"And another thing," Edouard Carnet said, "which of you is going to be the actual operator of the telegraphic instrument, and which the player at the tables?"
"Oh, I'd much better play," Deschamps answered, "and Basil work the instrument."
Both the Carnets shook their heads at this.
"No," they said together, "that will be unwise. Monsieur Gregoire is typically English. It is always best for a foreigner to make these great coups. Moreover, the luck of the English and the Americans is proverbial. Monsieur Gregoire must be thought an English millionaire. No one thinks it strange when a millionaire wins another million! But, to safeguard the future, it would be as well that monsieur were disguised."
Basil shook his head. "Disguised!" he cried. "Oh, I don't like that idea at all!"
"It is necessary," Edouard Carnet said firmly; "but all that you have to do, monsieur, is to shave off that blonde moustache, darken your skin a little, and wear pince-nez. It is only ordinary caution, after all. When you return with the spoils of war and grow your moustache again, nobody will ever connect you with the winner of millions upon the Côte d'Azur."
"And I have another idea," twittered Brother Charles, his little face beaming with joy. "Monsieur Deschamps shall go to Monte Carlo as the valet of Monsieur Gregoire. It will all seem so natural—the assiduous valet, the heavy luggage, which the man-servant must guard! You see it?"
The situation struck Basil as humorous. He threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Emile," he said.
Deschamps entered into the spirit of the thing. "Bien, monsieur," he answered.
"Sit down at the table and teach me the rules of the game of roulette!"