“Who trusts no one, my lord,” the maître d’hotel jested, with a bow.
“You won’t even leave the bottle?” his youthful client implored.
“Not even for the son of my valued patron, Monsieur le Marquis,” Louis replied, bearing it off, smiling.
“I go like a giant to my task,” the young man declared, as he bade Jacob au revoir. “Prepare for great news.”...
Jacob spent a pleasant and a harmless evening wandering about the Sporting Club, winning and losing a few five-louis plaques, and sitting for a while outside the Café de Paris. He went to bed early, with a view to a golf match on the morrow, and was wakened by a dead weight upon his shins. He sat up and found Felixstowe sitting on the bed, regarding him sorrowfully.
“Hullo!” Jacob exclaimed. “Where are the spoils?”
The young man opened his lips and spoke illuminating words concerning Monte Carlo, gambling generally, number five table in the Rooms, and the squint-eyed croupier particularly. In conclusion, he referred to himself in terms, if possible, even more lurid. By the time he had finished, Jacob was thoroughly awake.
“Lend me ten louis, old chap, for the journey,” his nocturnal visitor begged. “You’ll have to wait for your pony.”
“Take it off the dressing table,” Jacob replied. “What’s the hurry?”
“I’m off in three hours’ time. Catching the early morning train.”