Again, with a gambler's belief in chance, he made another stake, one of five hundred francs.

The cards were dealt and played. Again he lost.

His brows knit, for he could not pay.

From his pocket he drew a silver case, and, taking out his card:

SILAS P. HOGGAN, _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, Chateau 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-cla.s.s 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 Surete 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.

And there he reflected until the pink dawn spread, and upon the horizon he saw the early morning steamer crossing from Havre.

He was broke!

Perhaps Ted Patten had treated him just as he had treated Adolphe. That letter might, after all, be only a blind.

"He may have got money, and then written to frighten me," he muttered to himself. "Strange that he didn't give an address. But I know where I shall find him sooner or later. Harry's in Paris is his favourite place, or the American Bar at the Grand at Brussels. Oh, yes, I shall find him.

First let me turn myself round."

Then, rising, he walked back to Trouville in the brilliant morning, and going up to his room, went to bed.

Whenever he found himself in an hotel with no money to pay the bill, he always feigned illness, and so awakened the sympathies of the management. In some cases he had lain ill for weeks, living on luxuries, and promising to settle for it all when he was able to get about.

He had done the trick at the Adlon, in Berlin, till found out, and again at the Waldorf-Astoria, in New York. This time he intended to "work the wheeze" on the Palace at Trouville, though he knew that he could not live there long, for the short season was nearly at an end, and in about three weeks the hotel would be closed.

But for a fortnight he remained in bed--or, at least, he was in bed whenever anyone came in. The doctor who was called prescribed for acute rheumatism, and the way in which the patient shammed pain was pathetic.

This enforced retirement was in one way irksome. Wrapped in his dressing-gown, he, after a week in bed, was sufficiently well to sit at the window and look down upon the gay crowd on the _plage_ below, and sometimes he even found himself so well that he could appreciate a cigar.

The manager, of course, sympathised with his wealthy visitor, and often came up for an hour's chat, now that the busiest week of his season was over.

All the time Ansell's inventive brain was busy. He was devising a new scheme for money-making, and concocting an alluring prospectus of a venture into which he hoped one "mug," or even two, might put money, and thus form "the original syndicate," which in turn would supply him with funds.

He knew Constantinople, the city where the foreign "crook" and concession-hunter abounds. Among his unscrupulous friends was an under-official at the Yildiz Kiosk, with whom he had had previous dealings. Indeed, he had paid this official to fabricate and provide bogus concessions purporting to be given under the seal of the Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire. For one of these concessions--for mining in Asia Minor--he had paid one thousand pounds two years ago, and had sold it to a syndicate in St. Petersburg for ten thousand. When the purchasers came to claim their rights they found the doc.u.ment to be a forgery.

He was contemplating a similar _coup_. He had written to Youssof Effendi asking if he were still open for business, and had received a telegram answering in the affirmative. Therefore, after days of thought, he had at last decided upon obtaining a "concession" for the erection and working of a system of wireless telegraphy throughout the Turkish Empire, and opening coast stations for public service.

His ideas he sent in a registered letter to his accomplice in Constantinople, urging him to have the "concession" prepared in his name with all haste.

And now he was only waiting from day to day to receive the doc.u.ment by which he would be able to net from some unsuspecting persons a few thousand pounds.

True, the bogus doc.u.ments concerning the mining concession had borne the actual seal of the Grand Vizier, but though an inquiry had been opened, nothing had been discovered. Corruption is so rife in Turkey that the Palace officials ever hang together, providing there is sufficient backsheesh pa.s.sing. Ralph knew that, therefore he was always liberal. It paid him to be.

A few days before the date of the closing of the hotel a large, official envelope, registered and heavily sealed, was brought up to Mr. Hoggan's room by a page, and Ralph, opening it, found a formidable doc.u.ment in Turkish, which he was unable to read, bearing four signatures, with the big, embossed seal of the Grand Vizier of the Sultan.

With it was an official letter headed "Ministere des Affaires etrangers, Sublime Porte," enclosing a translation of the doc.u.ment in French, and asking for an acknowledgment.

The imitation was, indeed, perfect. Ralph Ansell rubbed his hands with glee. In Berlin he could obtain at least ten thousand pounds for it, if he tried unsuspicious quarters.

But he wanted ready money to pay his hotel bill and to get to Germany.

An hour later, when the manager came up to pay his usual morning visit, he expressed regret that he had to close the hotel, and added:

"We have still quite a number of visitors. Among them we have Mr.

Budden-Reynolds, of London. Do you happen to know him? They say he has made a huge fortune in speculation on the Stock Exchange."

"Budden-Reynolds!" exclaimed Ralph, opening his eyes wide. "I've heard of him, of course. A man who's in every wild-cat scheme afloat. By Jove!

That's fortunate. I must see him."

The introduction was not difficult, and that same evening Mr.

Budden-Reynolds, a stout, middle-aged, over-dressed man of rather Hebrew countenance, was ushered into the "sick" financier's room.

"Say, sir, I'm very pleased to meet you. I must apologise for not being able to come down to you, but I've had a stiff go of rheumatism. I heard you were in this hotel, and I guess I've got something which will interest you."

Then, when he had seated his visitor, he took from a drawer the formidable registered packet, and drew out the Turkish concession.

The speculator, whose name was well known in financial circles, took it, examined the seal and signatures curiously, and asked what it was.

"That," said Silas P. Hoggan, grandly, "is a concession from the Sultan of Turkey to establish wireless telegraph stations where I like, and to collect the revenue derived from them. Does it interest you, sir?"

Hoggan saw that the bait was a tempting one.

"Yes, a little," replied the speculator grandly.

"It's a splendid proposition! I'm half inclined to go with it straight to the Marconi Company, who will take it over gladly at once. But I feel that we shall do better with a private syndicate, who, in turn, will resell to the Telefunken, the Goldsmidt, or Marconi Company."

"I think you are wise," was the reply.

"There's a heap of money in it! Think of all the coast stations we can establish along the Levant, the Dardanelles, and the Black Sea, to say nothing of the inland public telegraph service. And this, as you will see by the French translation, gives us a perfectly free hand to do whatever we like, and charge the public what we like, providing we give a royalty of five per cent. to the State."

Then he handed Mr. Budden-Reynolds the letter from the Sublime Porte, together with the French translation.