"Well, we are all humbugs about superstition. I don't believe there's a man existent--that's to say, a tolerable man, a fellow who isn't a prig--who doesn't touch posts, or count his steps on the pavement, or choose what tie he'll wear on certain days, or give way to some such human weakness when he's alone. We so-called 'men of science' are, I truly believe, the worst of the lot. You can't get rid of one fetish but you have instantly the impulse to kneel to another . . . "Anyhow, there was my man sitting, and the number 17 almost straight before him, a little in front of his right arm; and this recollection came to me; and I leaned over his shoulder and laid a five-franc piece on the number. "It won. I piled my winnings on the original stake, _plus_ all my loose cash; and Number 17 won again. "That's all. You know my old theory that every scientific man should have a sense of mystery--it's more useful to him than to most of his fellows. Anyway I'd tried my luck on Bob La Touche's long bygone dream. "Several pairs of eyes began to regard me with interest: and the croupier, as he pushed my spoil across, spared me a glance inscrutable but scrutinising. I make no doubt that had I helped to make up the next game, quite a number of the punters would have backed my infant fortune. But I didn't. Farrell had slewed about in his chair for to look up at the newcomer: and at sight of his dropped jaw, as he recognised me, I smiled, gathered up my wealth and walked out. "I took a seat in the Casino garden, overlooking the sea. 'Sort of thing,' I found myself murmuring, 'might happen once in a blue moon,' and with that was aware that a sort of blue moonlight was indeed bathing the garden, though the moon's reflection lay yellow enough across the still Mediterranean. [Here, for description, turn up Matt. Arnold's _A Southern Night_: possibly still copyrighted.] "Farrell came out. He spotted me at once; for to help the moon, as well as to dispel the heavy scent of the gaming-room, I was lighting a cigar. He took a couple of turns on the terrace and halted in front of me. His manner was nervous. "'Excuse me, Professor--' he began. "'Excuse me, Mr. Farrell,' I corrected him; 'I am a Professor no longer. You may call me Doctor Foe, if you like. . . . Did Number 17 win a third time?' "'I--I fancy not," he stammered. 'To tell the truth, your sudden appearance here, when I supposed you to be in London--and at Monte Carlo, of all places--But perhaps you are a devotee of the fickle goddess? Men of learning,' he floundered on, 'find relaxation--complete change of interest. Darwin--the great Darwin--used to read novels: the worse the novel, the better he liked it--or so I've heard.'