BOOK TWO The Story of Hugh

CHAPTER ONE THE UNHAPPIEST LAD IN LONDON

1.

THE woman he used to call aunty kept a rooming house on Balmoral Circus, and the boy’s earliest memories were of domestic drudgery. He cleaned boots until nearly midnight, smudging with grimy knuckles his sleepy eyes. He slept in a cupboard at the rear of the hall, along with dirty brushes, smelly dusters and lymphatic cock-roaches. As he grew taller he learned to make beds and to take care of the rooms. Aunty nagged at him continually and he had to dodge occasional blows.

She was an unwieldy woman with a tart tongue and tight varnished hair. Every afternoon she would put on a battered bonnet and go forth for what she called “a breff of fresh air.” She would return about five, smelling of gin and very affable. He preferred her cuffs to her kisses.

Uncle would come home at a quarter past six. He was a French-cleaner, a monosyllabic man who loved his pipe. One evening he broke his stoic silence.

“Missis, it’s time that boy ’ad some schoolin’.”

“Schoolin’! the ideer! And tell me ’oo’s goin’ to do the work of this ’ouse while he’s wastin’ ’is time over a lot o’ useless ’istry an’ jography?”

“I tell you, missis, he’s got to have some eddication. He’s goin’ on for nine now and knows next to nothin’.”

“Well, you know wot it means. It means payin’ some lazy slut of a ’ouse-maid sixteen bob a month.”

“Well, and why can’t you pay it out of that five ’undred pounds ’is mother gave you to look after ’im?”

“’Eaven ’ear the man! And ’aven’t I looked after ’im? ’Aven’t I earned all she gave me? ’Aven’t I bin a second muvver to ’im? Didn’t I nurse ’er like a sister, and ’er dyin’ of consumption? There ain’t many ’as would ’ave done wot I did.”

The difficulty of his education, however, was solved by the second-floor back, Miss Pingley, who undertook to give him lessons for two hours every day. She was the cousin of a clergyman and excessively genteel, so that his manners improved under her care.

Once he began to read his imagination was awakened. More than ever he hated the sordid life around him. He began to think seriously of running away, and would no doubt have done so, had not Uncle again intervened. One evening the silent man laid down his pipe.

“I’ve got a job for the boy, Missis. He begins work on Monday.”

“Wot!”

“I say get a gel for the work. That lad’s goin’ into business on Monday.”

“Well, I never!”

“Yes, Gummage and Meek, the cheese people. You ’ear, Hugh?”

“Yes, Uncle. Thank you, Uncle.”

Aunty began to make a fuss, but Uncle promptly told her to shut up. As for the boy the thought of getting away from dust pans and slop pails was like heaven to him; so the following Monday, with beating heart, he presented himself at the office of Gummage and Meek.

2.

Mr. Ainger, the cashier, sat on his high stool, and looked down at a slim lad, twisting a shabby cap. Mr. Ainger was a tall man of about fifty, his hair grey, his face fine and distinguished. It was said that in his spare time he wrote.

“Well, my boy,” he said kindly, “what do you call yourself?”

“Hugh Kildair.”

The gaze of Mr. Ainger became interested. He noted the dark eyes that contrasted so effectively with the light wavy hair, the sensitive features, the fine face stamped with race. Centuries of selection, he thought, had gone to the making of that face.

“A romantic name. So, my boy, you are making a start with us. I don’t know that it’s what you would choose if you had any say in the matter. Probably, you’d rather have been a corsair or a cowboy. I know I would at your age. However, very few of us are lucky enough to do the things we’d like to do. Life’s a rotten muddle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, my young friend, I do not know if the horizon of your ambition is bounded by cheese, if it inspires you with passion, with enthusiasm. Still you might have made a worse choice. You might have been in oils and varnishes, for instance, or soap. Imagine handling those compared with that exquisite ivory curd—transmuted by bovine magic from the dew and daisies of the field. I tell you there’s romance in cheese; there’s even poetry. I’m sure a most charming book could be written about it. Pardon me, but you’re not by any chance thinking of writing a book about cheese, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. Now I think of it I might as well do it myself,—a whimsical Belloc-sort of book with glimpses of many lands. But there. Let us return to the subject of your future. All I can say is: Do your best; we’ll do the rest. Now go; and believe me, our discriminating gaze is upon you.”

In the years that followed, although he saw little of Mr. Ainger, he was conscious of a protective and sympathetic eye. As for the work he did not dislike it. It was pleasant in the cool gloom of the warehouse where cheeses of all shapes and colours made strange lights and shadows. He had more liberty too, than he would have had in the office. He was able to make pen and ink sketches of his companions in his spare moments. At the end of every month he handed over his pay to Aunty who returned him a trifle for pocket-money.

At the beginning of his fifth year his salary was raised to fifty pounds. On the day he received his first instalment he did not return to Balmoral Circus. Instead he went to a small room in Hammersmith, carrying his few belongings in a cricket bag. He then wrote to Aunty, saying he was “on his own,” and he would never see her again.

At last, at last he was free.

3.

How hard that first winter was! Fifty pounds went much further in those days than it does now, but even then he had to go without many needful things. An overcoat, for one. You can picture him a tall, thin pale youth, with a woollen comforter and a shabby suit far too small for him. He was often cold and hungry. A cough bothered him.

One day Mr. Ainger came down to see him.

“Hullo, young man. You haven’t written that book yet?”

“No, sir.”

“I am surprised. Assailed as you are by a dozen pungent odours do you not realize that under the cork-trees of Corsica the goats browse on the wild thyme in order that those shelves may be replenished with green veined Roquefort; that cattle bells jingle in the high vivid valleys of the Jura to make for us those grind-stone like masses of cavernous Gruyère; sitting here are you not conscious of a rhythm running through it all, of a dignity, even of an epic—cheese?”

“Well,” he went on, “I’ve come to hale you from all this source of inspiration to a more sordid environment. There’s a spare stool in the counting-house I think you might ornament.”

“I’ll be glad of a change, sir.”

“Good. By the way, where are you living?”

“Hammersmith, sir.”

“Ah, indeed, I have a cottage on the river. You must come and see me.”

A fortnight later he took Hugh to his little villa. It was the only real home the lad had even seen, and was a revelation to him. Mrs. Ainger was the first sweet woman he had ever met, and he immediately worshipped her. There were two fine boys and a most fascinating library.

The Aingers had a great influence on Hugh’s development. Through them he met a number of nice fellows and instinctively picked up their manners. He played football, cricket, and tennis,—at which games he was swift and graceful, but somewhat lacking in stamina. He studied French, and Mr. Ainger was at great pains to see that he had a good accent. But best of all, he was able to attend an art school in the evenings and satisfy a growing passion for painting.

Then the war broke out. He went to France with the First Hundred Thousand. In the wet and cold of the trenches he contracted pneumonia and his recovery was slow. As soon as he was well again, he was transferred to the transport service and drove a camion in the last great struggle. When he was demobilized he returned to the office at a comfortable salary.

Everything looked well now, everything but his health. He suffered from a chronic cold and was nearly always tired.

Then one raw day in early Spring he saw a poor woman throw her child over the Embankment.

“She was quite close to me,” he told Mr. Ainger afterwards, “so of course I went in. It was instinctive. Any other chap would have done the same.

“Well, I grabbed the kid and the kid grabbed me, and there I was treading water desperately. But it was hard to keep afloat; and I thought we must both go down. I remember I felt sorry for the little beast. I didn’t care a hang for myself. Then just as I was about to give up, they lifted us into a boat. There was a crowd and cheering, but I was too sick to care. Some one took me home in a taxi and my landlady put me to bed.”

The chill that resulted affected his lungs. All winter he had fits of coughing that made him faint from sheer exhaustion. He awoke at night bathed in cold sweat. In the morning he was ghastly, and rose only by a dogged effort. One forenoon, after a hard fit of coughing Mr. Ainger said to him:

“Cold doesn’t seem to improve.”

“No, sir.”

“By the way, ever had any lung trouble in your family?”

“Yes, sir. My mother, I’ve been told, died of it.”

“Look here, take the afternoon off and see our doctor.”

The doctor was a little bald, rosy man. He looked up at Hugh’s nigh six feet of gaunt weariness.

“You’re not fit to be out, sir. Go home at once. I’ll see you there.”

So Hugh went to his bed, and remained in it all summer.

4.

One day in late October he lay on his bed staring drearily at the soiled ceiling, and wondering if in all London there was a lad more unhappy than he.

“A lunger,” he thought bitterly. “Rotten timber! A burden to myself and others. Soon I must take up the fight again and I’m tired, tired. I want to rest, do nothing for a year or two. Well, I won’t give in. I’ll put up a good scrap yet. I’ll——”

Here a knock came at the door. It was the little doctor cheery and twinkling.

“Hullo! How’s the health to-day?”

“Better, doctor; I’ll soon be able to go back to the office.”

The doctor laughed: “If you remain in London another six months you’ll be a dead man.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Go away. Live in a warm climate. Egypt, Algeria, the Riviera.”

“And if I go away how long will I live?”

“Oh, probably sixty years.”

“Quite a difference. Well, doctor, I expect I’ll have to stick it out here. You see, I’ve no money, no friends. Even now I’m living on the charity of the firm. They’ve been awfully decent, but I can’t expect them to go on much longer.”

“Have you no relatives?”

“None that I know of. I’m absolutely alone in the world.”

“Well, well! We’ll see about it. Surely something can be done. Don’t get down-hearted. Everything will come out all right.”

The little doctor went away, and Hugh continued to stare at the soiled ceiling. There came to him a desperate vision of palms and sunshine. But that was not for him. He must stay in this raw bleak London and perish as many a young chap had perished....

Next morning came another knock at the door. It was Mr. Ainger.

“Well, my lad, how are you feeling?”

“A little better. I hope I’ll soon be able to get back to my ledger.”

“Nonsense, my boy! You’ll never come back. You’re expected to hand in your resignation. The doctor holds out no hope. You can’t go on drawing on your salary indefinitely.”

Hugh swallowed hard. “No, that’s right. You’ve treated me square. I can’t complain.”

“Complain, I should say not; look here....”

With that Mr. Ainger took from his pocket a sheaf of crisp Bank of England notes and began to spread them out on the bed.

“Twelve of them. Ten pounds each. All yours. We collected sixty pounds in the office and the firm doubled it. And now you’re going to eternal sunshine, to blue skies, to a land where people are merry and sing the whole day long. You’ve escaped the slimy clutch of commerce. Gad! I envy you!”

“Do you really, sir?”

“Yes. I wanted to live in Italy, Greece, Spain; to roam, to be a vagabond, to be free. But I married, had children, became a slave chained to the oar. One thing though,—my boys will never be square pegs in round holes. They’ll have the chance I never had.”

“Perhaps it’s not too late.”

“No, perhaps not. Perhaps some day I’ll join you down there. Perhaps when I get things settled, I’ll live under those careless skies where living is rapture. I’ll get back by own soul. I’ll write that book, I’ve tried all my life to write. Perhaps ... it’s my dream, my dream....”

Mr. Ainger turned abruptly and went out, leaving Hugh staring incredulously at the counterpane of notes that covered his bed.

CHAPTER TWO THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

1.

PINES packed the vast valley, climbing raggedly to the pale grey peaks. Sometimes the mountains swooped down in gulch and butte of fantastic beauty. The pines were pale green in the sunshine, the soil strangely red. There was a curious dryness, a hard brilliance about it all.

As Hugh looked from the train window he had a feeling of home-coming. It was as if his ancestors had lived in this land; as if in no other could he thrive so well.

“I’m feeling heaps better,” he thought. “Only let me get six months in these jolly old pine forests, living like a wood-cutter. The life of nature, that’s what I need to make a new man of me. Ah! this is my country. I’m here now; and here I’ll stay.”

Looking at that sky so invincibly blue, that soil so subjugated by the sun, it seemed hard to believe that elsewhere there could be fog and cold and sleet. Here the sunshine was of so conquering a quality, it was difficult to think of sullen lands that could resist it.

Again Hugh felt that sense of familiarity: “I’m a son of the sun,” he exulted; “a child of the sun-land.”

So absorbed was he that a rasping voice at his side almost startled him.

“The verdure here is profligate, ain’t it?”

The speaker was a rusty, creaky man smoking a rank cigar. He had a bony nose, and a ragged moustache. He wore a dusty bowler hat and a coat with a collar of hard-bitten musk-rat.

“The pines do seem to thrive,” said Hugh.

“Pines is very tendatious,” observed the shabby man. “Very saloobrious too.”

“Indeed,” said Hugh. “Are you a health-seeker?”

“No, sir. Not ’ealth,—wealth. I’m a man with a system, I am. The finest system on the Riviera.”

“I wish mine was. It’s rather dicky.”

“Oh, I wasn’t referrin’ to my corporationus system. It’s my system at roulette. Allow me....”

He handed Hugh a rather soiled card on which was engraved:

“Yes,” supplemented the shabby man importantly. “You see before you one of the greatest livin’ authorities on roulette. I’ve studied it now for twenty years. They all consult old Bob. Many a gentleman I’ve ’elped to fortune. ’Avin’ no capital myself, I’m obliged to let others ’ave the benefit of my experience.”

“And your system?” queried Hugh politely.

“Well, sir, it’s based on the fact that the old croupiers ’ave a ’abit of throwin’ the ball in a hotomatic way, so that they ’ave spells when they throw into the same section of the wheel. Of course, it calls for judgment and observation.”

“Luck, too, I should imagine.”

“Not so much. Luck is a thing we scientific roulette players try not to recognize. We aim to beat chance by calculation.”

“Is it really true,” said Hugh, “that one can live at the cost of the Casino?”

“Certainly. Thousands are doin’ it this very day. Why, I can go in any time and make a couple of louis.”

“I wish I could.”

“So you can, sir, with a little experience. You’re goin’ to Monte?”

“No, Menton.”

“Ah, that’s a pity. Mentony’s too full of English, too deadly dull. Monte’s a sporty little gem, the most beautiful spot on earth—and the wickedest.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Interestin’ ... I should say so. There’s no square mile on God’s globe so packed with drama. There’s no theatre a patch on that Casino. You’d better get off at Monte, sir, and let me put you on to my system. Sixteen hundred francs capital is all you need, and I guarantees you a daily profit of from twenty to eighty per cent.”

Hugh thought of the poor two thousand francs that was to last him for six months.

“I’ll think over it. Meantime I’ve arranged to go to Menton.”

“Well, we’ll surely see you at the tables before long. By the way, sir, you see that gentleman with the white spats? He’s a English gentleman, a Mister Jarvie Tope. Very nice man, but he’s got a system that’s no good. Don’t let him fool you with it.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh, “I’ll be careful.”

The pine-lands had given way to vinelands, the peaks to plains. The vines pushed jagged forks through the red soil; the olive groves wimpled in the wind. The goats and donkeys scarcely raised their heads to gaze at the insolent train. Hugh was in such a deep reverie that he did not notice the approach of Mr. Jarvie Tope.

Mr. Tope was a little rosy man, round and bland with waxed grey moustaches. He was well groomed, and seemed on the most excellent terms with life.

“Ha, ha!” he squeaked as he drew near to Hugh, “Old Bob Bender’s been warning you against me, I could see it in his eye, the rascal. Told you, no doubt, I’d try to put you on to my system. Couldn’t, if I would. I’ve come over to play for a syndicate.”

“Indeed. What sort of a system is yours?”

“Well, it’s based on the idea that the same phenomenon cannot occur on the same spot at the same moment to-day that it occurred at the same spot on the same day last year. I have my phenomena carefully recorded and when the times comes I bet on them. The probabilities are millions in my favour.”

“There seems to be a lot of systems.”

“No end of ’em. We all think ours is the best and the other fellows’ no good. With a bit of luck all are good, but you need a lot of capital to defend yourself, and you must be content with a very moderate return. And after all none are infallible. That’s what we’re all seeking, a formula that’s infallible. So far no one has found it, but still we seek and hope.... You see that old fellow at the end of the corridor?”

“The venerable old chap with the white beard?”

“Yes, I call him Walt Whitman. Well, he’s a man over seventy, going to Monte Carlo for the first time, a professor from the Sorbonne, Durand by name. They say he has worked on his system for twenty years, and is bringing the savings of a lifetime to test it. Ah! we’ll see what we shall see. Fine looking old chap, isn’t he?”

“Very striking,—like a Hebrew prophet.”

“He has books and books of figures and calculations. What his system is no one knows. I’ve seen a heap of them come like conquerors and go away broken on the wheel.”

“You know the place well?”

“I should think so. Never missed a season for twenty years. Coming here has got to be a habit with me. In summer I have a cottage in Kent where I grow roses; in winter an apartment in Monte where I play roulette. Oh, I’m a great boy, you don’t know me.”

Mr. Tope laughed in jolly appreciation of himself.

“Well, I suppose I’m crazy like the rest of ’em. We’re all crazy there. The Casino is a great lunatic asylum. We wander about as if we were free, but we’re not. Inevitably our feet carry us back. Don’t let it get you, young man. Avoid Monte as you would the plague.... By the way there’s the first call for lunch. I’m going to have a wash first. See you later.”

2.

Hugh followed a line of passengers to the dining car. He had found a place and was looking at the menu card when the waiter ushered a lady into the opposite seat. He looked up and then as quickly away. For even in that casual glimpse he was aware that his vis-à-vis was most alarmingly attractive.

Now Hugh was an unusually shy young man, and in the ordinary course of events would have eaten his meal in silence, and gone away without a word. To his amazement, he heard a firm, clear voice addressing him:

“Don’t you remember me?”

Suddenly he found himself gazing into a pair of smiling brown eyes; but even as he looked the smile died in their amber depths. In its place was embarrassment; a frown puckered the delicately pencilled eyebrows. Again the clear voice spoke almost with reproach.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you are ridiculously like a friend of mine,—Paul Vulning.”

“Indeed, that’s curious.”

“Yes, too absurd. For now I look, you’re quite a bit different. Paul must be five years older than you, but he looks ten. The dear boy doesn’t take the care of himself he ought. A sad scapegrace.”

She regarded him again, then laughed joyously.

“Why, here we are, two perfect strangers talking together like old pals. What must you think of me? Because of your likeness to Paul I feel as if I’d known you for ages. What’s your name?”

“Hugh Kildair.”

“Sounds deliciously Scotch. But you’re English, aren’t you?”

“I’ve lived all my life in England.”

“Indeed? So have I. But never again. The English are so cold. They don’t understand temperament. Even before my husband died and we lost all our money, I was quite fed up with it. Now I spend the winter in Monte and the summer in Aix.”

The waiter interrupted her with the wine card. She looked rather disdainfully down the list and chose the most expensive. Then she scanned Hugh appraisingly. His new grey suit sat well. His collar and tie were of the right sort. He looked clean, correct; a public school man. The lady seemed satisfied.

“You’re a nice boy,” she said happily. “I’m Mrs. Belmire. Every one in Monte knows me. You’re going to Monte, of course?”

Hugh hesitated. “No, I’m rather seedy. I’m going to Menton to rest up.”

“Menton. Why! you’ll be bored to death there! Nothing but old tabbies who go to each others’ teas and talk gossip. Oh, you’ll hate it. Get off at Monte. Promise me you will.”

She was really a beautiful woman. Everything about her was so exquisitely correct. Her complexion had the delicacy of porcelain; her henna-coloured hair looked as if it had just come from the hands of the coiffeur; her eyes had passion in their tarn-brown depths. As her hand touched his he felt that he would have got off at Hades to please her.

“Seems a good idea; I might as well rest there.”

“Topping! it’s decided then. You’ll come and see me. I suppose you’ll stay at the ‘Paris.’ I wouldn’t though. They’ll charge you two hundred francs a night for a room. Oh, yes, my dear boy, you’re going to say their charges are their charges, but you don’t know Monte. Unless you’re odiously oofy, don’t go to the Paris. It’s simply infested with ‘rastas’ and nouveaux riches. Some of the hotels on the hill are really quite nice, and you’ll meet the right sort of people there. You see, I’m taking a motherly interest in you. I don’t want to see you foolishly extravagant. Above all, don’t throw your money away recklessly at the Casino. If you must play let me be your adviser. Let me give you the benefit of my experience.”

“That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Not at all. I’ve helped heaps of men. I can’t afford to play myself, but I enjoy seeing others win. Have a cigarette?”

He took one from a gold case, and they puffed between courses. She sipped only a little of the wine, and the bottle was half full when the waiter whisked it away. She ordered a fine champagne with her coffee, and graciously allowed Hugh to pay the bill. As she rose to leave she gave his hand a little squeeze.

“There! I’ve enjoyed my lunch so much! Remember me; Mrs. Belmire. And don’t forget to get off at Monte.”

The paying of the bill had a sobering effect on him.

“After all,” he thought, “if she knew I was a nobody with only two thousand francs in the world she wouldn’t wipe her shoes on me. As for meeting her in Monte, this decides me. I’ll steer clear of the place.”

3.

The scenery was as lovely as a painted panel. Between umbrella pines he saw the majestic sway of the sea. Snowy villas peeped from sombre cyprus groves. The palms were pale gold in the wistful sunshine. Magic names glorified the commonplace looking stations.—San Raphael, Agay, Nice. In the setting sun the way seemed to be growing more and more wonderful, as if working up to a climax of beauty. Every moment moved him to fresh rapture. And to think that this loveliness had been here all the time and he had not known! How could people continue to exist in that grim grey London? Was there such a place as this, or was he dreaming it? Would he ever go back again to fog and grime? No, never, never....

Villefranche, Beaulieu, Eze ... the light had faded, yet still he stared at the shadows through the darkened pane. He was aware suddenly that the glass was reflecting mirror-like the compartment behind him. At first he thought it was empty, then he heard a sigh and saw it was occupied by a slim slip of a girl. She was sitting in the corner, very quiet, very anxious. She was dressed in deep black, and her white, rather haggard face had a kind of pathetic appeal. He noted all this without any particular interest. Then suddenly she took off her hat and he saw that she had the most wonderful hair in the world.

She rose to arrange it before the small mirror above her seat. With a brusque movement she withdrew two combs and let it ripple down in a rain of gold. It reached below her waist. It covered her like a cape, it shimmered in the lamp-light, it seemed as luminous as a flame. At the sight of such glory Hugh turned and stared.

Then the girl noticed him and flushed with shame. She clutched her bright tresses to her head and swiftly rearranged them. She turned her back....

Monte Carlo.

They were getting in now. The train seemed to plunge into a dazzle of light; then the darkness of another tunnel; then a long green station. On the lamps so meanly printed, he could see the magic name that opens wide the portals of romance. Surely it should be blazoned in fiery capitals on the heights of heaven! This then was the spot of which people talk and dream, that masterpiece of nature and art which never disenchants, which is adorable even in its cruelty. Fatal, fascinating name,—Monte Carlo.

It was the climax of the beautiful journey. The train disgorged nearly all its passengers as if this place like a magnet was drawing them out. He saw Bob Bender, and Jarvie Tope. He watched old Professor Durand looking curiously about him, and a white-haired porter taking the baggage of Mrs. Belmire. He felt alone, abandoned.

As the train lingered, loth to leave this charmed spot, Hugh felt a sudden desire to get off. He saw the fair-haired girl struggling with a basket-valise. With a sudden impulse he gathered together his own luggage and prepared to descend, but the train was already in motion.

“Just as well. Now for Menton.”

Then behold! the train halted again and backed to the station.

“Fate!” said Hugh and jumped off. He passed through a long baggage room into a courtyard where there was a line of luxurious hotel omnibuses and porters in livery. The court was backed by a wall of rock that rose to the heights of a glorious garden. Palms speared the silvery arc-lights. Masses of geraniums stained the face of the rock. On the winding steps that led to the garden a nude statue of a woman was set in a niche amid ferns and water-lilies, and a diamond spray of water.

On the long hill to the right was a line of fiacres. He saw the fair-haired girl hand her bag to one of the drivers.

“Pension Paoli,” she said.

Hugh watched her drive away; then he, too, hailed a fiacre. The dark driver bent to him with smiling politeness.

“Where to, monsieur?”

Hugh thought for a moment. As he stood there he had a strange thrill of wonder and of joy. He seemed to breathe an enchanted air; the silver lights amid the trees were those of fairyland; he felt as if he were hesitating on the very threshold of romance.

“Pension Paoli,” he answered.

CHAPTER THREE THE POISONED PARADISE

1.

AN amiable, early morning sun was irradiating that great theatre which is Monte Carlo, and a regiment of stage hands were preparing the scene for another day. Hawk-eyed bands of them with brush and pan were grooming the cleanest streets in the world, pouncing triumphantly on burnt matches and unsightly cigarette ends. Other bands invaded the beautiful gardens, trimming each blade of grass to the same size and meticulously barbering each bud and flower. They moved with nonchalant grace, these brown-skinned Monegascans, as became the servitors of that great, benevolent institution, the Casino.

As Hugh passed through the gardens, breathing the perfumed air, a great delight glowed in him. His first impression was of the theatric quality of the place, its note of unreality. It was a fit setting for the pleasure-seeking hordes, for the legions of luxury, for these dreaming of fortune and those dead to hope. He never lost his sense of its unreality, of its being a stage scene, on which was played a daily drama in three acts: Morning, Afternoon, and Evening.

Passing between the Casino and the Hotel de Paris, he descended in the direction of the Condamine. At the top of a long hill, a little way past the post office, he paused with a joy that thrilled him to ecstasy....

He saw a little U shaped harbour shielded from the sea. It was as delicate as a pastel, a placque of sapphire set in pearl. In the crystal air the red-roofed houses crowded close to it. The terraced town rose on tip-toe to peer at it. It was all glitter and gleam, and radiant beauty. And yonder in sombre contrast rose the Rock, monstrous, mediæval,—so scornful of that hectic modernity across the bay....

He climbed the long steep hill, crossed the sunny square in front of the palace and plunged into the cool gloom of the narrow streets. Wandering idly along he came to a low brown house with a tiny porch, and four pepper-trees in front. He looked at it carelessly enough, then turned and wandered into the garden of the Prince. He gazed curiously at a broken pillar covered with ivy. There was a spring sunk deep in the rock; the flowers bloomed there; and bees and butterflies made the nook gay and tuneful. He found a bench that overlooked the glimmering sea and rested awhile.

As he sat pensively dreaming, two pale ghosts may have been watching him; a man strong and tall, a girl sweet and fragrant as a flower. Perhaps wrapt in that great love to which he owed his being, they were drawing near to him with wistful pain, with adoring tenderness. Who knows?...

Filled with a strange melancholy Hugh rose and went his unheeding way. Again he looked carelessly at the house in which his mother was born, in which her mother still lived....

But he remembered nothing. He did not know. He never knew....

2.

The chief recommendation of the Pension Paoli was its cheapness. For twenty francs a day Hugh had his board and a chamber that overlooked the red roofs and the blue sea beyond. He had a tiny balcony, too, and in the lazy, limpid days he cultivated a cheerful lethargy.

It was one of those Bohemian establishments peculiar to the Principality. People came and went without exciting interest. The clientele was imperturbably cosmopolitan, the cuisine piquantly Italian. At the table d’hôte one heard half a dozen tongues and no one was concerned about the respectability of his neighbour. Every one seemed to gamble, and to think of little but the Casino.

Hugh’s first evening was typical. He was trying to go to sleep, when about midnight some one entered the next room. He heard the sound of money being emptied on the table, counted, then a sigh of satisfaction. Every night this happened, only some nights there was no money and curses took the place of content. On such nights he would say to himself, “The Twitcher’s been loosing.”

The Twitcher was a tall weedy man, who, owing to some nervous malady, had a trick of raising and lowering his eyebrows. He had a friend whom Hugh called the Sword-Swallower, on account of his way of eating ravioli. The S. S. was small and brisk, with tiny, cropped head, and a large but carefully groomed moustache. His trousers were striped and of the same width all the way down.

The S. S. and the Twitcher were allies and united in a dislike for a third man, whom Hugh dubbed the Rat. This was a sturdy, bandy-legged fellow with a bulging jaw, a broken nose and close-set, beady eyes. His skin had a curious pallor, a prison pallor, Hugh thought. He decided that the Rat had just finished doing time and was now spending the swag.

One day he overheard a conversation between the Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower which referred to the Rat.

“Yes,” said the Twitcher, “the fellow’s as crooked as a ram’s horn. I saw him do it again.”

“Do what?”

“He puts a louis on one of the dozens then watches the ball. Just as it drops he shifts his stake to the winning dozen. He is quick as a flash and nine times out of ten the croupier doesn’t notice it. So he gets paid.”

“He’s a shady one. If you leave your money in the table at night, be sure to lock your door.”

“I’ve never done so yet, but in future I’ll be more careful.”

At this moment the Rat entered and greeted them with a twinkle in his beady eyes.

“Well,” he said briskly, “I’ve just made my ‘day,’—five louis. Now I can rest.”

“You’re easily satisfied,” said the Twitcher; “if I don’t clear twenty, I think I’m out of luck.”

“Not me,” said the Sword-Swallower. “If I can make the bank cough up a couple of louis I quit. But I never fail.”

“What’s your system?” demanded the Rat.

“Oh, I play for a paroli. And yours?”

“I always play between the dozens,” answered the Rat; “it’s the safest.”

“Yes,” said the Twitcher. “You play a safe game all right. As for me, give me the traversals....”

Here the conversation became too technical for Hugh to follow. Presently the Twitcher said to the S. S.:

“Come on. Let’s go and scratch.”

As they went away, the Rat installed himself in a comfortable chair and called for a Dubonnet. Then he lit a cigarette from a yellow packet, blew the smoke blissfully through his nostrils, sipped his apéritif, and seemed content with all the world.

“A sinister chap,” Hugh thought, and ceased to look at him. Suddenly he heard a gasp of dismay.

The Rat was staring out of the window, his sallow face livid, his hands clutching the table edge. Then he dived through the little door at the back of the restaurant and disappeared. Astonished, Hugh followed the direction of the man’s gaze. All he saw was a mild old priest peering rather curiously at the house. Hugh watched wonderingly; but the priest, after lingering a little, went slowly away, and the Rat did not finish his apéritif.

Among the other boarders were two Swedish women, mother and daughter. The mother was short and fat, and the daughter, tall and thin; but both were blonde and had shiny, red faces. They dressed in black satin, with gold chains round their necks and diamond rings on every available finger. They ate gluttonously, and spoke a harsh, gabbling tongue. Although they were evidently rich, they gambled greedily for five franc pieces.

Occasionally Hugh saw the girl with the bright, heaping hair. Sometimes at meals he would see her slip into a remote corner, quiet as a mouse. She looked at no one, kept her head down, ate very little and stole out again as softly as she had come.

One day he questioned Terese, the waitress, about her.

“Ah,” said Terese, “you’re asking me something. All I can tell you is that her name on the register is Margot Leblanc. She’s a queer one. Never speaks to a soul. She spends her time between the church and the Casino, between praying and gambling. I can’t make her out.”

Hugh’s curiosity was aroused. But the girl’s manner discouraged any attempt at acquaintance. Once when he chanced to encounter her on the stair, his polite greeting was met by such a sullen silence that his interest in her faded.

3.

His health was improving daily. It seemed quite wonderful. Instead of watching the tennis-players, he wanted to join them. The distance of his walks lengthened. He joined the little English library and changed his books frequently. On the heights above the town, sitting under an olive tree with the vast shimmer of the sea below him, he read through long sunny hours. Sometimes he got out his box of water colours, and made some sketches.

At half past nine every morning he sauntered down the palm-lined avenue that descends to the Casino. Even at that hour it was packed with luxurious motors, and he christened it “Limousine Lane.” Dozens of gardeners were valeting the lawns on either hand to an unheard of greenness and trimness. The air was always delicious.

At the foot of “Limousine Lane” was the “Cheese,” a round grassy mound diagrammed with flowers. It was shaded by four proud palms and a great rubber tree. Around it were seats for spectators. Lounging there Hugh saw the world of fashion parade. Women exquisitely dressed, and men immaculate sauntered past like actors on a stage. They mounted the seven carpeted steps of the Casino, paused for a moment as if conscious that every detail of their costumes was perfect; then turned and were swallowed by the Temple of Chance.

While Hugh never wearied of this constant swirl of elegance, his main interest was in the swinging doors of the Casino itself. He never tired of watching the players come and go. One day Bob Bender came down the steps looking rustier and more mildewed than ever. He recognized Hugh.

“What, sir,—not playing yet?”

“No, I have no money to lose. Are you doing all right?”

The old gambler shook his head in a melancholy way.

“Not exactly. I’m transversing a bad time. I was expecting a gentleman from America who wanted me to play for him, but he is delayed,—a Mr. Fetterstein. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

“No.”

“Well, his not comin’ has deranged me. I’ve been playin’ a little game of my own but I ’aven’t got capital enough. This mornin’ I came up against zero three times. A man can’t do anything against that. Now I’m off to get a bite of lunch. Maybe things will come my way this afternoon.”

He shambled off. Before going to his own luncheon Hugh strolled around the gardens. Nurses were watching beautiful, well-behaved children. The round pond mirrored the palms and pink geraniums; the little stream was fringed by ferns and flowers and starred with water-lilies. The green sweep of the sward was like a carpet, set with strange exotic trees, agave and cactus and dwarf oranges. Midway there was a little artificial ford, with gold-fishes glancing in the lazy ripples.

Yet there were jarring notes in this harmony. An old man for instance who sat on a bench reading discarded journals. He wore eye-glasses and had an air of dignity quite at variance with his rags. His boots were altogether disreputable and his coat would have disgraced a decent ash-bin. Yet it was easy to see that he had been a person of education and refinement who had lost a fortune at the tables. Hugh took a seat beside him.

“Well,” said the old fellow, “what do you think of it?”

“It’s beautiful,” said Hugh with fervour.

The other looked at him sarcastically.

“Beautiful, yes ... and it’s to me and the likes of me you owe it; we pay for it; we keep it up. Take a good gaze at me, young chap, and you’ll enjoy it all the more.” He laughed so disagreeably that Hugh rose and left him. But the gardens did not seem as lovely as before.

4.

Hugh’s favourite walk was along the highroad that led to the Tête du Chien. It crossed a dizzy bridge over a deep gorge in which the washerwomen hung their linen to dry. At the mouth of this gorge, framed in the arches of the railway bridge, was a tiny chapel, and behind it, like a slab of lapis lazuli, the harbour. Climbing still higher the road passed the Persian villa and reached the top of the hill. Almost directly below were the red roofs of the Condamine.

Continuing still further the road swung into a great curve high above Monaco, disclosing both the Rock and the sweet serenity of the sea. Terrace upon terrace of olive trees rose to the base of the mountain.

Hugh was walking along this road one morning, admiring the beauty that surrounded him, when suddenly he glanced down. In the dust at his feet, fresh and glistening, was a crimson patch. “Curious,” he thought; “those marks look as if a heavy body had fallen here.” He examined the stone-wall and found a slight spatter of blood. A little further on, he picked up something that made him look very thoughtful, a bit of bony fibre, to which adhered a few dark hairs. Strange! He looked downwards, and saw that he stood just above the Cemetery of Monaco. He found the path and slowly descended.

He searched for some time for the suicide’s section of the cemetery which he had been told was cunningly concealed. A great high wall separated the lower from the upper graveyard, and built half the way up the face of it, was another wall, the space between the two forming a narrow shelf. There was no access to this shelf except through a broken place in the balustrade of the stairway just large enough to pass a coffin. As he looked down from the upper wall, Hugh saw that the whole length of the shelf was closely packed with nameless graves. In one place where the earth had been thrown carelessly up a rusty shovel leaned against the wall. The air had the smell of a charnel pit.

He climbed the hill again. The place where he had seen the blood was now quite clean. There was no trace of any disturbance. Some one had come in his absence and tidied things up. The sky had suddenly grown grey, grey too and sinister the mountains. He had an uneasy sense that somewhere in the olive trees unseen eyes were watching him; that he was being spied on and shadowed.

5.

Another day when he took this solitary walk, twilight was gathering and the roofs of the Condamine were softened to a coral mist. The space between the rock of Monaco and the Tête du Chien was filled with sunset after-glow as a cup is filled with wine. The olive trees lately twinkling in the sunshine were now mysteriously still.

When Hugh came to the highest point overlooking the town, he stopped to rest. The rock of Monaco rose like a monster from the sea, and was as dim and silent as a tomb. He could distinguish the courtyard of the Palace, greyly alight, and a black stencilling of windows. A solitary lamp revealed a turret and an ancient archway, all else was gloom. In its austere mediæval strength the rock seemed the abode of mystery and silence.

And Monte Carlo! Looking towards it Hugh could see nothing but light. The mountains were pricked with patterns of light, the great hotels were packed with light. And all seemed to concentrate in one dazzling centre, the source from which this luxury of light flowed,—the Casino.

Then he noticed that on a bench near him was a stooping figure. To his surprise he recognized it as that of Professor Durand. The old man was clutching in his hands a number of the Revue of Monte Carlo with its columns of permanencies.

“What a pity!” thought Hugh. “So fine, so venerable a head bent over those wretched figures. This man who might be taken for a preacher, a prophet,—a slave to this vulgar vice, puzzling over systems, trying to outwit the Goddess Chance. Le calcul peut vaincre le jeu ... that is the lying phrase that lures them. Fools!”

Then he turned for the Professor was addressing him. Hugh saw a flashing eye, a noble brow.

“Young man, you will excuse me, but I claim the privilege of age. At the Sorbonne I have lectured to thousands like you. I speak because I noted in your passing glance something of disdain.”

Hugh made a gesture of protest.

“No, I do not blame you. You see me with these numbers. But you misjudge me.... Listen....”

The old man seemed to grow taller. He stretched his hand to where the Casino glittered like a crown of gems.

“I am eighty years old to-day. I have a feeling that I shall never see another birthday. But there is one thing I hope to do before I die ... to ruin that accursed place.”

Hugh stared at him.

“I speak for the good of humanity, I speak because of the evil it has done in the past, the harm it can do in years to come. I speak in behalf of its thousand of blasted homes, its broken hearts, its shameful graves. Ah! you only see the beautiful surface. You do not see below. But I do. And to my eyes yonder rock on which it stands, is built of human skulls, the waves that lap it are tears and blood. Look at the loveliness of earth and sky, the purple mountain rising from the silver sea, the dreamlike peace, the soft and gentle air. No painted picture was ever half so beautiful. How happy all might be here! A paradise, a human paradise; but because of that place, a poisoned paradise.”

Hugh stared harder. The old man’s voice was tense with passion.

“You think I am a fanatic, a madman. Wait and see. I am going to destroy that place. For years I have worked on my great plan. It is the crown of my life. In a few weeks I will begin to play. I shall win and win. By mathematics I will frustrate chance. I will compel them to close their doors, for my system is invincible. God has given me this task to do, and I will complete it before I die. Into my hands He has delivered them. I am His instrument of vengeance. Let them beware!”

In a magnificent gesture he shook his clenched fists at the Casino. When Hugh left him he was still standing like a prophet on the heights, staring down on his poisoned paradise.

CHAPTER FOUR THE GIRL WHO WAS ALWAYS ALONE

1.

CHRISTMAS had come and gone, a strange, unreal Christmas, with none of those rigors and austerities that Hugh had been accustomed to associate with the season. The long stretch of garden in front of the Casino was enamelled with patterns of pink, purple and milky cyclamen, as brilliant as banners against the green; the ribbon-like paths were terra-cotta; and the usual indolent gardeners were shaving and shampooing the velvety lawns.

Hugh was feeling elaborately well. In the last two months a great change had come over him. His pale face had taken on a healthy tan; its hollows had disappeared. A new force, a new courage possessed him; he looked a lithe, swift youth, as clean as fire.

It was then with a joyous sense of recovered manhood that he took the early train one morning for La Turbie, and started to walk to Menton. As he swung along the High Corniche it seemed as if he was looking over the nose of an aeroplane. The brilliant panorama of shore and sea expanded before his gaze. He saw the Rock rising like a huge hump from the water, the crowded red roofs of the Principality, the dainty hoop of the harbour. His gaze shifted to the dazzling curve of the coast, the pretentious Casino, Cap Martin with its gleam of modern villas in ancient olive groves. A desire to paint this beauty kindled and glowed within him.

He climbed to the ruins of the old castle of Roquebrune and gazed through a round window onto a dizzy gulf of sea and sky. His reverie was disturbed by a sound of voices and as he descended to the courtyard he saw a woman standing by the battlements, looking out into the great, shining space. She was tall and graceful, dressed in a jersey costume of primrose silk. It was Mrs. Belmire.

As if she had known he was there, she stretched her hand backwards, without turning her head.

“Come here,” she commanded.

Hugh obeyed. He took the outstretched hand and was drawn gently to her side.

“Isn’t it lovely,” she sighed.

He felt her hand tighten in his. He had a sudden desire to kiss her lovely neck. Slowly she turned towards him, then stepped back and stamped her foot in vexation.

“Oh, it’s you!” she cried. “Well, of all the— I thought it was Mr. Fetterstein.”

But quickly she recovered herself.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you, naughty young man. Why have you never come to see me?”

Hugh had no excuse ready.

“I had made up my mind not to speak to you again. But there! Good nature was always my weakness. Promise me to come soon and I’ll forgive you.”

While Hugh was promising another man joined them. Mrs. Belmire turned to the newcomer radiantly.

“Mr. Fetterstein; I want to introduce Mr. Kildair; a young countryman of mine.”

Mr. Fetterstein did not look enthusiastic, but mustered a show of cordiality.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said; and offered a large hard hand. In fact everything about Mr. Fetterstein suggested hardness. He looked muscular and forceful. His hair was iron grey; the lines of his clean-shaven face were firm and grim; his jaw strong; his eyes shrewd; his voice had a determined rasp. Even his clothes were made of some hard, wear-resisting tweed.

“Now, come,” said Mrs. Belmire; “I positively insist on your admiring this view.”

“If you insist, Mrs. Belmire, there is nothing more to be said. But you know how looking at scenery always makes me hungry. Even now I’ve got an appetite I wouldn’t sell for a twenty dollar bill. I grant you this is fine all right. We haven’t got anything in the United States that could touch it. But for my part I’d rather look into the inside of a good car than at the finest bit of scenery the Lord ever made.”

“Oh, you horrid materialist! But you must excuse him, Mr. Kildair. His enthusiasm is entirely professional. Mr. Fetterstein makes automobiles in America somewhere....”

“Detroit, Michigan, ma’am. We have five factories running right now. In fact I’m over here to pick up pointers from French cars. I’ve got one down there that’s a hummer. But that reminds me, Mrs. Belmire, we’d better be getting ong root if we want to make Song Reemo in time for dayjoonay. Come on. Let’s get down if you’ve had enough of your old ruin.”

Mrs. Belmire sighed. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my ruin.”

“I guess it’s a first class ruin all right, but they ain’t much in my line. Now, Mrs. Belmire, if you’ll kindly give me a few pointers on roulette when we get back to Monte Carlo to-night, that’d make a hit with me.”

They descended to the village square where stood a long vicious-looking, torpedo-shaped car. It was painted a warm orange, with finishings of nickel. In the curving body was a well with two seats, and the whole thing looked like an aeroplane without wings.

“Twelve cylinders,” said Mr. Fetterstein, as he climbed into the raking seat. Mrs. Belmire looked distinctly nervous but bravely adjusted her cloak and veil. Mr. Fetterstein raced the engine, jammed in his first speed; the car leapt forward like a flame. Hugh saw it flashing down the white road and thrilled as it took the sharp curves. Then a shoulder of mountain hid it from his view.

“A most delightful woman,” he thought; “no wonder she has a lot of admirers. I wish I could call on her, but what’s the good. She’d only find out that I’m what Mr. Fetterstein would describe as a ‘four-flusher.’”

2.

Hugh lunched and lounged in Menton, until he felt a strange nostalgia for Monte Carlo come over him.

“Curious,” he reflected; “already the place has such a hold on me, I cannot leave it even for a few hours.”

He jumped into a big lemon-coloured motor bus and in half an hour was sitting in the Café de Paris.

“Hullo, old chap,” he heard a shrill voice say, and looked up to see Mr. Jarvie Tope. Mr. Tope seemed as if he had stepped from a band-box, a flawless figure of a well-dressed man.

“Hullo!” responded Hugh. “You’re looking well.”

Mr. Tope raised his jaunty panama.

“I should think so, sixty and still going strong. Getting younger instead of older. Oh, I’m a great boy, I am.”

“Come and have tea with me,” Hugh begged.

Mr. Tope sat down. Together they gazed at the brilliant scene. The air was bright with banners and exultant with music. Gay crowds promenaded in front of the Casino. An aeroplane swooped down, scaring the drowsy pigeons on the cornice. Men watched it through their monocles, women from under their tiny frilled sunshades. Under the striped umbrellas elegant demi-mondaines sipped their orangeades; professional dandies, slim and elegant, passed amid the green tables; and dancing girls, befurred and bejewelled, sauntered on their way to the Thé Dansant. It was a kaleidoscope of colour; a moving pattern of dainty costumes; an entertainment that never lost its interest.

“Isn’t it just like a scene in a theatre?” said Mr. Tope. “That’s how it strikes me even after twenty years. A beautifully dressed crowd, beautifully behaved; yet below it all vice unfathomable. It sometimes reminds me of the rainbow iridescence one sees on a pool of scum.... By the way, I haven’t seen you tempting the fickle goddess?”

“No, I haven’t been inside the Casino.”

“Ha! that’s quite a distinction. I noticed you talking to old Bob Bender the other day.”

“Yes, he’s having rather a hard time. He’s waiting a backer from America.”

“Oh, you needn’t waste any sympathy on old Bob. He’ll never starve.”

“Why?”

“Well,” said Mr. Tope, lowering his voice to a whisper, “they say he’s in the service of the Secret Police.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, young man! you only see the showy side of Monte; but believe me, there’s a very seamy under one. This is the most cosmopolitan spot in the world, and criminals of all countries collect here. You might call it a sort of criminal clearing-house. Well, to counteract this, the Casino people have the most efficient police force in Europe. They have agents in all the big capitals; an international crook can’t put his foot in Monaco without being recognized and watched.”

“You surprise me.”

“Do I? Let me tell you: the rooms are full of detectives, male and female. The chief of the Secret Police is a man of genius, a Swiss called Krantz. He speaks seven languages and seems to have an eighth sense, the sense of detection. You may have seen him, a tall, thin man dressed in black with a dark, clean-shaven face. He always wears a smile of cheerful simplicity.”

“And Bob?”

“Oh, Bob’s just a spy. He keeps track of the English crooks and shadows if required. They say Krantz values him.”

“It seems very strange to me.”

“Not at all. If you only knew the underground workings of this place, the mentality, the way in which everything is run.... Why, here you’re not living in the Twentieth Century at all. It’s mediæval. Even now some spy may be trying to over-hear us.”

“A queer place!”

“Yes, and packed with the queerest people on earth. Now, for instance, that little girl in black, just entering.”

Hugh started. The girl was Margot Leblanc. He had not seen her for some time, and had wondered if she was still at the pension. She was dressed shabbily and as she passed he saw that her face was white and haggard, and her eyes stared vacantly before her. She sat down at a nearby table.

“Now, that girl,” continued Mr. Tope, “is a puzzle to me. She came here about two months ago and she has never been seen to speak to any one. She is always alone. Nobody knows anything about her. She spends most of her time in the Rooms gambling with small stakes. I have seen her stand silently at a table for hours.... By the way, here come my friends, the Calderbrooks. Let me introduce you.”

The Calderbrooks were so uncompromisingly English, that their nationality was recognizable a long way off. They wore tailored costumes made of the same kind of tweed, with stockings of wool and low tan shoes. Under broad-brimmed hats their faces were pink and cheerful. The mother was sweet; the girl pretty; the father a tall thin man, with drooping moustache, a mild manner, and pale blue eyes.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, after they had been introduced, “we’re going on to Mentony; but we thought we must spend a day or two here.... Perfectly beautiful! Mr. Tope tells me you don’t go to the Rooms? How very extraordinary! Of course, we strongly disapprove of the whole thing; but I think every one should go once, if it’s only to see. We’re going in now for the first time. Mr. Tope has promised to be our guide. We shall play just once to say we have done so. You’d better come with us.”

Hugh shook his head smilingly; “I’d rather not, thank you. I’ll wait here till you come out.”

“All right. Shan’t be long.”

Piloted by Mr. Tope the three mounted the carpeted steps, passed the bowing flunkeys, and disappeared through the swinging glass doors. In half an hour they reappeared. They were quite excited.

“It’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Calderbrook; “Alice put five francs on the twenty-one, that being her age. What do you think! The twenty-one came up. They paid her a hundred and eighty francs. Of course we stopped at once. It doesn’t do to abuse one’s luck. I really believe we are lucky. We’re going again to-night. Father will try this time,—won’t you, Father?”

Mr. Calderbrook said he would in his weak, refined voice. Alice was shyly radiant. Hugh wished them further good fortune and they returned to their hotel, eagerly talking of the play.

3.

Hugh remained a while longer. He was watching the girl of his pension. Her face was pinched and peaked, her eyes strangely haunting in their pathos. She was so thin that he could see the outline of her sharp shoulder blades under her shabby jacket. Her bright hair was braided and coiled away under a hat of black crepe.

“Poor little devil,” Hugh thought; “she looks up against it.”

Presently she took a note-book with black glazed covers from her bag, and began to turn its pages abstractedly. Hugh saw that it was filled with columns of figures.

“Roulette records,” he thought again, “the same idiotic obsession.”

Soon she rose; and having finished his tea, he sauntered idly after her. He thought she was going to re-enter the Casino; but instead she turned up-hill in the direction of the town. He saw her climb the steps of the Church and enter its swinging door.

After waiting a little, he, too, entered. He found her seated in the cool dusk, her slim hands crossed and her eyes closed. Whether she was sleeping or praying he could not tell. He watched her for a while; then as she continued to sit immovable he went away.

4.

Hugh had found that the strange theatrical charm of Monte Carlo was most obvious after dark, and he never tired of wandering through the still gardens, breathing the delicious freshness of the air. Whichever way he looked a picture formed itself. The tiny paths were like coral ribbands on a gown of green, embroidered with pansy patterns of crimson, violet and silver. Under the lamps the blades of the patrician palms shone like swords. There were lace-screens of translucent green, rich velvet dusks, and sudden surprises of silver. The fountain sprayed diamonds into the dark pool, from which came the ruddy flash of gold-fishes; the roses climbed the palms as if to reach the light.

That evening he took a seat on the terrace. He heard below him the soft crooning of the sea, and felt its cool breath. Behind him was starlight and softly luminous mountains; in front, deep violet space ... mystery, immensity.

A small form came slowly along the terrace. As it drew near he saw it was the strange girl who was always alone. Once or twice she stopped, looking out over the balustrade to the sea. As she passed him he saw that her face had the vacant look of a sleep-walker. She sank on a bench, and took a glazed note-book from her bag. As she looked at it she sighed with weariness. Her head drooped forward and she slept.

Another dark form drew near her, the furtive figure of a man. Softly he sat down on the same bench and seemed to edge nearer and nearer.

Hugh rose, making unnecessary noise. The man, with a start, glanced his way and swiftly disappeared. Yet in that flash Hugh had recognized him; it was that sinister individual, the Rat.

Hugh went for a walk in the Condamine and did not return until half past ten. He glanced down to the terrace; hunched on the bench, a solitary figure, the girl still slept.

When he got back to the pension, he found it strangely upset. The two Swedish ladies were going off in a fiacre with their baggage. Their faces were very red, and they gabbled furiously. The Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower were talking in low tones. The Rat was nowhere to be seen.

“Perhaps,” whispered Teresa, the waitress, “I shouldn’t tell you, but madame and mademoiselle have left us. They say some one has gone into their room and stolen money. It was done this afternoon. Fortunately for me I was away at the time. It is very annoying. Voila! it is evident we have in the house a thief.”

CHAPTER FIVE THE THIEF

HUGH was preparing to leave the Pension Paoli. Its increasing atmosphere of furtiveness and suspicion was getting on his nerves. He had taken a large, sunny unfurnished room in the Condamine and had bought a folding bed, a table, a chair, and some cooking utensils. Here he would be alone and quite free. He would spend his days in sketching, his evenings in reading.

He was considering all this as he sat on a bench on the terrace just above that green promontory where they shot the pigeons. Even as he watched the slaughter was going on. A nimble lad would run out by one of the red, radiating paths and put a pigeon into one of the grey boxes; then he would retire and after a short interval the side of the box would collapse, leaving a bewildered bird facing an overwhelming freedom. Sometimes the bird would hop around stupidly, fearing to rise until a rubber ball bounding towards it hastened its decision. Bang! Bang! Generally the bird would drop on the green turf, to be swiftly retrieved by an eager dog. Sometimes, however, it would get away and, minus a tail, circle over the sea, finally rejoining its fellows in front of the Casino. When a pigeon escaped, Hugh wanted to applaud for joy. But few escaped, and he was turning away in disgust when he saw the Calderbrooks.

“Hullo!” he said, “I’m surprised. I thought you’d gone long ago.”

“No,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, “we decided to extend our stay. It’s really a lovely little place. We find the Casino so fascinating. We go there every day now.”

“Do you still play?”

“Oh, a little. Just for chicken-feed though. Father makes enough to pay for his cigarettes, while I generally get the Casino to stand afternoon tea. Oh, we’re very careful.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Calderbrook in his soft refined voice. “One has to be careful if one goes every day. However, an old fellow called Bender has taught me a system that so far has been very successful. You put three pieces on the passe and two on the first dozen, or three pieces on the manque and two on the last dozen. You have only six numbers against you. It’s safe.”

“By the way,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, “we saw an American break the bank yesterday, a Mr. Fetterstein. He played the number seventeen in every possible way, staking the maximum. They had to ring for more money. It was quite interesting. He must have won over a hundred thousand francs. Well, Father, we’ll leave you with Mr. Kildair to finish your pipe, while Alice and I go in to try our luck.”

When they had gone Mr. Calderbrook talked of various subjects, until suddenly dropping his voice, he said:

“You see that man in black coming along the terrace—the tall thin one.”

“The one with the clean-shaven face and the fixed smile?”

“Yes. That’s the great Krantz, the Chief of the Secret Police.”

As he passed them the eyes of Krantz were focussed on their faces.

“There,” said Mr. Calderbrook, “he knew we were discussing him.”

Hugh looked after the detective. His right hand, held behind his back, was carrying what looked like a sword cane. It was a long and muscular hand, and Hugh noted that part of the little finger was missing.

“They say,” said Mr. Calderbrook, “that he has all kinds of spies working for him and that he is quite unscrupulous. People who displease him have a way of disappearing suddenly. But then everything is high-handed about this place. It is beyond the law. All kinds of strange things can be done here and hushed up, all kinds of crimes go unpunished. It seems to be run quite irresponsibly. The Casino is supreme and rules with a high hand. All it cares for is to get money....”

Mr. Calderbrook began to bore him, and Hugh excused himself. He returned to the pension to prepare for his departure.

“To-morrow,” he thought, “I shall go away and all these people will pass out of my existence. It is pleasant to think one can put them so quietly out of one’s life. Ah! the beauty of liberty!”

He felt that he could not bear to remain more than one more night under the same roof with the Rat. The Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower were to be tolerated, but the Rat made him shudder. There are people who make us wish the world was bigger, that we might have more room to avoid them. The Rat was one of these; his very proximity was physically disagreeable. His skin was the colour of the fresh Gruyère cheese, except where his eye sockets darkened to chocolate. Criminal or not the man suggested reptilian perversions.

When Hugh paid his modest bill, he received a thousand francs in change, and as he stuffed the small notes into his pocket-book, he was aware that the sharp eyes of the Rat were upon him.

It was after ten o’clock and the Pension Paoli was very quiet. All the boarders were apparently at the Casino. The big building seemed deserted.

Leaving the door of his room ajar, Hugh threw himself on his bed. Soon he heard the street door open and some one pass upstairs. It was the Rat.

As he lay in the darkness, and listened to the sounds of the great gloomy house, a strange feeling of uneasiness began to creep over him. This grew so strong that after a bit he rose and went out on his little balcony. The air was exquisite. Over him flowed the river of night, and looking up into its lucid depths he saw the sky, its bed, pebbled with stars. Then his eyes drifted to the myriad lights that lay between him and the sea, lights now clear, now confused into a luminous mist....

What was that? Surely some one was moving softly in the passage? No; he was not wrong. Some one was trying the door of the next room, the Twitcher’s. But the Twitcher had locked it, and after one or two efforts the sound ceased.

Then Hugh had an inspiration. Taking out his pocket-book he threw it on the bed. Enough light came from the window to show it black against the white counterpane. There! the trap was baited.

Footsteps again in the passage, fumbling, muffled. They were drawing nearer, they were opposite his door. In the darkness he heard hard, hurried breathing. His own heart was tapping like a hammer. Surely the footsteps were passing? No, they had halted. Then slowly, slowly, his door was pushed open, and a black stealthy form crept to his bed.

He held his breath, and waited.... Now the dark shape was close.... Now an arm reached out, and a hand seized the pocket-book.... Now....

Hugh leapt forward and closed the door. He was alone in the darkness with the intruder. He had done it. The Rat was trapped.

“You dirty sneak-thief, I’ve got you,” he cried.

He switched on the electricity, and the room leaped into light. Against the far wall, cowering and clutching at it for support, was a figure in a black hood and cape.

Then it was Hugh’s turn to start back and utter a cry of dismay.

For framed in the black hood, and gazing at him wild-eyed with fear, was Margot Leblanc.

CHAPTER SIX THERE WAS A LONG SILENCE

1.

SHRINKING against the wall the girl looked up at him, her face sick with terror. Amazement turned him to stone. Then suddenly he recovered himself; and his astonishment changed to disgust.

“Well,” he said in a hard voice, “caught you in the act, didn’t I?”

She did not answer.

“I’m sorry, very sorry. I’d rather it had been any one else. Tell me, is there any reason I shouldn’t hand you over to the police?”

No answer.

“Speak, please. Is there any reason?...”

Her arms dropped. She straightened up, and looked him full in the face.

“There is. I’m starving. I haven’t tasted food for two days....” Then she sank at his feet.

2.

Two hours later they were in a lonely corner of a restaurant. She had satisfied her hunger, and was sitting silent, downcast, sullen.

He looked at her with keen, bright eyes. “Poor little devil!” he thought, “perhaps she isn’t so bad after all.” Then aloud he said: “I suppose when you went to the Twitcher’s room your intention was to steal?”

She hesitated. After all, what did it matter? “Yes,” she answered. “I went down there to steal.”

“You also stole the money belonging to the Swede women....”

“No, I didn’t do that. I swear I didn’t....”

He looked at her steadily. He did not believe her.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s going to become of you?”

“I don’t know.”

He leaned back, his hands clasping his knee. He noted a tress of bright gold hair coiling over her hollow cheek.

“I mustn’t leave her to her fate,” he thought.

Bending forward he said impulsively: “Look here, let me lend you some money.”

A deep flush stained her cheek. He, too, was one of them ... the beasts. Sharply she answered:

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t choose to accept your aid.”

“It seems to me you’re not in a position to refuse it; you haven’t a sou. To-morrow you’re to be turned out of your room. Madam will certainly keep all your belongings. You will have nowhere to go. You have no friends here. You are not fit to do any work. You are on the verge of a break-down. Again I ask ... what’s going to become of you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Look here ... suppose I lay a charge against you of entering my room with intent to steal,—will you deny it?”

“No.”

“Well then, you are in my power. You must submit to my conditions.”

She looked at him sullenly. “What are they?”

“I’m not going to lend you any money, but I am going to help you in my own way. First of all, I want you to promise me that you will never enter the Casino again.”

She laughed bitterly. “I’ll promise that. I hate the place.”

“Now, I’m taking a room in the Condamine. I want you to come there and be my housekeeper.”

She could not keep the contempt out of her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said sharply. “I see you don’t understand.”

“You don’t mean ... that?”

“No, damn it, I don’t mean—that.”

She looked at him with new interest, steadily, wonderingly. He went on: “It’s a big room. We’ll divide it into three, with screens and curtains. There will be your part, and my part, and a common one to be used as a kitchen and dining-room. Don’t fear. You’ll be as safe behind your curtain as if you were in a room with doors double-locked.”

She had never met a man like this. Wonder widened her eyes. He laughed to see it, a frank boyish laugh.

“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I don’t see why it won’t work, though. If I were a Frenchman, it surely wouldn’t. But we Anglo-Saxons are a cold-blooded lot. We’re idealists, given to doing strange, mad things. I give you my word of honour I will respect you as I would a sister. There you have it. We will be brother and sister. We are enough alike to pass for that. I had intended to do my own cooking, but that will be your job now. Then, while you are resting quietly and getting back your health, I will attack the Casino and get back your money.”

“How will you do that?”

“By playing. I hate to play, but if I do I have an idea I can win. At least I can afford to risk a thousand francs and with that I propose to win back the two thousand you need to take you to Paris.”

“No, no. You mustn’t play. No one ever wins there. You’ll lose everything.”

“Leave it to me. Come on now, it’s decided. That you trust me, is all I ask. Everything will come out right. In six weeks I promise you I’ll send you back to Paris with enough money to start your little shop. Brother and sister,—n’est ce pas?”

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I am in your hands. You can do with me as you will.”

Again he laughed that boyish laugh. “There! don’t look so tragic. Everything’s lovely. Come on, we’ll get back to the pension.”

They walked in silence through the exotic gardens. The pink clock in the tower of the Casino pointed to half an hour after midnight; the shutters were descending over the entrance doors. He looked at the place with a new interest. Hitherto it had meant nothing to him. Now he saw in it an antagonist. He was looking on a battle-ground where he would win or fall. On the morrow the fight would begin.

So absorbed was he that he forgot the girl by his side. Then a soft sound aroused him. He looked down and saw that she was crying.

END OF BOOK TWO