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.
“sherlock!” 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 palm-tree, 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.
