San Diego, Cal.
handed it to the man who had invited him to play, with a promise to let him have the money by noon next day.
In return he was given a card with the name: “Paul Forestier, Château de Polivac, Rhone.”
The men bowed to each other with exquisite politeness, and then Ralph Ansell went out upon the moonlit plage with only two pounds in his pocket, laughing bitterly at his continued run of ill-luck.
That night he took a long walk for miles beside the rocky coast of Calvados, through the fashionable villages of Beuzeval and Cabourg, meeting no one save two mounted gendarmes. The brilliant moon shone over the Channel, and the cool air was refreshing after the close, stuffy heat of the gaming-house.
As he walked, much of his adventurous past arose before him. He thought of Jean, and wondered where she was. Swallowed in the vortex of lower-class life of Paris—dead, probably.
And “The Eel”? He was still in prison, of course. Would they ever meet again? He sincerely hoped not.
As he walked, he tried to formulate some plan for the future. To remain further in Trouville was impossible. Besides, he would have once more to sacrifice his small belongings and leave the hotel without settling his account.
He was debating whether it would be wise to return to Paris. Would he, in his genteel garb, be recognised by some agent of the Sûreté as “The American”? There was danger. Was it wise to court it?
At a point of the road where it ran down upon the rocky beach, upon which the moonlit sea was lapping lazily, he paused, and sat upon the stump of a tree.