“And I,” said he, “am eternally beaten. I am trampled under foot and shall never be able to hold up my head again.”
Whereupon he renewed his lamentations. For some time I listened patiently, and from his disconnected remarks I gathered that he had gone to the Cercle Africain in view of his gigantic combinations, but that the demon of gambling taking possession of him had almost driven them from his mind. Eventually he had lost control of his nerves, a cloud had spread over his brain, and he had committed the unspeakable blunder which led to disaster.
“To think that I should have tracked him down—for this!” he exclaimed tragically.
“What beats me,” I cried, “is how the deuce you managed to track him down. Your magnificent intellect, I suppose”—I spoke gently and not in open sarcasm—“enabled you to get on the trail.”
He brightened at the compliment. “Yes, that was it. Listen. I came to Algiers, the last place he was heard of. I go to the cafes. I listen like a detective to conversation. I creep behind soldiers talking. I find out nothing. I ask at the shops. They think I am crazy, but Anastasius Papadopoulos has a brain larger than theirs. I go to my old friend the secretary of the theatre, where I have exhibited the marvellous performance of my cats. I say to him, 'When have you a date for me?' He says, 'Next year.' I make a note of it. We talk. He knows all Algiers. I say to him, 'What has become of Captain Vauvenarde of the Chasseurs d'Afrique?' I say it carelessly as if the Captain were an old friend of mine. The secretary laughs. 'Haven't you heard? The Captain was chased from the regiment——'”
“The deuce he was!” I interjected.
“On account of something,” said Anastasius. “The secretary could not tell what. Perhaps he cheated at cards. The officers said so.
“'Where is he now?' I ask. 'Why, in Algiers. He is the most famous gambler in the town. He is every night at the Cercle Africain, and some people believe that it belongs to him.' My friend the secretary asks me why I am so anxious to discover Captain Vauvenarde. I do not betray my secret. When I do not wish to talk I close my lips, and they are sealed like the tomb. I am the model of discretion. You, Monsieur, with the high-bred delicacy of the English statesman, have not questioned me about my combination. I appreciate it. But, if you had, though it broke my heart, I should not have answered.”
“I am not going to pry into your schemes,” I said, “but there are one or two things I must understand. How do you know the banker was Captain Vauvenarde?”
“I saw him several times in Marseilles with the carissima signora.”