At Monte Carlo the Professor captured a porter and rescued his luggage.
Exhausted by this effort, and by the attempt to communicate with the
porter, first in Latin and then in French as practised at Purewater, he
withdrew to a corner of the waiting-room and fished in his pockets for
the address of the quiet _pension_ in the hills. He found it at last,
and handed it wearily to the porter. The latter threw up his hands.
“_Parti! Parti! Autobus_ gone.” That devil of a woman had been right!
When would there be another, the Professor asked.
Not till tomorrow morning at 8:30. To confirm his statement the porter
pointed to a large time-table on the wall of the waiting-room. The
Professor scanned it and sat down again with a groan. He was about to
consult his companion as to the possibility of finding a night’s lodging
in a respectable _pension_ (fantastic as the idea seemed in such a
place); but hardly had he begun: “Can you tell me where—” when, with a
nod of comprehension and a wink of complicity, the porter returned in
fluent English: “Pretty ladies? Turkish bath? Fottographs?”
The Professor repudiated these suggestions with a shudder, and leaving
his bags in the cloak-room set forth on his quest. He had hardly taken
two steps when another stranger of obviously doubtful morality offered
him a pamphlet which he was indignantly rejecting when he noticed its
title: “The Theory of Chance in Roulette.” The theory of chance was
deeply interesting to the Professor, and the idea of its application to
roulette not without an abstract attraction. He bought the pamphlet and
sat down on the nearest bench.
His study was so absorbing that he was roused only by the fall of
twilight, and the scattered twinkle of many lamps all radiating up to
the central focus of the Casino. The Professor started to his feet,
remembering that he had still to find a lodging. “And I must be up early
to catch the bus,” he reminded himself. He took his way down a wide
empty street apparently leading to a quieter and less illuminated
quarter. This street he followed for some distance, vainly scrutinizing
the houses, which seemed all to be private dwellings, till at length he
ran against a slim well-set-up young fellow in tennis flannels, with a
bright conversational eye, who was strolling along from the opposite
direction.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the Professor.
“What for?” rejoined the other, in a pleasant tone made doubly pleasant
by the familiar burr of the last word, which he pronounced like _fur_.
“Why, you’re an American!” exclaimed the Professor.
“Sher_lock_!” exulted the young man, extending his hand. “I diagnose the
same complaint in yourself.”
The Professor sighed pleasurably. “Oh, yes. What I want,” he added, “is
to find a plain quiet boarding-house or family hotel.”
“Same as mother used to make ’em?” The young man reflected. “Well, it’s
a queer place in which to prosecute your search; but there _is_ one at
Monte, and I’m about the only person that knows it. My name’s Taber
Tring. Come along.”
For a second the Professor’s eye rested doubtfully on Mr. Tring. He
knew, of course—even at Purewater it was known—that in the corrupt
capitals of Europe one could not always rely implicitly on the
information given by strangers casually encountered; no, not even when
it was offered with affability, and in the reassuring twang of the
Western States. But after all Monte Carlo was not a capital; it was just
an absurd little joke of a town crammed on a ledge between sea and
mountain; and a second glance at the young man convinced the Professor
that he was as harmless as the town.
Mr. Tring, who seemed quick at thought-reading, returned his look with
an amused glance.
“Not much like our big and breezy land, is it? These Riviera resorts
always remind me of the subway at rush hours; everybody strap-hanging.
But my landlady is an old friend, and I know one of her boarders left
this morning, because I heard her trying to seize his luggage. He got
away; so I don’t see why you shouldn’t have his room. See?”
The Professor saw. But he became immediately apprehensive of having his
own luggage seized, an experience unprecedented in his history.
“Are such things liable to occur in this place?” he enquired.
“What? A scrap with your landlady? Not if you pay up regularly; or if
she likes you. I guess she didn’t like that other fellow; and I know he
was always on the wrong side of the tables.”
“The tables—do you refer to the gambling tables?” The Professor stopped
short to put the question.
“That’s it,” said the other.
“And do you yourself sometimes visit the gambling-rooms?” the Professor
next enquired.
“Oh, hell,” said Taber Tring expressively.
The Professor scrutinized him with growing interest. “And have you a
theory of chance?”
The young man met his gaze squarely. “I have; but it can’t be put into
language that would pass the censor.”
“Ah—you refer, no doubt, to your personal experience. But, as regards
the theory—”
“Well, the theory has let me down to bedrock; and I came down on it
devilish hard.” His expression turned from apathy to animation. “I’m
stony broke; but if you’d like to lend me a hundred francs to have
another try—”
“Oh, no,” said the Professor hastily; “I don’t possess it.” And his
doubts began to stir again.
Taber Tring laughed. “Of course you don’t; not for lending purposes. I
was only joking; everybody makes that joke here. Well, here’s the house;
I’ll go ahead and rout out our hostess.”
They stopped before a pleasant-looking little house at the end of the
street. A palmtree, a couple of rose-bushes and a gateway surmounted by
the word _Arcadie_ divided it from the pavement; the Professor drew a
breath of relief as a stout lady in an orange wig bustled out to receive
him.
In spite of the orange wig her face was so full of a shrewd benevolence
that the Professor felt sure he had reached a haven of rest. She
welcomed him affably, informed him that she had a room, and offered to
lead him up to it. “Only for tonight, though? For it is promised to a
Siamese nobleman for tomorrow.”
This, the Professor assured her, made no difference, as he would be
leaving at daylight. But on the lowest step of the stair he turned and
addressed himself to Mr. Tring.
“Perhaps the lady would be good enough to have my bags brought up from
the station? If you would kindly explain that I’m going out now to take
a little stroll. As I’m leaving so early tomorrow it’s my only chance to
have a look around.”
“That’s so; I’ll tell her,” the young man rejoined sympathetically; and
as the Professor’s hand was on the gate, he heard Mr. Tring call out,
mimicking the stentorian tones of a megaphone man on a sight-seeing
motorbus: “Third street to the left, then first right to the tables”;
after which he added, in his natural tone: “Say, Arcadia locks up at
midnight.”
The Professor smiled at the superfluous hint.