“Will you have it in notes or money?” asked Dick Martin politely. “Or maybe you’d prefer a cheque?”
The big man said nothing for a moment, then:
“Come outside,” he said.
Dick followed him to the dim lights of the promenade deck.
“See here, mister. I’ve been waitin’ a chance to talk to you—I don’t know you, though your face is kind of familiar. I’ve been working this line for ten years and I’ll stand for a little competition, but not much. What I won’t stand for is a cheap skate like you takin’ me on and skinnin’ me for a century with a stacked deck of cards. Get me?”
“In fact, what your soul kind of pines for is honour amongst cardsharps,” said Dick. “Ever seen this?”
He took a metal badge from his pocket, and the big man gurgled apprehensively.
“I’m not entitled to wear that now, because I’ve left the Royal Canadian Police,” said Dick Martin, replacing the badge. “I carry it around for old times’ sake. You remember me? I’d say you did! I pinched you in Montreal eight winters ago for selling mining stock that was unattached to any mine.”
“Dick Martin—” The big man invoked a great personage.
In the seclusion of his cabin, which he shared with two of his confederates, the big fellow wiped the perspiration from his forehead and grew biographical.
“He’s the feller that went up to the Klondyke and took Harvey Wells. He had a moustache then; that’s why I didn’t recognize him. That feller’s mustard! His father was governor of the gaol at Fort Stuart and used to allow his kid to play around with the boys. They say he can do anything with a pack of cards except make it sing. He caught Joe Haldy by pickin’ his pocket for the evidence, and Joe’s as wide as Bond Street.”
Next morning, Mr. Martin came down the gangway plank of the Grail Castle carrying a suitcase in each hand. One of the Flack gang that attends all debarkations to look over likely suckers, marked his youth and jauntiness and hooked his friend, the steward, who was usually a mine of information.
“Mr. Richard Martin; he’s a reg’lar time chaser—came to the Cape from the Argentine; got to the Argentine from Peru an’ China—been down to New Zealand and India—God knows where?”
“Got any stuff?”
The steward was dubious.
“Must have—no, he’s not a drummer—he had the best cabin on the ship and tipped well. Some boys came aboard at Cape Town and tried to catch him at bridge, but he beat ’em.”
The prospecting member of the Flack crowd sneered.
“Card people scare suckers,” he said, with all the contempt which a land thief has for his seagoing brother. “Besides, these Cape boats are too small, and everybody knows everybody else. A card man could starve on that line. So long, Harry.”
Harry, the steward, returned the farewell indifferently and watched the tout hurry down to the examining shed. Martin was waiting for the arrival of the Customs officer with a bored expression on his lean brown face.
“Mr. Martin, isn’t it?” The advance guard of the confidence men smiled pleasantly as he offered his hand. “I’m Bursen—met you at the Cape,” said the newcomer, keeping the high note of heartiness. “Awfully glad to see you again.”
His hand was not taken. Two solemn blue eyes surveyed him thoughtfully. The tout was well dressed; his linen was expensive, the massive gold cigarette-case that peeped from his waistcoat pocket was impressive.
“We must meet in town—”
“At Wandsworth Gaol—or maybe Pentonville,” said Dick Martin deliberately. “Get to blazes out of this, you amateur tale-teller!”
The man’s jaw dropped.
“Go back to your papa”—Dick’s long forefinger dug the man’s waistcoat, keeping time with his words—“or to the maiden aunt who taught you that line of talk, and tell him or her that suckers are fetching famine prices at Southampton.”
“See here, my friend—” The shoreman began to bluster to cover his inevitable retreat.
“If I kick you into the dock, they’ll hold me for the inquest—seep!”
The “con” man seeped. He was a little angry, a little scared, and very hot under the collar, but he kept well away from the brown-faced man until he saw the first train pull out.
“If he’s not a copper, I’m a Dutchman,” he said, and felt for his cigarette-case and the solace of shredded Virginia. The case was gone!
Precisely at that moment Mr. Martin was extracting a cigarette from its well-filled interior, and, weighing the gold in his hand, had concluded that it was at least 15 carat and worth money.
“What a beautiful case!”
The girl sitting opposite to him stretched out her hand, a friendly assurance that was very pleasing to Dick Martin. In her simple tailored costume and a close-fitting little hat she was another kind of girl, radiating a new charm and a new fragrance.
“Yes, it’s rather cute,” Dick answered soberly. “I got it from a friend. Glad your holiday is over?”
She stifled a sigh as she gave the case back to him.
“Yes, in a way. It wasn’t exactly a holiday, and it was dreadfully expensive. I can’t speak Portuguese either, and that made it difficult.”
He raised his eyebrows at that.
“But all the hotel folk speak English,” he said, and she smiled ruefully.
“I wasn’t one of the hotel folk. I lived in a little boardinghouse on the Mount, and unfortunately the people I had to see spoke only Portuguese. There was a girl at the boardinghouse who knew the language a little, and she was helpful. I might have stayed at home for all the good I did.”
He chuckled.
“We’re in the same boat. I’ve been thirty thousand miles rustling shadows!”
She smiled whimsically.
“Were you looking for a key, too?” she asked, and he stared at her.
“A which?”
She opened the patent leather bag that rested on her knees and took out a small cardboard box. Removing the lid, she shook into her hand a flat key of remarkable shape. It was rather like an overgrown Yale, except that the serrations were not confined to
