Brown confided. “Cheyne here has been warning us that crime has become an overcrowded industry in his country and that they are sending missionaries over here!”
“That’s a fact, all right,” Cheyne admitted. “The trouble about you folk in this part of the world is that the Press doesn’t help. If you have a good he-murder, you suppress it instead of advertising it.”
“What about starting a newspaper here, Bradley?” Terence Brown suggested.
“I should have as much chance of being allowed to do that as of being elected Dictator of this Principality,” Bradley remarked drily.
“Is that all the news? Is there nothing else fresh to tell me, after all these months?” Roger enquired.
“A few choice pieces of scandal,” Lady Julia confided. “They must keep though. Christos is here to-night.”
Every one was rising to their feet. There was a movement towards the door.
“What’s happening?” Roger demanded.
“The baccarat has started,” Terence Brown announced, looking back over his shoulder. “Christos is here. Christos, the philanthropist, with a few millions to distribute. Look at us all hurrying off for the crumbs!”
“All very well to laugh,” Maggie Saunders grumbled, “but they won’t keep a place for a minute.”
They trooped out. The magic name of Christos seemed to be a call to their blood. Christos was the one great banker at baccarat who had his spells of bad luck. They were all of them thirsting for his money. The home-coming of an old friend whom no one had seen for over a year had already slipped into the background of their thoughts. Gambling was in the atmosphere. It was gambling that counted. Human beings and human emotions shrank back into their proper places. Roger was back again—tant mieux! A pleasant fellow, a distinguished companion, a fine golfer and tennis player, but Christos was seated in the coveted place dominating that long green baize table, and presently the fingers of Christos were going to deal cards which meant—well, thousands, or hundreds of thousands, whichever you would. The money was there.
Roger, leaning back in his chair, found himself deserted by every one except Cheyne. The latter settled down by his side and they ordered another drink.
“Playing polo?” Roger asked.
“I played a few times at Cannes last month,” the other replied. “It didn’t go so well with me as it used to.”
“You put in a pretty good spell of work in New York, didn’t you, the last three or four years?”
Luke Cheyne nodded.
“Great city, great country,” he observed. “But no good for any one with nerves. I’m not the man I was, Sloane, when I used to play outside right against you.”
Roger yawned. Polo didn’t interest him very much these days.
“What’s all this talk about some of your bad boys from New York paying us a visit over here?” he asked.
Cheyne was silent for a moment. Turning to glance at him, Roger was sympathetically disturbed at the change in the man. He could scarcely be over thirty-five, but he had lost his poise, his directness of vision, his complexion. He looked like a man who was feverishly seeking middle age.
“To tell you the truth, I got a bit mixed up with some bootleggers myself in New York,” he confided. “Nothing serious, of course, but there was big money in it and a certain amount of sport to start with. I soon got cold feet, I don’t mind admitting it, so I cleaned up and came over here. But I get news sometimes from the other side. There are too many of them on the job there. I haven’t heard anything definite, of course,” he went on, “but I sometimes fancy that if they realised the loose money there is floating about here and the careless way people treat it, it wouldn’t be long before we had some kind of visitation.”
Roger tapped a cigarette upon the table and lit it.
“The French police wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing,” he observed.
“Wouldn’t they?” his companion answered drily. “I don’t know what they would do about it, if the right men got over. Then there’s another thing. We’re in the Principality of Monaco here and they’re very jealous of outside help.”
Roger suddenly abandoned the conversation in which he was not greatly interested.
“Luke,” he said, “you have been here for some time. Who is that plump little Frenchman with the pink cheeks and smooth face and villainous-looking eyes on the stool at the bar there? He’s done nothing but watch us in the looking glass and if ever I saw a man trying to listen, he’s doing it. I’m certain I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.”
Cheyne glanced carelessly at the person whom Roger had pointed out.
“He’s a Niçois who’s made a lot of money. Gambles a bit sometimes, but I’ve never even heard his name. Aren’t you going to try your luck at baccarat?”
Roger shook his head. Somehow or other his thoughts had wandered away, back to his villa on the hillside. The sweet half-drugged perfume of orange blossoms was disturbing his senses.
“I don’t feel the urge yet,” he confessed. “I think I shall watch the people for a time. Don’t let me keep you, though.”
Cheyne sauntered off but his mind was not immediately set on gambling. He accosted Savonarilda, who was standing in the doorway and drew him a short distance down the passage.
“Marcus,” he said quietly. “Tell me. Is Viotti here?”
Savonarilda paused to take out his cigarette case. There was a curious but significant change in his manner.
“If I were you, Luke,” he advised, “I should not ask any questions. Not any questions at all. I should forget that you know a person of that name. With us, it is different. We meet as a matter of course. Let it remain like that.”
“Be frank with me, Marcus,” Cheyne begged. “I know Viotti hates any one to quit. I can’t help remembering,” he added, with a shudder, “what happened to the other two who broke away. How do I stand with him and you others? There’s no bad feeling, eh? Viotti must know that I’d as soon put a gun to my forehead as squeal. He must know that.”
Savonarilda smiled slowly and lazily. They had reached the spot where the passage branched into the Nouvel Hôtel and he swung around again, his hand upon Cheyne’s shoulder.
“Do not be foolish, my friend Luke Cheyne,” he recommended. “We’re in Monte Carlo, not on Sixth Avenue. Besides, Viotti has no ill feelings against any one. If you come across any of the others except me—you have done so already, I daresay—I should fail to recognise them. Otherwise, we are still all friends. We are taking a vacation. You have nothing to fear. Why, I should not be surprised if Viotti sent and asked you to come and see him. You were always rather a favorite of his.”
The idea of a visit to Viotti evidently made no appeal to his late colleague.
“We are better apart,” the latter said doubtfully. “Much better apart. Let me ask you one more question, Marcus. That brother of Viotti’s, who is always hanging about here—little fat man, looks like a peasant out on a fête day—what’s he doing here? Is Viotti using him for a spy?”
Savonarilda paused at the entrance to the Baccarat Room.
“You should know better than to ask me a question like that, Luke,” he remonstrated, with a certain amount of smothered irritation. “It is not discreet. It is foolish of you. Come and see if there is room at the baccarat table.”
Roger, after the departure of Luke Cheyne, was kept fully occupied for the next half-hour or so by greeting acquaintances and exchanging reminiscences. At the end of that time, a little bored with it all, he strolled into the gambling rooms, which as usual at that time of night were crowded. The greater part