She laughed derisively.
“Anyhow, you are nice,” she said, and her left hand, unoccupied for the moment, stole into his. “I shall tell you everything because I still need your help. You have not, by any chance, recognised me?”
“I have been puzzling once or twice,” he admitted.
“Well, I am a cloakroom attendant at the Casino here. Are you ashamed to be having dinner with me?”
“Don’t be absurd. Continue, please.”
“I am so tired of young men. They are so monotonous. They want, want, want one thing. I am for the life regular. I wish for marriage.”
“Quite right,” Roger approved.
She was perfectly serious for the first time. She was discussing her own plans of life and to her they were the most important consideration in the world.
“A husband, a correct ménage, an automobile, a child—perhaps. As for a lover,” she went on, fingering the stem of her wineglass thoughtfully, “that would depend. I think—yes. But he must not interfere with the ménage.”
“Very prudent,” he murmured.
She flashed a quick glance at him. Perhaps the shadow of a blush trembled at the corners of her lips and faintly stained her cheeks.
“Voilà. You understand. A Monsieur, elderly but gentil, a chef—not an ordinary croupier—approached me at the Casino. He wished for marriage, but marriage with a vieux having the salary only of a chef! For me, you understand, incroyable, incroyable! I tell him so. He is almost crazy. He considers how to make money. There is only one way for such a man, of course. He must rob the Casino.”
Roger gave a little start. She noticed it with surprise.
“But mon ami,” she argued, “the Casino robs every one. Why should not some one rob the Casino? It is scarcely a crime, that. Only Henri, he alone would not have been clever enough. A short time ago he came to me very excited. He has made friends with some very clever people—du monde serieux—not ordinary thieves. They show him how to do it. I am to help. They have brains. They make it quite easy. The chef, carrying the caisse to the cashier’s office, passes my cloakroom. In a moment it is in a bag. I give a ticket. It is gone. A brief visit to my retiring room. The box goes on its way, but it is empty.”
“I see,” Roger murmured. “How long before the box is examined?”
“One hour. It is enough. Henri’s friends—I do not know who they were—rush us away in a car. We reach that hotel. They show us into a sitting room and we are gay with champagne. Then a man comes whom I have never seen before and the arrangements for division begin, I see that things are not going well. There is a violent dispute. More and more I get frightened. I have had enough. I am, as you English say, fed up. Henri does not act like a man. The other bullies him. I see that there will be little left for us, and little is not enough to marry on, with a man like Henri. Eh, bien, I slip away while they quarrel. I meet you. Voilà!”
“So you’ve thrown your hand in,” Roger remarked. “Perhaps you were wise. But what are you going to do now?”
That insinuating little hand was creeping into his again. She leaned forward and laughed in his face.
“What do you advise, Roger?”
“Never mind what I advise,” he answered severely. “I expect you have made your own plans.”
“I might like yours better—if you have any,” she whispered.
“Well, I haven’t,” he assured her. “I might do my duty, of course, and hand you over to the police. How should you like that?”
She clapped her hands gaily.
“Oh, la, la! That to me would be equal. I should have my picture in all the papers, I should have a wonderful avocat to defend me, I should be a first offender, scarcely go to prison at all, and when I came out every one would want to marry me. Of course, a crime passionel would make me more famous,” she reflected, “but this would do.”
“Well, as I am not proposing to hand you over to the police, let me hear your plans for yourself,” Roger invited.
She indulged in a little grimace.
“You still come in,” she warned him. “You must lend me the money to hire a car which will take me to Marseilles. There I am safe. I have friends who will take care of me.”
“I will do that,” he agreed. “But why not the train?”
“I should have to wait till the morning,” she pointed out. “The night trains are so full and some one would be sure to recognise me. There is one at midnight—”
“What an idiot I am,” he interrupted. “Of course, you would be recognised at the station. A ridiculous risk. You see that coupé out there?”
“Is it not lovely?” she sighed. “A Packard, I believe. The car I should love to own.”
“Well, it’s mine,” he told her, “and if you like, I will send you to Marseilles in it.”
She clapped her hands.
“Merveilleuse. But what about you?”
“I can take a taxi back to Monte Carlo.”
Roger produced his pocketbook. He would have given her more but she would only take two mille.
“It is plenty,” she assured him. “My friends have money. They will take care of me…. One more little crème de menthe, please, before I go. A packet of cigarettes, yes?”
Roger ministered to her wants.
“And now,” he said, “I am going to ask you something. Tell me about that mysterious hotel.”
She shook her head.
“Mon ami,” she regretted, “but what is there to tell? Henri did not confide in me. We were to meet the friend there who had helped him. That is all. We arrived. The place was very empty. A barman fetched a maître d’hôtel and he showed us into a charming sitting room. They brought champagne of the best. I was quite content but Henri was nervous. Then I was sent into the next room and told to wait. Some one came to make plans with Henri. They quarrelled. Oh, how they quarrelled! It seemed to me that the man who had helped him wished to take everything. I was frightened and I stole away. Then I met you. That is the whole story.”
“The whole of it?”
“Everything.”
“It isn’t much,” Roger declared ruefully.
“It is something to have met you,” she whispered, holding his hand.
Somehow or other it was very nearly eleven o’clock before Roger tucked Marie Louise into his very comfortable coupé and gave the chauffeur his instructions. She suddenly leaned forward, took his face between her hands and kissed him.
“You wouldn’t like to drive me to Marseilles,” she whispered, her lips very close to his. “Your chauffeur could go to sleep behind!”
“The best of luck to you,” he wished her. “And don’t get caught.”
Then Roger looked up and saw a gendarme coming quickly across the road to him, very large and imposing. His heart sank. Poor little Marie Louise!
“Your car was standing on the wrong side of the road, sir,” the man said severely. “I was obliged to move your chauffeur.”
Roger wiped the perspiration from his forehead, although it wasn’t really a warm evening.
“Many thanks, Monsieur,” he answered, as he drew the required ten-franc note from his pocket.
The hum of conversation directly