“It is a bargain. Sign this.”
Bruce took a sheet of notepaper, bearing the crest of the Hotel du Cercle, dated it, and wrote:
“I promise that, for the space of twelve months, I will not make a bet of any sort, or gamble at any game of chance.”
When Mensmore read the document his face fell a little. “Won’t you except pigeon-shooting?” he said. “I am sure to beat that Russian next time.”
“I can allow no exceptions.”
“But why limit me for twelve months?”
“Because if in that time you do not gain sense enough to stop risking your happiness, even your life, upon the turn of a card or the flight of a bird, the sooner thereafter you shoot yourself the less trouble you will bring upon those connected with you.”
“You are a rum chap,” murmured Mensmore, “and you put matters pretty straight, too. However, here goes. You don’t bar me from entering for sweepstakes.”
He signed the paper, and tossed it over to Bruce, while the latter did not comment upon the limitation of his intentions imposed by Mensmore’s final sentence. The man undoubtedly was a good shot, and during his residence in the Riviera he might pick up some valuable prizes.