of great wealth, with a house in Grosvenor Square and four country
seats. Already the pair of adventurers had compelled her to pawn some of
her jewels and hand them the proceeds. She was quite innocent of having
committed any wrong, yet she dreaded lest her husband's suspicions might
be excited, and had no desire that he should learn that she had deceived
him by going to Monte Carlo instead of to her sister's. The real reason
was that she liked the gaiety and sunshine of the place, while her
husband strongly disapproved of it.

Certainly her clandestine visit had cost her dear.

"Well," exclaimed Hoggan, the perfect lover, "you'd better see her
ladyship as soon as possible. Guess she's still in London, eh?"

"I'll ring up later on and ask the fat old butler. But you clear out
right away, boy. There's no time to lose. Write to me at the _Poste
Restante_ in the Strand. Don't write here, the police may get hold of my
mail."

"If her ladyship turns on you, I guess you'll have to look slick."

"Bah! No fear of that, sonny. We've got her right there."

"You can't ever be sure where a woman is concerned. She might suddenly
throw discretion to the winds, and tell her husband all about it. Then
you, too, would have to clear right away."

"Guess I should," replied Patten. "But I don't fear her. I mean to get
another thousand out of her. Women who make fools of themselves have to
pay for it."

"Well, I must say you engineered it wonderfully," declared Hoggan.

"And I'll do so again with a little luck," his friend declared. "Come
and have another cocktail, and then shake the dust of this infernal city
off your feet. Every time you have a drink things look different."

The two men passed into the inner room, where the bar was situated, and
after a final Martini each, went out together into the handsome hall of
the hotel.

"Wal, so long, old pal! Clear out right away," whispered Patten, as he
shook his friend's hand.

And next moment Silas P. Hoggan passed across the courtyard and into the
busy Strand, once more a fugitive from justice.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE GREEN TABLE.

One afternoon a fortnight later Ralph Ansell, well dressed, and posing
as usual as a wealthy American, who had lived for many years in France,
stood at the window of his room in the expensive Palace Hotel at
Trouville, gazing upon the sunny _plage_, with its boarded promenade
placed on the wide stretch of yellow sand.

In the sunshine there