She stared at it bewildered, and the big Bulgarian opposite smiled at her ignorance.
Not so Mrs. McMahon. "That is yours, Ethel," she said; "that is yours. You've won, after all." And as if in a dream the girl drew the glittering pile towards her. Fifteen louis, and her own three coins back again! Fifteen louis! More than thirteen English pounds—come to her as if by magic in less than a minute; her own, her very own to do as she liked with.
"I can't believe it!" she whispered to her mother. "It can't be true—all this—more than a quarter's salary in a minute!"
Old Mrs. McMahon was trembling with excitement, but there was triumph in her voice.
"My dear," she said, in those very tones of calm superiority which she had used when the lottery ticket had at last turned up trumps, "this is nothing. What did I tell you!"
"What shall I do now?" was Ethel's only answer. "Perhaps it would be better to do nothing."
Mrs. McMahon caught at the word with thetrue gambler's instinct. "My dear," she said, "put one of those louis upon zero."
There was a croupier three or four seats away from the girl. She leant forward, being now a little more accustomed to what she was doing, "Zero, s'il vous plait, monsieur," she said, tossing the coin to him.
"En plein, mademoiselle?" he asked.
Ethel turned to her mother. "What does he mean?" she said. Mrs. McMahon interposed. "Oui, en plein," she replied to the man. "You see, Ethel, it is rather unusual to stake a coin upon a single number, because you have thirty-five chances against you. Most people do what you did just now—cover several numbers and be content with smaller winnings. But you said 'nothing,' and it may be an omen."
Again the ball spun, and now, in full consciousness of what was happening, Ethel knew excitement so fierce and keen, so utterly overpowering and absorbing, that it burned within her like a flame, and frightened her by its intensity.
Her coin was the only one upon zero, which is the bank's number, for when it turns up all thestakes upon the board are taken by the bank, except those placed upon red or black, or the other even chances.
Dame Fortune was very kind to-night, for with a slight emphasis the croupier at the wheel called out "Zero," and several people within her vicinity turned to look with envy or amusement, as the case might be, at the beautiful girl who had alone staked upon the big white "O."
They paid her in notes this time, and Mrs. McMahon leant back in her chair with a gasp. "Fool! Fool that I was," she whispered, her hands clasping and unclasping themselves. "You had the money; you might have put on the maximum of nine louis, and you would have won, my dear, you would have won, and you would have won 6,300 francs—£252!"
"But, mother," Ethel whispered back, "I have won seven hundred francs already, and three hundred with the first spin, that is a thousand francs—almost my year's salary at the school!"
"You have been very fortunate" said the old lady. "And now let us go."
"Let us go, mother? No, look; they arebeginning to spin again. Let me try once more?"
Mrs. McMahon gathered up the gold and crisp notes of the Bank of France and placed them in her chain purse.
"My dear," she replied, "I am almost as keen as you are to go on, but let us be content with our great good fortune. We shall have all the more money to play with when we begin upon the system to-morrow."
They vacated their seats, which were immediately occupied by people who had been standing behind them, and moved slowly through the great hall towards the doors. By this time the rooms were thronged with people of all nationalities.
The wealthiest millionaires of London, Paris and Vienna rubbed shoulders with well-dressed scoundrels known to the police of all three capitals. There was a reigning king present—a tall, elderly man with a long white beard—half the nobilities of Europe were represented. The most expensive and extravagant toilets to be found anywhere in the world at that hour were seen on either side, and yet there was a proportion ofthe players as poor in worldly goods as Ethel McMahon and her mother themselves; retired army men in whom the gambling fever burned and would burn until their death, young spendthrifts who had come to spend their all upon a last chance, financial defaulters who hoped by one smile of the goddess Fortune to restore money which was not theirs, and to yet preserve their honour in the eyes of the world.
And through this motley and brilliant crowd—the strangest crowd in Europe, in the strangest place—Ethel and her mother moved as if in a dream.
In the mind of the old lady a fierce and feverish greed flared like a naphtha lamp. In the mind of the girl there was but one thought, crystallised into a name—Basil! Basil! Basil!
They were near the end of the last salon and coming up to the long swing doors when Ethel started violently and half stopped.
Standing at one of the tables, within two or three yards of her, was a tall, well-built man in evening dress. His back was towards her, and there was something so absolutely familiar in theshoulders, the poise of the stranger, that she gasped.
For a moment she thought she saw Basil Gregory again—dear Basil, who was far away at the electric light works in Paris.
Then the stranger made a half turn. He was clean shaved, his complexion was swarthy, his hair was black. He was dressed also in the height of the French fashion.
No! It was not Basil, though even now there was something strangely reminiscent of her lover to the girl's eyes.
With a sigh, she passed out of the Atrium with her mother. They got their cloaks and walked slowly down the hall to the Condamine. The air was "all Arabia." A huge moon rode high in the heavens and washed the Mediterranean with silver. The flowers of the gardens sent forth an overpowering perfume—the night was sweet and dear.
"Basil! Basil! Basil!"
" ... To-morrow, my dear, we will get properly to work on the system. To-morrow!"
It was six o'clock on the following evening.
In a tiny room high up in the Hôtel Malmaison, above the servants' quarters, and on the roof, indeed—for the valet of Monsieur Montoyer was asthmatic and must breathe the freshest air possible—Emile Deschamps was standing.
The blinds were drawn, the room was lit by candles stuck in bottles, and presented the air more of a workshop than a bedroom.
The bed was littered with pliers, coils of insulated wire, strips of thin india-rubber, and a tube of vulcanised paste for making joints. Upon a large mahogany table close to the window stood a complicated apparatus.
At one end there was a battery of Leyden jars, then came the intricate induction coil upon a polished stand, its brass terminals glittering in the light of the candles. Beyond was the interrupter magnet and beyond that again the stout "seven-sixteens" wire which led to the electric lightcasing in the wall, where the hotel current had been tapped to take the place of a dynamo.
Upon that part of the table where the interrupter magnet was, there was an apparatus which in some degree resembled the keyboard of a typewriter. No letters were on these keys however. They bore numbers only, from one to thirty-six, with the addition of a nought to represent zero.
Deschamps, in list slippers, was walking nervously up and down the room. Perspiration shone upon his face. His eyes had a fixed introspective stare. He was obviously in a state of the highest possible tension.
Up and down the room he paced, like some caged animal, and every now and again he rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled a few whiffs of pungent blue smoke, and threw it away. Now and then he poured himself out a cup of strong coffee from a littlecafetièrewhich stood upon the mantelshelf. On the hearth burned a small glowing fire of the mountain wood and fir cones which are used upon the Riviera, and beside it stood a soldering "iron" of copper, a file, and a bottle of zinc chloride solution.
Deschamps looked at his watch.
"Basil is late," he muttered to himself, mopping his brow as he did so with a very dingy handkerchief. "Mon Dieu, if only this were over!"
He resumed his walk, thinking deeply, checking off each incident of the great adventure, the great fight of science against the precautions and wariness of the most complete and cunning organisation in Europe.
The plans of the partners had been altered and modified. As the preparations continued in Paris and the scheme was discussed a thousand times, and with an infinity of detail which crystallised more and more into definiteness, the most important thing that was at length determined on—and the Carnet brothers had been in thorough agreement—was that play should only last for one night. The confederates had thought that phenomenal winnings, protracted over two or three days, would inevitably give rise to suspicion. These suspicions would, in all human probability, be absolutely wide of the real mark. But, at any rate, they would be certain to result in the wheel at the table where Monsieur Charles EdouardMontoyer made his colossal coups being changed for another.
It was resolved, therefore, that Basil should play, with the aid of the unseen electric influences, for one evening only. The whole thing had been worked out, and it had been found that it would be easy, if nothing went wrong, for him to win an enormous sum even within a few hours. Directly that was accomplished Deschamps would pack his apparatus and return to Paris. Basil would remain at Monte Carlo for a few days and venture a few small sums to avoid suspicion. After that he would rejoin his friend.
There was a low knock at the door, an interval of silence, and then five more distinct taps.
Deschamps knew that Basil was without, and he quietly unlocked the door and let in his friend.
Basil, tall, foreign looking, and in the most scrupulously chosen evening dress, entered the dingy little bedroom with its litter of machinery and tools. The door was locked behind him and the partners were alone together.
Deschamps started. "Mon Dieu!" he said, "yoursang froidis admirable. You are—how doyou call it?—cool as a cucumber.Froid comme un concombre.Look at me; I tremble all over,moi!"
Basil shrugged his shoulders. "What is the use?" he said briefly. "I have been nervous enough up to the present, but now the moment has arrived I have justgotto keep cool. The biggest strain is on me, and if I fail now all our plans are over and it means"—he threw out his hands with a foreign gesture—"well, we won't talk of what it means."
"You are marvellous!" said the excitable little Frenchman. "You have no tremor, no compunction."
Basil shook his head. "I am strung up to go through with it," he answered, "and take what comes—fortune or prison. As for compunction, it seems to me a good deed to rob the proprietors of this hell if one can, considering all the stories I have heard during the few hours I have been here, and the evil passions I have seen displayed on all sides. And, moreover, we do it for the sake of science, to confer an inestimable benefit on the world!"
"Bien," Deschamps answered. "Now, have you got the card absolutely safe? Let's compare it with mine for the last time."
From out of his pocket Basil drew an oblong slip of card. Upon it, written in a cypher invented by himself and Deschamps, in which they had perfected themselves during the last week or two, were a series of numbers. Above each number was marked the time—9:5, 9:15, etc., etc.
They went through the cards together finding them to correspond in every detail.
"And now for the watches," said Deschamps. From a kit bag in the corner of the room he produced a leather case, containing two handsome gold chronometers. "I have kept them there until now," he said, "in order that they might not become magnetised by the electric work I have been doing."
With the utmost care and nicety he adjusted the timepieces so that they did not vary, one from the other, by a single second. Then he gave one chronometer to Basil, and returned the other to the portmanteau.
"I have been playing all the day," Basil said,"with the hundred and fifty louis we reserved for that. Sometimes I lost, sometimes I won. But I spread my money about with supreme indifference. Always I put down a maximum stake, and I played upon a number. Of course, I lost many times, but I am sure I gave the desired impression to the croupiers at our table where the marked wheel is, that I was a wealthy gambler indifferent as to whether I won or lost. Towards the end I had a stroke of luck. I had put nine louis on 7, and 7 turned up. So that I won 6,300 francs. I had heard that the rule forbidding all tips to the croupiers had been recently abrogated; so that I feed the men in my neighbourhood magnificently. I shall get a seat at our table all right if I am punctual when the Casino opens for the evening play."
"And what are you going to do now?" Emile asked anxiously. "Will you stay here with me?"
"I don't think so,mon ami," Basil returned. "We have worked out every possible detail. The more we talk about it, the more nervous we shall become. I shall go to my room, have a little fish and a single glass of wine, and then stroll roundthe gardens in the fresh night air until it is time to go in." He held out his hand. "Good luck, old fellow!"
Deschamps grasped it and nodded, too full of emotion and excitement to answer.
Then Gregory quietly left the room and descended to his own.
As he walked down the passage he heard the click of the lock being shot into its place and knew that Deschamps would be alone with his machinery till midnight.
Into the glittering rooms Basil Gregory strolled.
He had left the Hôtel Malmaison but five minutes before. The metal check for his light coat and opera hat was in his waistcoat pocket, and as he walked slowly up the Atrium, smoking a cigarette, he seemed—even in an environment where some of the most important people in the world congregate—a very distinguished person indeed.
As he came up to the doors quick-eyed officials in their black frock coats—carrion-crows people have called them—made their bows and pushed open one of the great cedar portals.
Already the word had gone round that this tall and cool gentleman was an unknown millionaire, who was pleased to amuse himself for an hour or two at the tables.
Basil entered. People were still dining. The rooms were full—they always are full—but of theordinary and hungry crowd who do little more than venture a few francs, and hardly dare take a chair at any table when one is vacant.
Basil sauntered up to the right hand table in the large central salon. Some people call this table the "suicides' table," others give that sinister designation to another. Be that as it may, Basil found a chair and sat down—on the left of the croupier who spins the wheel and his colleague who sits behind him on a higher chair and directs the whole operations of the table.
Basil sat down, took out his watch and placed it upon the space of green baize before him. Then he drew twenty or thirty gold coins from his pocket, and a couple of five hundred franc notes.
The official who sat above the man who turned the wheel smiled down at the newcomer. It was a slack time. The table was half deserted, the rush of the diners had not yet begun.
Basil took out his cypher card and placed it carefully behind a little rampart of gold coins.
The croupier spun, and before the "Rien ne va plus" was uttered Basil had shoved his usual maximum of nine louis upon number 3—sitting ashe did close to the wheel which divided the two long tables.
Twenty-eight turned up. Basil saw his money raked away, with the few other stakes that were adventured, with a broad smile.
No one could possibly have noticed the quick glance he gave at his watch. But that glance signified to him that for the next five minutes number "11" would be certain to win.
He put the maximum upon number 11.
He glanced again at his watch, as the croupiers began to croak their "Faites vos jeux" and gazed moodily round the table, which was now beginning to fill up. At that moment—a supreme moment to him—he was conscious of no particular emotion at all.
When asked about it afterwards by a certain intimate friend he always said, "Really, I felt nothing whatever."
The weary yellow-faced slave of the wheel did his duties.
All the money upon the table, at that moment, was upon even chances, upon the dozens, thetransversales, or the columns. No single personhad played direct upon a number—a thirty-five to one chance.
The big triangles of red and black at the far end of the table were both piled with gold and notes, the borders of several numbers were covered with adventurous stakes.
There was a swift "click" as the ball went home.
Number 11 had turned up.
Basil Gregory had the impulse to rise from his seat and go striding up and down those glittering halls, hugging his secret, spurning those other players who knew nothing.
Everything had occurred exactly as he had planned with Emile Deschamps. At the precise moment arranged between them the wireless message had come to the spinning ball and it had fallen, as it was directed, obedient to the unseen and unsuspected powers of science.
He drew towards him six thousand three hundred francs—two hundred and fifty two English pounds!
He looked at his watch again. The next slot in the wheel that was to be magnetised was 33. Butit was not yet time. It had been arranged that he was to lose occasionally in order to divert suspicion.
He placed the maximum of nine louis upon zero. To his consternation, zero won. Again he received the enormous sum of six thousand and odd francs. He leant back in his chair, outwardly indifferent and calm, but throbbing in every nerve and pulse with wild excitement. It was true then!
A few hundred yards away, in the little bedroom on the roof, Emile Deschamps was pressing key after key with absolute precision. And as he pressed the little spinning ball, flung from the hand of the croupier, must perforce obey the invisible power that vibrated through the air.
That he had won upon zero—when he meant to lose—seemed only a minor incident in the riot of his progress.
The one man in the crowded halls of that palace—the one and only man—who could control Fortune herself, he sat there outwardly cold and impassive, while his mind and nerves were torn and wrenched as by opposing forces.
He was now more than five hundred pounds to the good, and as yet he had only played one coup of the many agreed upon by the secret code.
Already the people at the table were glancing at each other and at the impassive young man who staked a maximum each time, and had already won twiceen plein—so unprecedented a thing to do.
He was a Russian prince, it was whispered. His French was so perfect—though it was not absolutely the French of a Frenchman—that the whispering people round the table thought he could be none other than a Russian. That he was English never occurred to anyone, for no Englishman speaks French as Basil Gregory spoke it.
The wheel was turning again, and everyone watched to see what the unperturbed figure by the croupier would do.
This time, with a glance at his cypher card, and also at his watch, Basil backed red and not a number.
Each number in the wheel has its corresponding colour, red or black, and it was as easy for him to win on an even chance as it was upon a chanceof thirty-five to one. He backed red, and, far away at the top of the Hôtel Malmaison, Emile Deschamps pressed the key which magnetised the slot 18 in the wheel upon the green table—18 being a red number.
Basil placed the maximum upon red—that is, two hundred and forty pounds.
Red turned up. He had now won nearly eight hundred pounds, and round his chair were grouped a crowd of people three feet deep.
People were flocking from other tables, drawn by that nameless unknown mental telegraphy which tells the whole Casino when big wins are being made.
The whole of the great rooms became electric with an atmosphere of excitement. There was not a sound as the people thronged to Basil's table—at Monte Carlo the greatest successes, the most disastrous failures, happen in silence.
But, in that tense atmosphere, there was more than sound—there was a pressing together and focussing of human minds, converging upon one spot to witness the battle.
"Faites vos jeux, messieurs."
"Le jeu est fait."
"Rien ne va plus."
A rattle, a hushed silence—the player who had put a maximum of nine louis upon number 13 had lost!
Men and women nodded and whispered, whispered and nodded. "Monsieur's luck was about to change,n'est-ce 'pas?" "It is not going to be a big run after all,hein?"
Once more the wheel spun.
Monsieur, with extraordinary daring, placed the maximum upon 6.
Six turned up.
In front of Basil Gregory was a pile of gold, still more important and significant a bundle of crinkled blue and white notes.
He took the notes up with cool deliberation, folded many of them, and put them into the breast pocket of his coat, stretched out his hand, and put the maximum upon black.
"Noir, dix-neuf," the croupier croaked, and another two hundred and forty pounds was pushed over by the rakes to add to Basil's store.
By this time almost everyone at the table was playing as Basil played.
If he staked upon an 8, the number was plastered and covered with gold and notes.