lingered
aimlessly in Monte Carlo. Life seemed over for him. But time remained,
and must be killed, unless he preferred to kill himself. He had met Dick
Carleton in Egypt last year, where the youngest American aeronaut was
making experiments with a new monoplane in a convenient tract of desert.
At that time Captain Hannaford had not worn the little black silk pads.
He was grateful to the American for not seeming to look at them now.

"I'm here for the flying, with a hydro-aeroplane I'm rather proud of,"
Carleton went on, "but I'm not staying at Monte. I'm visiting Jim
Schuyler, at his place between here and Cabbe-Roquebrune. Lovely place
it is. No wonder he never bothers with the Casino, except for concerts
and opera. Have you met him?"

"No. But I know him by name, of course. The names of these American
millionaires are all-pervading, like microbes. Why does he pitch his
tent on the threshold of Monte, if not for the Casino?"

"He says lots of people live about here who never play: and there are
other attractions. He has all the gambling he wants in Wall Street:
comes here for beauty and music. He gets plenty of both; doesn't go in
for society any more than for roulette, but seems to enjoy himself, the
two or three months he does the hermit act in his gorgeous garden. He's
at the opera to-night. Motored me over. We'll meet, and go back together
to Stellamare. Meanwhile----"

"Meanwhile, I rather guess, as you'd say, that you'd like to meet my
charming--er--acquaintance, and her friend."

"I _never_ say 'guess,' nor does anybody else, except in books or plays,
but I should like to meet the ladies."

"Madame d'Ambre is so busy regretting she didn't get smaller change for
her _protegee's_ unforeseen charities that she's forgotten us. I was
watching the fun at your table, toward the last."

At the sound of her name, the Frenchwoman turned. Four thousand francs
was gone forever, but there was as little use in wailing over money
wasted as in crying for spilt milk, so she smiled her pathetic,
turned-down smile at Captain Hannaford, and looked wistfully at Dick
Carleton. Then quickly, lest further irrevocable things should happen,
she laid her hand on Mary's arm. It was a gloved hand, and the glove had
been mended many times. Soon, it must be thrown away; but perhaps that
need not matter now. There might be a path leading to new gloves and
other things. She introduced Captain Hannaford to Mademoiselle Grant,
and he in