"Yes," said Melville; "same old racket, same old place, same old luck."
Martin shook his head.
"I've no faith in Monte Carlo," he remarked austerely; "never heard of any good coming from there."
"That's rude," said Melville, "seeing that I've just come from there. How is Sir Geoffrey?"
"Pretty well, sir," the butler replied; "I may say very well."
"He's a wonderful old chap," said Melville. "He'll be marrying soon and having a family of his own; see if he doesn't."
"Sir Geoffrey never took any account of the ladies," Martin remarked. "It's a pity, in some ways; but, bless you, sir, he's got all the family a man needs in Master Ralph and yourself."
"Too much, perhaps," said Melville. "Go and tell him I'm here, Martin, will you."
The old servant went, and Melville turned to the sideboard with the air of a man who is quite at home and helped himself to sherry and seltzer. Martin seemed very slow in coming, and Melville paced up and down the room. As he did so he felt in his hip pocket the little revolver which he always carried.
"Gad!" he thought, "on what a hair one's fortune hangs! I was within an ace of turning that on myself when I saw Ralph's letter, and if I had not got that cheque so easily from Uncle Geoffrey I was mad enough then to have turned it on to him. And if I had done so all this knowledge and the power it gives would have come too late—just a few hours too late. And yet there are people who don't believe in luck!"