"Is there anything so extraordinary in a motor-trip with Madame?" he asked frigidly.
"No—nothing, Monsieur," she replied and laughed again. But Jim Horton understood. Monsieur the Duc was relieving Piquette of a great moral responsibility.
They were shown adjoining rooms where they removed the traces of their journey, and then met for dinner, when they held a consultation as to their future plans. If Monsieur the Duc had gone on a motor-trip he might be back that night, or he might be away for a week. They found that Monsieur and Madame had taken only a suitcase and the chances were that they would return to the Negresco by the morrow. But time was precious—and it would not be long before Quinlevin and his queerly assorted company would be arriving in Nice, ready in some nefarious way to interfere with their plans. And so after dinner they took the train for Monte Carlo, hoping that de Vautrin's weakness for gaming would have led him to that earthly paradise of loveliness and iniquity.
It was late when they reached there, but Piquette had made no mistake, for they found their man at the tables, so deeply engrossed that he did not notice their approach or even look up when Piquette, ignoring the wonderfully accoutered lady at his side, addressed him in her most mellifluous tone.
Jim Horton took him in with a quick glance of appraisal—a man still in his fifties, about the age of Barry Quinlevin, but smaller, with a thin nose, sharp, black eyes, a bald head, and a dyed mustache waxed to long points. And the hands upon the green baize of the table wore large rings, one set with a ruby, the other with an emerald. That he was losing some money was indicated by the pucker of his bushy eyebrows and the nervous tapping of his jeweled fingers upon the cloth.
It was not until Piquette had spoken his Christian name several times that he seemed to hear and then looked up, his face a cloud of impatience and ill-temper.
"It is I, Olivier," she repeated—"Piquette."
"You—Madame!" he said with a glance at his companion.
"Yes, Monsieur," said Piquette coolly, "and it seems that I've brought you luck," for at that moment a pile of gold and bank notes was swept in his direction.
"Ah—perhaps," he said confusedly. And then, "But it isn't possible. I was told that you were coming. I can't see you or this monsieur who comes with you. Go away if you please."