THE HOTEL DU CERCLE
Bruce did not go to Bournemouth.
He quitted London by the next mail, and after a wearisome journey of
thirty-six hours, found himself in the garden courtyard of the Hotel du
Cercle at Monte Carlo.
Refreshed by a bath and an excellent _dejeuner_, he decided to go
quietly to work and search the visitors' book for himself without asking
any questions. The Hotel du Cercle was a popular resort, and it took him
some time, largely devoted to the elucidation of hieroglyphic
signatures, before he was quite satisfied that no one even remotely
suggestive of the name of Sydney H. Corbett had recorded his presence in
the hotel since the first week in November.
The barrister, for the first time, began to doubt Mrs. Hillmer. Twice
had her statements not been verified by facts. It was with an expression
of keen annoyance at his own folly in trusting so much to a favorable
impression that he turned to the hotel clerk to ask if the name of Mr.
Sydney H. Corbett was familiar to him.
The courteous Frenchman screwed up his forehead into a reflective frown
before he answered: "But yes, monsieur. Me, I have not seen the
gentleman, but he exists. There have been letters--two, three letters."
"Ah, letters! Has he received them?"
The attendant examined a green baize-covered board, decorated with
diamonds of tape, in which was stuck an assortment of letters, mostly
addressed to American tourists.
"They were here! They have gone! Then he has taken them!"
"Yes," cried Bruce; "but surely you know something about him?"
"Nothing. This hall is open to all the world."
"Do you tell me that any one can come here and take any letters which
may be stuck in that rack?"
"Will the gentleman be pleased to consider? Many persons give their
address here days and weeks before they come to arrive. Some persons, in
the manner of Monte Carlo, do not wish their names to be known of
everybody. We cannot distinguish. We do not allow the address of the
hotel to be used improperly, if we know it; but there are no
complaints."
The barrister did not argue the matter further. He only said: "Perhaps
you can tell me thus far, as I am very anxious to meet Mr. Corbett.
About how long is it since the last letter came for him?"
"But certainly. It came yesterday. It was re-addressed from some place
in London. If possible, with the next one I will keep watch for Mr.
Corbett."
So Mrs. Hillmer had not misled him. The so-called Corbett was in Monte
Carlo, but had possibly disguised himself under another name. Again did
Bruce consult the hotel register, this time with the aid of the vendors'
list in the Springbok Mine, but without result.
There was nothing for it but to familiarize himself with Monte Carlo and
its _habitues_, awaiting developments in the chase of Corbett. In
January, when London alternates between fog and sleet, it is not an
intolerable thing to remain in forced idleness amid the sunshine and
flowers of the Riviera. There are two ways of "doing" Monte Carlo. You
may live riotously, lose your substance at the Casino, and go home on a
free ticket supplied by the proprietors of the gambling saloons, or you
may enjoy to the utmost the keen air, magnificent scenery, fine
promenades, and excellent music--the two latter provided by the same
benevolent agency.
It is needless to say which of these alternatives appealed to Claude
Bruce. Being a rich man, it was of no consequence to him to lose a few
louis in backing the red for a five minutes' bit of excitement. Being a
sensible one, he then quitted the Casino and went for a stroll in the
gardens.
Fashion, backed by the doctors, has decreed that no longer shall
the northern littoral of the Mediterranean be the only haven of
rest for those afflicted with pulmonary complaints. Weak-chested and
consumptive people are now banished to the windless and icy altitudes
of Switzerland; so of recent years a walk through Nice, Mentone, or
Monte Carlo itself is not such a depressing experience as it was when
every second person encountered was a hopeless invalid.
A pigeon-shooting match was in progress, and, as Bruce fell in with a
friend who took a prominent part in local life, the two entered the club
grounds to watch the contest.
At the moment a handsome, well-set-up young Englishman was shooting off
a tie with a Russian count. A very pretty girl, with a delicate and
refined beauty enhanced by a pleasant expression, was taking a most
unfeminine interest in the slaughter of the pigeons by the Englishman.
Her eyes spoke her thoughts. It was as if they said: "I do not want the
birds to be killed, but I want a certain person to win."
Nine birds each had been grassed, and the Russian was growing impatient.
The Englishman was cool, his fair backer keenly excited. The Count fired
and missed his tenth. Up rose the Englishman's bird, and the girl could
not restrain an impetuous "Now!"
So the Englishman missed also.
Amidst the buzz of comment which arose, Bruce said to his companion:
"What's going on?"
"This is the final tie in the International. It is a big prize, and each
man has backed himself heavily. The two are Albert Mensmore and Count
Bischkoff. The girl has taken all the nerve out of Mensmore. Bar
accident, he is a goner."
The cynic was right. In the thirteenth round the count alone scored, and
smiled largely in response to his antagonist's quiet congratulations. As
for the girl, it was with difficulty she restrained her tears.
"I think that we have witnessed a tragedy," said Bruce's acquaintance as
they walked off; and the barrister agreed with him. He was sorry for
Mensmore and his pretty supporter. Mayhap the loss of the match meant a
great deal to both of them.
That night he learned by chance that Mensmore lived at the Hotel du
Cercle. He met him in the billiard-room and tried to inveigle him into
conversation. But the young fellow was too miserable to respond to his
advances. Beyond a mere civil acknowledgement of some slight act of
politeness, Bruce could not draw him out.
Next morning he saw Mensmore again. If the man looked haggard the
previous evening his appearance now was positively startling, that is,
to one of Bruce's powers of observation. Ninety-nine men out of a
hundred would have seen that Mensmore had not slept well. Bruce was
assured that, for some reason, the other's brain was dominated by some
overwhelming idea, and one which might eventuate in a tragic manner were
it to be allowed to go unchecked.
For some reason he took a good deal of interest in his unfortunate
fellow-countryman, and determined to help him if the opportunity
presented itself.
It came, with dramatic rapidity.
During dinner he noticed that Mensmore was in such a state of mental
disturbance that he ate and drank with the air of one who is feverishly
wasting rather than replenishing his strength.
Soon after eight o'clock, at the hour when frequenters of the Casino go
there in order to secure a seat for the evening's play, Mensmore quitted
the dining-room. Bruce followed him unobstrusively, and was just in time
to see him enter the lift.
The barrister waited in the hall, having first secured his hat and
overcoat from the bureau, where he happened to have left them.
Even while he noted the descending lift, in which he could see Mensmore,
who had donned a light covert coat, the breast of which bulged somewhat
on the left side, the hotel clerk came to him, triumphantly holding a
letter.
"And now, monsieur," cried the clerk, "we shall see what we shall see."
The missive was addressed to the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett, and had
been forwarded by the Sloane Square Post-Office.
With a clang the door of the lift swung open and Mensmore hastened out.
Bruce had to decide instantly between the chance of seeing Corbett with
his own eyes and pursuing the fanciful errand he had mapped out in
imagination with reference to the stranger who so interested him.
"Thank you," he said to the clerk. "I am going to the Casino for an
hour; you will greatly oblige me by keeping a sharp lookout for any one
who claims the letter."
"Monsieur, it shall have my utmost regard."
The barrister had not erred in his surmise as to Mensmore's destination.
The young man walked straight across the square and entered the grounds
of the famous Casino.
Indoors, an excellent band was playing a selection from "The Geisha."
The spacious _foyer_ was fast filling with a fashionable throng;
without, the silver radiance of the moon, lighting up gardens, rocks,
buildings, and sea, might well have added the last link to the pleasant
bondage that would keep any one from the gambling saloon that night; but
Mensmore heeded none of these things.
He passed the barrier, closely followed by Bruce, crossed the _foyer_,
and disappeared through the baize doors that guard the magnificent room
in which roulette is played.
Round several of the tables a fairly considerable crowd had gathered
already. The more, the merrier, is the rule of the Casino. There is
something curiously fascinating for the gambler in the presence of
others. It would seem to be an almost ridiculous thing for a man to
stalk solemnly up to a deserted board and stake his money on the chances
of the game merely for the edification of the officials in charge.
Bruce entered the room soon after Mensmore, and saw the latter elbowing
his way to a seat about to be vacated by a stout Spanish lady, who had
rapidly lost the sum she allowed herself to stake each day.
She was one of those numerous players who bring to the Casino a certain
amount daily, and systematically stop playing when they have either lost
their money or won a previously determined maximum.
This method, in fact, when combined with a careful system, is the only
one whereby even a rich individual can indulge in a costly pastime, and,
at the same time, escape speedy ruin. With a fair share of luck it may
be made to pay; with continuous bad fortune the loss is spread over such
a period that common sense has some opportunity to rescue the victim
before it is too late.
Claude took up a position from which he could note the actions of the
stranger in whom he was so interested. At first, Mensmore staked
nothing. He placed a small pile of gold in front of him; he seemed to
listen expectantly to the _croupier's_ monotonous cry--"_Vingt-sept_,
_rouge_, _impair_, _passe_," or "_Dixhuit_, _noir_, _pair_, _manque_,"
and so on, while the little ivory ball whirred around the disc, and the
long rakes, with unerring skill, drew in or pushed forward the sums lost
or won.
The dominant expression of Mensmore's face as he sat and listened was
one of disappointment. Something for which he waited did not happen. At
last, with a tightening of his lips and a gathering sternness in his
eyes, he placed five louis on the red, the number previously called
being thirteen.
Black won.
For the next three attempts, each time with a five louis stake on the
board, Mensmore backed the red, but still black won.
Next to him, an Italian, betting in notes of a thousand francs each,
had quadrupled his first bet by backing the black.
Both men rose simultaneously, the Italian grinning delightedly at a
smart Parisienne, who joyously nodded her congratulations, the
Englishman quiet, utterly unmoved, but slightly pallid.
He passed out into the _foyer_ and stopped to light a cigarette. Bruce
noticed that his hand was steady, and that all the air of excitement had
gone.
These were ill signs. There is no man so calm as he who has deliberately
resolved to take his own life. That Mensmore was ruined, that he was
hopelessly in love with a woman whom he could not marry, and that he was
about to commit suicide, Bruce was as certain as though the facts had
been proved by a coroner.
But this thing should not happen if he could prevent it.
The band was now playing one of Waldteufel's waltzes. Mensmore listened
to the fascinating melody for a moment. He hesitated at the door of the
writing-room; but he went out, puffing furiously at his cigarette. A
guard looked at him as he turned to the right of the entrance, and made
for the shaded terraces overlooking the sea.
"A silent Englishman," thought the man; and he caught sight of Bruce,
also smoking, preoccupied, and solitary.
"Another silent Englishman. _Mon Dieu!_ What miserable lives these
English lead!"
And so the two vanished into the blackness of the foliage, while, within
the brilliantly lighted building, the _frou-frou_ of silk mingled with
soft laughter and the sweet strains of music.
If it be true that extremes meet, then this was a night for a tragedy.