For, only a season or two before, he had figured throughout the Côte d'Azur as accessory in an affaire with which the whole civilised world had afterwards rung, in spite of every effort to hush it up, an affaire whose tragic consequences had caused such a flutter of scandalised chagrin among the private police of three great European powers that he could never again cross their frontiers without fear. Since he knew very well that, if he were ever identified, he would deservedly disappear, without any further fuss, to spend the rest of his life as a nameless cypher, forgotten, among the living dead, entombed in some secure fortress. In that cosmopolitan underworld to which such as Slyne belong, occur many curious incidents not reported in the newspapers, and the citizens of Cosmopolis have nowhere consul or minister to protect them against unfortunate consequences.
Slyne had no illusions as to what his fate would be if he were recognised on the Riviera.
"But she's worth the stake," he told himself with dogged determination, "even though it is life and liberty as well as my last few francs. And—I'd just as soon be done with things if I can't capture Sallie from that old scoundrel."
He knew very well, of course, that his prospect of making a financial success at the tables was no less of a forlorn hope. But he had all a professional gambler's blind faith in the goddess of chance. And since he would not withdraw from the contest, he had no option but to play that losing hazard also.
Day had broken before he had completed his plans. And then Captain Dove reappeared, sleepy-eyed and unshaven, to interview the port-doctor.
As soon as that functionary had glanced at the forged Bill of Health put before him and seen the crew mustered to the tally it told, the yellow flag at the fore was hauled down and Captain Dove hailed a shore-boat, to which he had Slyne's baggage transferred, and curtly told Slyne to be off ashore.
Nor did Slyne delay to bid him farewell. Each was heartily sick of the sight of the other, and each had plans of his own to promote in a hurry. They separated without so much as a nod. Sallie was invisible. And Slyne, in the boat on his way to the Custom-house, only looked back once at the ports of the poop-cabin, to see, within the dingy brass frame of one, a face that seemed to be watching him very thankfully as he went, a horrible face, with blubber lips, almost inhumanly ugly, the face of Sallie's devoted attendant, the dumb black dwarf, Ambrizette.
A yawning Customs' searcher glanced at his baggage and passed it unopened. In return for which courtesy Slyne bestowed upon him a doubtful rix-dollar and a few words in fluent Italian concerning the Olive Branch—words which would not improve Captain Dove's prospects of an early departure from Genoa, but might, conversely, increase by a little his own scanty time-allowance in that desperate bout with fortune to which he had committed himself. He knew that Captain Dove was intent on coaling and sailing again without the loss of a minute that might be saved.
He had all his own movements mapped out in anticipation. He drove to an hotel at which he had stayed once before, and, after a Turkish bath and breakfast, went on to the Crédit Lyonnais office to cash his draft. Then he made a number of purchases in inconspicuous shops, where he had to spend a good deal of time in bargaining, looked in at the Motor-Car Mart & Exchange, where he saw a big touring-car over which he argued for some minutes with the salesman; and, after a belated but liberal lunch in a first-class restaurant, he turned back toward the sale-room.
A man in an elaborate chauffeur's uniform, and evidently English, stopped him in the street outside, to ask whether he would care to buy a gold cigarette-case, a bargain. Slyne looked him over, and sized him up at a glance.