“Come!” whispered Brentin, and taking my arm, walked me back up the steps towards the rooms. As we passed the end of the concert-room, I noticed that up against the outside balconies, at the back of the stage, ladders were reared, so that, in case of fire, the artistes might have some other chance of escape than the dubious one of fighting their way through the salle. I found myself fitfully wondering whether those ladders would be used.
“Come!” whispered Brentin, again, feeling, I dare say, the alarm in my elbow. “Courage!”
For I do not mind confessing here in print that, as the hour approached, I began to feel frightened at the audacity of what we were going to do, and, if only I could—consistently with my honor—would willingly have withdrawn; nay, to put it plainly, turned tail and bolted. My revolver, loaded with blank cartridge only, in the pocket of my smoking-jacket beat remindfully against my hip as I walked up the Casino steps. Even now as I write, months after the occurrence, the tremor of that hour seizes me and my hand shakes so I can scarcely guide the pen.
Another moment, and we had walked through the hall, and passed the swing-doors into the stifling gambling-rooms.
It is extremely unlikely I ever visit Monte Carlo again; indeed, my conduct, on this the last occasion I entered the rooms, rather precludes me from ever even making the attempt; but if ever I do, they will never make the same impression on me as they did that warm January evening when Brentin and I strolled into them arm in arm.
Every incident of that memorable evening, every face I then saw, is photographed into my memory, still remains there distinct and indelible. The rooms, either because of the attraction of a new opera or because the night was so warm, were somewhat empty. The crowds were only round the table, and the parquet flooring between looked more than usually vacant and dull.
Dimmer they looked, too, and more than ever badly lit; and the air seemed even heavier charged with gamblers’ exasperation.
Now, in some slight particulars, we had modified our original plan. We had long given over all attempt to turn the light out, for one thing, since we had never been able to discover where the mains were; probably somewhere well out of sight, down below among the vaults, which also we had decided not to attempt. Nor did we intend to do anything towards securing the gamblers’ valuables, as at one time we had projected. It was very like vulgar robbery, to begin with, and next, as Thompson had pointed out, it would take too much time.
Directly we got inside, Brentin looked up at the clock over the door and set his watch by it; then we strolled off to find the rest, and, showing each of them the watch, saw that each had the precise time. Our six sailors were wandering about genteelly in pairs; to each Brentin whispered, “Got your bag all right?” and each nodded a reply. Each had a linen bag buttoned inside his short, respectable reefer jacket. One who, I fear, was not quite sober, a man named Barker, took his bag out with a stupid laugh to show us; whereupon his companion (Frank Joyce, from Sandown, in the Isle of Wight, who had him by the arm) said, “Now then, Barker, don’t be a fool, it ain’t time yet.”
It was then between the ten minutes and the quarter past ten.