“Why, you’re an American!” exclaimed the Professor. “Sher_lock_!” exulted the young man, extending his hand. “I diagnose the same complaint in yourself.” The Professor sighed pleasurably. “Oh, yes. What I want,” he added, “is to find a plain quiet boarding-house or family hotel.” “Same as mother used to make ’em?” The young man reflected. “Well, it’s a queer place in which to prosecute your search; but there _is_ one at Monte, and I’m about the only person that knows it. My name’s Taber Tring. Come along.” For a second the Professor’s eye rested doubtfully on Mr. Tring. He knew, of course—even at Purewater it was known—that in the corrupt capitals of Europe one could not always rely implicitly on the information given by strangers casually encountered; no, not even when it was offered with affability, and in the reassuring twang of the Western States. But after all Monte Carlo was not a capital; it was just an absurd little joke of a town crammed on a ledge between sea and mountain; and a second glance at the young man convinced the Professor that he was as harmless as the town. Mr. Tring, who seemed quick at thought-reading, returned his look with an amused glance. “Not much like our big and breezy land, is it? These Riviera resorts always remind me of the subway at rush hours; everybody strap-hanging. But my landlady is an old friend, and I know one of her boarders left this morning, because I heard her trying to seize his luggage. He got away; so I don’t see why you shouldn’t have his room. See?” The Professor saw. But he became immediately apprehensive of having his own luggage seized, an experience unprecedented in his history. “Are such things liable to occur in this place?” he enquired. “What? A scrap with your landlady? Not if you pay up regularly; or if she likes you. I guess she didn’t like that other fellow; and I know he was always on the wrong side of the tables.” “The tables—do you refer to the gambling tables?” The Professor stopped short to put the question. “That’s it,” said the other. “And do you yourself sometimes visit the gambling-rooms?” the Professor next enquired. “Oh, hell,” said Taber Tring expressively. The Professor scrutinized him with growing interest. “And have you a theory of chance?” The young man met his gaze squarely. “I have; but it can’t be put into language that would pass the censor.” “Ah—you refer, no doubt, to your personal experience. But, as regards the theory—” “Well, the theory has let me down to bedrock; and I came down on it devilish hard.” His expression turned from apathy to animation. “I’m stony broke; but if you’d like to lend me a hundred francs to have another try—” “Oh, no,” said the Professor hastily; “I don’t possess it.” And his doubts began to stir again. Taber Tring laughed. “Of course you don’t; not for lending purposes. I was only joking; everybody makes that joke here. Well, here’s the house; I’ll go ahead and rout out our hostess.”