"No luck at all," Mr. Jobling affirmed explosively, and the troubles fermenting in his mind at length found outlet in speech. "I wouldn't have believed anyone could have been so unlucky!" he declared with great bitterness; "and at such a critical moment. I want so little, too; I've no ambition to break the bank. It wasn't with any such foolish idea that I came to Monte Carlo. I wouldn't have had this happen for all the bank holds."
"Which isn't a great deal," commented Slyne. "I've broken the bank more than once myself, and lost twice as much the next evening."
"You play some system, perhaps?" his companion inquired, but Slyne shook his head reminiscently. "I've tried several myself, but none seemed to be of the slightest use. And now—It doesn't matter, of course. I didn't come to Monaco to make money; I'm not such a fool! But it's most infernally inconvenient ... may cost me my chance of a fortune ... practically within my grasp." His voice had died away to a mere mutter. Slyne was smiling in disdain.
"But I can't go on losing at the tables for ever," he exploded again. "My turn must come. I feel in better fettle this evening—as if my luck had changed. It's no doubt since I met you; I must thank you again for this lift. If I'd had to wait in Genoa for the slow train, I might have got back too late to take the tide at the flood. I'm a great believer, you know, in striking while the iron's hot."
"So am I," said Slyne dryly, and much amused by his monologue.
"I'm sure my luck's on the mend," Mr. Jobling went on, growing still more communicative under encouragement, "and the mere matter of winning a few thousand francs is nothing to what will follow—what must follow. I've made up my mind to win all along the line; and there's a great deal in the theory that, if you apply sufficient will-power to any project, its success is assured. I'm ab-so-lutely determined to win fifty thousand francs to-night, and then ... I fancy it was a mistake to come here at all.... But, of course, a man who never makes a mistake will never make anything.... I'll go straight back to London, and surely, among the five or six million people there....
"Look out! Good—God!"
Between his two excited ejaculations Slyne had outwitted calamity. Taking a rash curve at top speed, he had come to an unexpected rectangle in the roadway running almost parallel there with the shore below, and, rounding that corner safely with a quick wrench of the wheel, had almost crashed into a heavy, high-built ox-wagon which was backing blindly out from some steep, hidden side-lane. The hubs of the car's wheels had all but grazed the parapet of the roadway at Mr. Jobling's side, and Slyne, on the other, had barely escaped being brained by the timbers protruding from the rear of the wagon. The ornamental chauffeur was fast asleep in the tonneau behind.
Mr. Jobling lay back and gasped while Slyne held on as if nothing had happened, at the same breakneck pace. But neither spoke again for some time.
Through village after village they dashed, always at grave risk and yet without accident. The moon rose just before they reached Alassio. Slyne even managed to improve the pace a little then, and his passenger made no protest, but sat with eyes downcast, his lips always moving mutely.