McClure's Magazine/Volume 55/Number 4/A Game of Bluff
Illustration:
Jim Maitland, Adventurer Extraordinary
THE hero of this story and of “McClure's Magazine/Volume 55/Number 3/The Killing of Baron Stockmar”—which appeared in McClure's last month—is one of the most fascinating characters in contemporary fiction. With the creation of Jim Maitland, Major H. C. McNeile author of “Bulldog Drummond,” has surpassed himself. Next month, in a story no reader will want to miss, Major McNeile takes us to South America to tell how Jim Maitland played the rescuing knight to a girl trapped in a waterfront cabaret.
A Game of Bluff
In Which Jim Maitland Wins the Jack Pot, but Fails to Show His Hand
By Major H. C. McNeile
illustrations by G. W. Gage
DADDY, what is bluff?”
Young Jim put down his book and looked inquiringly at his father, who was reading the Beekeeper's Budget. And with a faint smile old Jim placed that excellent publication on his knee, and gazed at his offspring.
“Bluff, my son, is winning an unlimited jack pot with a queen-high hand from a fellow with three aces—and upsetting the table before you can be asked to show your openers. Bluff, my boy, is, in short, the art of winning a game with losing cards; and the essence of that art is to play the hand right through as if you held winners, without a thought of failure. Not a touch of hesitation, not a moment of doubt.”
“Jim, will you be quiet!” cried Mrs. Jim indignantly. “I will not have you putting these dreadful ideas into the boy's head. He doesn't mean that sort of bluff at all; he wants to know why Henry VIII was called Bluff King Hal.”
Jim Maitland winked at me, as he stretched out at full length in his chair.
“But surely, my dear,” he murmured mildly, “there was no touch of hesitation or moment of doubt in that gentleman's love—affairs. Talking of bluff, Dick,” he went on, turning to me, “do you remember that little episode at Monte Carlo?”
“Do I not!” I answered. “Mrs. Jim, you shall judge for yourself the value of bluff.”
It was after the wound in his shoulder was healed—the wound which he had received in fighting Baron Carl Stockmar out in the desert south of Khartum—that Jim and I embarked on a homegoing P. & O., at Port Said. As usual, our plans were vague, but we finally decided to get off at Marseilles.
Incidentally, the purser's humor had something to do with our decision, if such a great being as the purser has anything to do with arranging the ship's menus. The Gulf of Lyons was at its worst, which means that food should be chosen with care. And to select pork chops for dinner simply shows a fiendish ingenuity not far short of diabolical. In tens and dozens, weeping women and frenzied men lurched from the dining saloon, until but a bare score of hardened sinners were left endeavoring to conceal their unseemly mirth.
It was the uncontrolled joy of a very pretty girl sitting two tables away from us that had quite a lot to do with our disembarking at Marseilles. I had noticed man who had been sitting beside her rise suddenly, and depart, with a fixed and glassy stare in his eyes. And, it being an ill wind in more senses than one, his place had immediately been taken by a boy who moved up from the other end of the table.
WE knew the boy slightly—a youngster by the name of Jack Rawson. He was in cotton in Alexandria—a junior member of one of the big firms—and he was returning to England on business. And after a while Jim turned to me with a faint smile, and then looked across again at the pair of them.
“The only story in the world, old man,” he remarked, “that is older than seasickness.”
“Who is the girl?” I asked.
“An Australian, I think. Jack told me her name. Mother is at Nice, and I suppose the bird who fled from the crackling is Father.”
We finished our dinner and went above. She was pitching very badly in a long, following swell, and for an hour or so we strolled up and down the almost deserted deck. And it wasn't until we were thinking of a nightcap before turning in that we stumbled on Jack Rawson and the girl, snugly ensconced in a sheltered corner. We tried to get away unnoticed, but the boy hailed Jim at once.
“Maitland!” he cried. “I want to introduce you to Miss Melville, my fiancée.”
Jim bowed gravely, and smiled.
“My heartiest congratulations,” he remarked. “A pork chop is sometimes a godsend, isn't it?”
They laughed, and for a few minutes we talked. Young Jack, we gathered, was getting out at Marseilles, and going to meet her mother at Nice. Then he was coming back overland so as to reach London at the same time he would have if he'd stuck to the boat. And then the question of her father would crop up. For they had become engaged only that night, and Mr. Melville was still in ignorance of the fact. That, indeed, was where the trouble came in. Would he have sufficiently recovered by the following morning to make it advisable to spring the news on him? Or would he feel that a mean advantage had been taken while he was otherwise employed? It was undoubtedly a point demanding careful consideration.
THE girl was dubious. She was convinced that the next morning would not be the opportune time to tell him. And, that being the case, why should Jack suddenly alter his plan of going home by sea, and come to Nice? In fact, what was to be done? How could Jack come to Nice in an easy, natural manner, which should cause no suspicion on the part of her paternal parent, and at the same time allow the news of the engagement to be broken at a more favorable time?
We discussed the knotty point at some length, until Jim suddenly settled things in his usual direct way. He and I would also break our journey at Marseilles and go to Nice, or rather to Monte Carlo, and Jack would come with us.
And with that, cutting short their thanks, we left them, and retired to the smoking room.
Somewhat needless to state, we did not see much of young Jack during the next three or four days. We lounged about the terrace, and had a mild flutter or two at the tables. But the place irked—irked terribly. It was so intensely, superlatively artificial. And Jim particularly sickened of it.
“By Jove, Dick,” he said to me, on the fourth night of our stay, “I've seen more primitive sin in my life than most of the people here put together, but I don't believe there's a place in the whole world where quite so much rottenness is concealed beneath a beautiful surface as in Monte. I'm no moralist, but I like things big. Big virtues—big sins, if you like. But in this place the only thing that is big is the price. Hello!” he went on slowly, staring over my shoulder. “Here's Jack Rawson. And something has happened.”
I turned round and saw the boy coming toward us. He was walking unevenly, and on his face was a look of hopeless despair.
“Well, young fellow,” said Jim quietly, as he came abreast of us, “what's the worry?”
JACK paused, and seemed to see us for the first time. Then, with a quick shake of his head, he made as if to pass on. But he had only gone a step or two when Jim's hand fell on his shoulder, and spun him round.
“Let me go, confound you!” muttered the boy.
“All in good time, old man,” said Jim in the same quiet voice. “Just at the moment I think a little talk will clear the air.”
He forced Jack to a seat between us, and suddenly put his hand into the boy's coat pocket.
“This won't help, Jack,” he said a little sternly, and I saw that he had a small revolver in his hand. “That's never the way out, except for a coward.”
Then the boy broke down, and I caught Jim's eye over the shaking shoulders. It was savage and angry, as if he realized, even then, that we were in the presence of another of those rotten little tragedies which have their breeding ground in those few square miles. Jack pulled himself together after a few seconds and lit a cigarette, while we waited in silence. And then, bit by bit, the whole sordid little story came out—as old as the hills and yet perennially new in every fresh case.
The engagement was all right, we found out, as far as the girl's father and mother were concerned. The only question had been one of money. Her father didn't think that Jack's income was sufficient to allow of matrimony yet; further, he thought that, in view of the shortness of their acquaintance, a little waiting would be a good thing from every point of view. And it was just after this interview with Mr. Melville that Jack met, in a bar at Nice, a very charming Frenchman, the Comte de St. Enogat.
It was at this stage of the disclosure that Jim's eye again met mine.
Apparently one cocktail had been followed by another; and then a third and fourth had joined their predecessors. And Jack, drawn on by his new friend's delightful and sympathetic manner, had taken the charming Comte de St. Enogat into his confidence. After four—or was it five?—cocktails the problem was a simple one. The girl's father—a silly old fool—insisted that he should have more money before he could marry his daughter. How was he to get that, money quickly and certainly, because any idea of waiting was simply unthinkable?
The Comte de St. Enogat, touched to the very core of his French soul by this wonderful tale of devotion and love, would do for this new friend of his what he had never before done for any human being. Locked in the Comte's heart was a system—the system—the only system by which one could with absolute certainty make money gambling. If Jack would come with him that afternoon, he would take him to a private gambling place where he guaranteed, on his word as a member of the French nobility, that Jack would win enough money to snap his fingers at the idiotic father of his lovely fiancée.
THE boy lunched at the expense of his new friend—and then proceeded in the Comte's powerful motor car to a villa halfway between Nice and Monte Carlo. A charming villa, we gathered, where he was introduced to one or two of the Comte's friends. And after a short while the Comte suggested an adjournment for business. There was roulette in one room, and baccarat in another. Petits chevaux, poker, and even fan-tan seemed to be legislated for, each in its own separate room. But the point about which Jack was most insistent was the singular charm of every one he met.
“Quite so,” cut in Jim shortly, as he paused. “I'm sure they were. But to come down to more prosaic details—which game did you patronize?”
“Baccarat,” said the boy. “The Comte advised it.”
“Holy smoke!” muttered Jim. “Baccarat! Yes, I can quite imagine that he did advise it. Now, Jack,” he went on quickly, “how much did you lose?”
The boy hesitated.
“Out with it,” said Jim. “You've been a triple-distilled young fool, but there's no good mincing things now.”
“A hundred thousand francs,” answered Jack almost inaudibly, and, leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands.
Jim raised his eyebrows. A hundred thousand francs were four thousand pounds in those days before currencies went mad, and the same thought came to both of us. Where had young Jack Rawson found four thousand pounds to lose? Had he borrowed it from some one, I wondered. And, if so, could he pay the debt?
Illustration: Suddenly, with a single heave, Jim jerked the dealer from his chair—and there on the seat was a pack of cards. “You bunch of sharpers!” he snarled
Illustration: Pandemonium broke loose. Two men dashed to the door, to find themselves looking down the barrel of Jim's revolver. “I think not,” he said pleasantly. “In a quarter of an hour our friend leaves us—for good! Meanwhile” Just then the girl caught my arm, and screamed
“Did you give them a check?” asked Jim quietly.
And then, slowly and hesitatingly, the real trouble came out. He hadn't given them a check—it wouldn't have been honored if he had. But he had been intrusted with twenty thousand pounds' worth of bearer bonds in some Egyptian Government security, which he was to take home with him, and hand over to the head of the firm, in London. And he had lost, playing baccarat, four thousand pounds of money which belonged to his company.
Since the actual loss had been in bearer bonds, not even the replacing of the money could save him from detection. Nothing short of regaining the actual scrip could be of any use. And unless that was done it meant disgrace and ruin for the boy sitting so despondently between us.
So much was clear on the face of it, and for a while we sat in silence, staring over the bay.
“I was a bit tight,” he stammered miserably, at length. “Otherwise I wouldn't have been such a darned fool. But he seemed such a good sort, and all I could think of was getting enough to marry Peggy.” And with that he broke down utterly.
“When did it happen, Jack?” asked Jim quietly.
“This afternoon,” answered the boy.
“You'd know the house again?” pursued Jim.
“Only too well,” muttered Jack, miserably, throwing pebbles into a flower bed opposite. Suddenly he straightened up, and gripped Jim by the arm. “Look, Maitland!” he cried excitedly. “There he is now! There's the Comte de St. Enogat.”
He half rose, but Jim pulled him back.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “Bend forward. Don't let him see you with us. It's that man in evening clothes—is it? The one walking with the girl in the scarlet cloak?”
“Yes; that's the blighter,” answered the boy.
We watched him as he ascended some steps a few yards to our left, and turned with his companion toward the Casino. He looked, as Jack had said, a typical French aristocrat, and carried himself with the assured ease of a man of the haute monde.
Jim thoughtfully lit a cigarette when they disappeared into the Casino, and sat for a while in silence. Then, as if he had made up his mind, he rose to his feet.
“Go back to the hotel,” he said curtly, “and turn in. I'll see what I can do.”
It was typical of Jim that he added no word of reproach, and at once cut short the stammered thanks of the boy, in whose eyes hope was already beginning to dawn.
“Cut all that out,” he remarked. “I don't promise that I'll be able to do anything, but I'll see. And remember one thing: Should you meet either Leyton or myself to-morrow, or at any time, with the Comte, you don't know either of us. Don't forget. Now clear off.”
FOR a moment he laid his hands on the boy's shoulders, then he turned him round and pushed him toward the hotel.
“Silly young ass!” he said to me, as Rawson disappeared round a corner. “But he's a good boy for all that—and she's a good girl.”
“It's a bit of a tough proposition, Jim,” I remarked dubiously.
“I don't deny it,” he answered. “At the moment I haven't even the glimmering of an idea as to how to set about it. This place may be a sink of iniquity, but anything in the nature of gunwork would render one unpopular. It's got to be something more subtle than that, much more subtle. The first thing to do, however, is to cultivate the acquaintance of the Comte de St. Enogat; the second is to go to his house. I think we'd better separate now, old man, though we might join up later in the evening. I'll go on into the Casino—you follow in a few minutes. And then be guided by circumstances. We just know each other, that's all.”
With a cheery grin he strolled away, and five minutes later I followed him.
I strolled round the rooms casually, but he seemed to have disappeared, and after a while I tried the bar. Sure enough, there in a corner was Jim, with a dangerous-looking drink in front of him, the Comte de St. Enogat on one side and the charming girl in the scarlet cloak on the other. And the trio were in a convivial mood.
At least Jim was. Had I been asked to go into a court of law and give evidence on oath as to Jim's condition, I should have said that he was in that happy mood which comes from having drunk enough, but not too much.
As soon as he saw me he hailed me cheerfully.
“Hello, Leyton, old lad!” he cried. “Come and join us. A pal of mine, mademoiselle—also from the ends of the earth.”
I bowed to the girl, and sat down opposite Jim.
“I've just been telling the Comte—oh, by the way, the Comte de St. Enogat Mr. Leyton—that I can't stand these rooms here. Too crowded altogether. I like gambling high; I can afford to gamble high. I've gambled in every corner of this little old globe, and there's not much I don't know about it. But I can't stand a crush. Hi! François—or whatever your name is—repeat the dose, my lad.”
“AND I have just been telling your friend, Mr. Leyton,” said the Comte, with a charming smile, “that he can find a quiet game, with stakes high or low, as he pleases, if he cares to come with Mademoiselle St. Quentin and myself to a villa a few kilometers on the road to Nice. Every form of game you can want is there, run for people exactly like yourself—people who prefer peace and quiet. You can play bridge if you like, or poker, or baccarat, or roulette.”
Jim leaned across the table toward me.
“Leyton,” he said, “did you hear that? These guys play poker. Think I'll go and play poker with them.”
For a fleeting instant the Comte's eyes met the girl's, then he rose.
“My car is at the door. Will Mr. Leyton come?”
“I'm with you,” I said, finishing my drink. “But I warn you that I'm not a gambler like my friend.”
“All tastes are catered for, Mr. Leyton,” said the girl, speaking for the first time. But I noticed she was watching Jim, as he strolled with the Comte through the rooms toward the entrance. “Is he very wealthy, your friend?”
“Rolls in it,” I murmured.
“He looks a very determined sort of person,” she remarked.
“He's as peaceful as a lamb,” I answered.
“I hope he wins,” she said. “It's high time those two men the Comte was speaking of lost for a change.”
With that we got into the car, and, though I don't know about the chauffeur, there were undoubtedly four stout-hearted liars who drove out along the road to Nice that night.
I had no inkling as to what Jim proposed to do; and, as he left me almost at once on arriving at the house and repaired to the poker room with the Comte, I had no opportunity for a private word with him. So I contented myself with a little mild roulette, and kept my eyes open.
The whole thing was beautifully done, of that there was no doubt. The champagne was of a first-class vintage, the supply unlimited; the furnishings of the house gave one the idea that everything had been done without regard for expense. There were some twenty people in the roulette room, and, though play was high, I could see no suspicion of anything unfair. In fact, it struck me that the whole place was what it professed to be—a first-class gambling house, where stakes were high and expenses were paid out of the five-per-cent cagnote.
My lady in the scarlet cloak, in the intervals of being very charming, pumped me discreetly about Jim, and I played up along the lines he had started. It was quite obvious that I was regarded as the necessary encumbrance to the real quarry, and the idea was just what I wanted. Jim was rich, Jim was the gambler—Jim was the fish to be landed!
Once or twice I almost laughed as I thought of the particular wolf who had strayed into the fold!
The sheep's clothing was still there two hours later when Jim appeared with the Comte. A cheerful, but somewhat inane grin was on his face, and he stumbled once—very slightly. It was a magnificent imitation of a man who had drunk just a little too much, and once again I saw the Comte's eyes meet my companion's with a hint of triumph in them.
“Cleaned me out, Leyton!” cried Jim, slapping the Comte on the back. “Ten thousand francs, my boy—but that's only a bagatelle. To-morrow afternoon we'll begin to play. Now, Comte—you'll lunch with me, and you too, mademoiselle. I simply insist. Just the four of us, and afterward we'll come back here. I'll show you to-morrow how poker should be played,” he boasted.
“You had infernal luck, Mr. Maitland,” said the Comte politely. “To-morrow you will have your revenge. And lunch—at one?”
“ONE o'clock. I shall expect you both.” He bowed over the girl's hand. “And you shall sit beside me to-morrow afternoon, mademoiselle, and bring me luck.”
The Comte insisted on sending us home in his car, and all the way back Jim talked loudly for the benefit of the chauffeur.
It was not until we were in our rooms that the mask dropped, and he was himself again, cool and imperturbable.
“It's crooked, Dick,” he said quietly. “They swindled me to-night. I saw 'em of course—the old trick of substituting a similar pack after the cut. They dealt me a flush, and the Comte drew one to threes, and got four eights. I bet as if I hadn't noticed.”
“The roulette and baccarat were perfectly straight as far as I could see,” I said.
“Probably,” he answered. “It's more than likely that for ninety per cent of the time the thing is straight. It's only when they get hold of a plum that they risk the other. And, mark you, it was well done. If I hadn't forgotten more about that sort of stunt than these fellows are ever likely to know, I shouldn't have noticed it, I suppose.”
He was pacing up and down the room thoughtfully, pulling hard at his pipe.
“T can't think what to do, Dick!” he cried, at length. “Gunwork is out of the question, and the mere statement that some one is cheating, even if you prove it then and there, on the spot, is no use when you're up against a gang of them. Besides, it wasn't the Comte who cheated; he wasn't dealing. But the new pack was stacked so that he got the hand. They were all in it—all four of them. And it's going to be the same bunch to-morrow. The point is what to do.”
He resumed his thoughtful pacing.
“Bluff! Some sort of bluff! But what? How can I bluff that bunch—how can I bluff the Comte into disgorging those bonds?”
Suddenly he stopped short, his eyes blazing.
“I've got it!” he almost shouted. “I've got the main idea. Go away, Dick—go to bed. I've got to work out the details.”
WITH that he bundled me unceremoniously out of the room, and when I turned out my light I could still hear him pacing up and down next door. But when I went into his room next morning about half-past ten he had already gone out, and I didn't see him again until he came into the American bar twenty minutes before lunch. And then I observed that merry gleam in his eyes which was never absent if an adventure were on the cards.
He grinned at me and we sat down in a corner.
“Got it worked out?” I asked.
“I think so, old man,” he answered, with a faint chuckle. “But it's best for you to know nothing about it until the time comes. However, there's one thing you can do for me, with your well-known tact and discretion. If you get an opportunity, let it be known by mademoiselle that, though in normal circumstances I have the disposition necessary to run a babies' crèche, at the same time, if I happen to get roused, things happen. Hint, old son, at dark doings in strange corners of the globe: corpses littering up rooms—you know.” Again he chuckled.
“Is this part of the play?” I asked.
“A very necessary part,” he answered quietly. “And here, if I mistake not, are our guests.”
For a moment we watched them as they sauntered down the corridor—the Comte suave and debonair, and the lady looking even prettier than she had the night before.
We met them in the lounge—and adjourned at once for lunch. It was a merry meal during which Jim accounted for far more than his fair share of the magnum of wine. I noticed that the Comte drank sparingly, and his companion hardly at all. And they didn't talk very much, either; Jim, who is generally taciturn, monopolized most of the conversation.
And it soon became evident to me that there was some specific object in his mind. He was almost vulgar with his: “I've been there, of course,” and “I've seen that and done this.” But because he had been, and seen, and done, he was also extraordinarily interesting. Especially when he launched at length on the question of snakes and rare native poisons. He might almost have made a study of them, so extensive was his knowledge, and Mademoiselle St. Quentin shivered.
“You quite frighten me, monsieur,” she said, taking a sip of champagne. “Just one teeny scratch, you say, and a horrible death. Ugh!”
Jim laughed, and ordered another magnum.
“SUCH things don't come your way in civilized parts, mademoiselle,” he told her. “It's only we who have lived at the back of beyond who run across them frequently.”
“You must have had an interesting life, Mr. Maitland,” said the Comte. “A life which many men would not have come through alive.”
Jim laughed again.
“Because they don't know the secret of life, Comte.”
“And that is?”
“Bluff!” Jim drained his glass “Bluff. Any man can win when he's holding winners, but success only comes to the man who wins with losers. And in life—as in poker—it's bluff that enables you to do that,” he added sagely.
The Comte smiled.
“Mon Dieu! Yvonne, we have a formidable opponent this afternoon. I think I had better go to the bank and get some more money.”
And so, in due course, we came once more to the house set so charmingly on the high ground overlooking the sea.
Without delay they went indoors, while I followed slowly. As an actor, Jim was superb; almost did he deceive me during the next hour. Not by the quiver of an eyelid did he deviate from the character he had set himself to play—the bluff Colonial with money to lose, if necessary, but with money secondary to the game. I played more as a matter of form than anything else; my whole attention was occupied in what I knew must be coming. And gradually excitement took hold of me till my hand grew a little unsteady and my mouth a trifle dry. If only I had known what to look out for—what to expect!
And then quite suddenly it came. I had noticed nothing, but in an instant the atmosphere of the room changed from quiet suavity to deadly fury. And dominating them all—more furious than any—was Jim.
With a single heave he jerked the dealer from his chair, and there on the seat was the pack of cards for which the stacked pack had just been substituted.
“The same trick you played last night, you bunch of sharpers!” he snarled. “Do you think I didn't spot you?” He swung round on the Comte, who, with a livid face, was backing toward the bell. “Stand still, you swine!” he roared, and he seemed to be lashing himself into a worse rage. “I'll show you how I deal with sharpers. You wretched fool—I came prepared for this!”. His tone was ominous.
There was a sudden sharp whistling hiss and a long thornlike piece of wood hung quivering from the Comte's cheek.
“Put away that gun,” he sneered contemptuously, as the Comte produced a revolver. “Don't you understand, you wretched cheat—you're practically a dead man now! Is your cheek beginning to prick and smart? I told you I came from the East, didn't I? And do you know what this is?”
He held out a long wooden tube, and the Comte stared at it fearfully.
“THAT is the sumpitan, or blow pipe,” roared Jim, “used in Malay. And that”—he pointed to the Comte's cheek—“is a poisoned dart.” He laughed contemptuously. “You scum—to try to swindle me, as you swindled that unfortunate boy out of those Egyptian bonds.” He plunged his hand into his pocket, and produced a small bottle. “There is the antidote, my friend—don't move, or I smash it in the grate. It will add to my pleasure to see you die, watching the bottle that could save you all the time.”
And now pandemonium broke loose. Two men dashed to the door, to find themselves looking down the barrel of Jim's revolver.
“I think not,” he said pleasantly. “It will only be a quarter of an hour before our friend leaves us—for good. During that brief space we will all remain in this room.”
And then the girl caught my arm.
“Do something!” she screamed. “He is a savage monster! Beg him to save Pierre—he is my husband.”
But Jim only laughed cynically, his eyes on the Comte.
“Mon Dieu! Monsieur!” she cried, going down on her knees to him. “I entreat of you to spare him. I love him—you understand—I love him!”
Jim grunted, and lowered his revolver slowly, as if in thought.
“He is your husband, is he? Well, get me those Egyptian bonds at once. Is it smarting, Comte? Then you have no time to lose, madame. Hand me those bonds, and I will consider whether I will save this man,” he ended meditatively.
He stood aside, and she rushed from the room like a woman distraught. The Comte was moaning in a corner with the two other men bending over him, and Jim caught my eye and winked. And so superb had been his acting, that it was only then, for the first time, that I began to wonder about the sumpitan and the poisoned dart. It occurred to me that it had looked much more like an ordinary long wooden cigarette holder than a Malay weapon.
BUT at that moment the girl returned. Feverishly she thrust the bonds into his hands, and, with maddening deliberation, Jim looked through them while she waited in an agony of impatience. At last he thrust them into his pocket, and produced the little bottle, which he handed to the girl.
“Let this be a lesson to you,” he snapped. “There is the antidote. See that he drinks it all—at once.”
We waited just long enough to see the contents of that bottle go down the Comte's throat; then, at a sign from him, we left.
And, finding the Comte's car waiting outside the door, it seemed but fitting that we should use it to take us back to Monte Carlo.
It was not till much later on that Jim consented to allay my curiosity, though at intervals during the afternoon he had shaken with silent laughter.
I know there had been an interview with Jack, and the girl had been there, too; a girl who had left with eyes misty with joy and happiness, and a boy who was almost dazed by his good fortune.
The girl came up to me as I sat reading the paper, and I rose, smiling.
“He's just the most wonderful man in the world, Mr. Leyton,” she said, and her voice trembled a little.
“He is that!” Jack agreed fervently.
And with that they were gone, and I sat there waiting.
Jim joined me at last, a quiet smile on his face, and we decided it was cocktail time.
“A good bluff that, Dick,” he said thoughtfully.
“Darned good!” I agreed. “What did you put on the dart?”
“Some stuff the chemist made up. Quite harmless, but irritates abominably.”
And then he started to choke with laughter.
“What's the jest?” I demanded.
“My dear old man,” he spluttered, “you haven't got the plum—the supreme gem of the affair. That lies in the antidote.”
I looked at him. “What the deuce was the antidote?”
“It came to me in the chemist's shop this morning,” he murmured gravely. “All great ideas come suddenly like that. The antidote, Dick, was just a concentrated solution of calomel.”
In “Colette Cries Help!” Major McNeile has told of an even more exciting Jim Maitland exploit than any yet published in this series. Don't miss it in the July McClure's
Copyright by H. C. McNeile