g device of the devil--a
game of tipsy marbles, rolling about in search of sunken saucers
emblazoned with the arms of the nations of the earth. These whirligigs of
amateur crime are constantly surrounded by eager-eyed men and women, who
try their luck for the amusement of the moment, or by broken-down, seedy
gamblers, hazarding their last coin for a turn of fortune. Now and then,
too, some sweet-faced girl, her arm in her father's, wins a louis with a
franc, her childish laughter ringing out in the stifling atmosphere.

* * * * *

The Tyrolean warbler had just finished her high-keyed falsetto, bowing
backward in her short skirts and stout shoes with silver buckles, and I
had just reached the long corridor on my way to the garden, to escape the
blare and pound of the band, when a man leaned out of a half-opened door
and touched my shoulder.

"Pardon, monsieur. May I speak to you a moment?"

He was a short, thick-set, smooth-shaven, greasy man, dressed plainly in
black, with a huge emerald pin in his shirt front. I have never had any
particular use for a man with an emerald pin in his shirt front.

"There will be a game of baccarat," he continued in a low voice, his eyes
glancing about furtively, "at eleven o'clock precisely. Knock twice at
this door."

Old habitues of Lucerne--habitues of years, men who never cross the Alps
without at least a day's stroll under the Noah's-ark trees,--will tell you
over their coffee that since the opening of the St. Gotthard Tunnel this
half-way house of Lucerne--this oasis between Paris and Rome--has
sheltered most of the adventurers of Europe; that under these same trees,
and on these very benches, nihilists have sat and plotted, refugees and
outlaws have talked in whispers, and adventuresses, with jeweled stilettos
tucked in their bosoms, have lain in wait for fresher victims.

I had never in my wanderings met any of these mysterious and delightful
people. And, strange to say, I had never seen a game of baccarat. This
might be my opportunity. I would see the game and perhaps run across some
of these curious individuals. I consulted my watch; there was half an hour
yet. The man was a runner, of course, for this underground, unlicensed
gaming-house, who had picked me out as a possible victim.

When the moment arrived I knocked at the door.

It was opened, not by the greasy Jack-in-the-box with the emerald pin, but
by a deferential old man, who look