At noon next day, while Ansell was lying lazily in bed in the Palace Hotel reading the Matin, a page entered with a letter.

He tore it open, and found that it was dated from the railway buffet at Calais-Maritime, and read:

He crushed the letter in his hand with an imprecation. His mine of wealth had suddenly become exhausted.

From the address it was plain that Ted Patten was flying from England. Lord Michelcoombe had discovered the truth. Probably his wife had confessed, and explained how she had been trapped and money extracted from her. Well he knew that the penalty for his offence was twenty years’ penal servitude.

It was all very well for Ted to advise him to “lie low,” but that was impossible without ample funds. The “crook” who is big enough to effect a big coup can go into safe retirement for years if necessary. But to the man who is penniless that is impossible.

He rose and dressed even more carefully than usual. Afterwards he took his dÉjeuner in the big salle-À-manger and drank half a bottle of Krug with it. Like all men of his class, he was fastidious over his food and wines. The afternoon he spent idling in the casino, and that night he again visited the private gaming house with his two hundred francs, or eight pounds, in his pocket.

It proved a gay night, for there was a dance in progress. In the card-room, however, all was quiet, and there he again met the Russian, who, however, was playing with three other men, strangers to him.

After he had critically inspected the company, he at length accepted the invitation of a man he did not know to sit down to a friendly hand. In those rooms he was believed to be the wealthy American, as he represented himself to be.

The men he found himself playing with were Frenchmen, and very soon, by dint of “working the trick,” he succeeded in swindling them out of about fifty pounds.

Then suddenly his luck turned dead against him. In three coups he lost everything, except two coins he had kept in his pocket.

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:

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, ChÂteau 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-class 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 SÛretÉ 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 document 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 document by which he would be able to net from some unsuspecting persons a few thousand pounds.

True, the bogus documents 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 passing. 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 document 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 “MinistÈre des Affaires Étrangers, Sublime Porte,” enclosing a translation of the document 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.

The letter the speculator read through carefully, and then expressed a desire to participate in the venture.

Ansell’s bluff was superb.

The two men talked over the matter, “The American” drawing an entrancing picture of the enormous sums which were bound to accrue on the enterprise until, before he left the room, Mr. Budden-Reynolds declared himself ready to put up three hundred and fifty pounds for preliminary expenses if, in exchange, he might become one of the original syndicate.

Upon a sheet of the hotel notepaper a draft agreement was at once drawn up, but not, however, until Ansell had raised many objections. He was not eager to accept the money, a fact which greatly impressed the victim.

An hour later, however, he took Mr. Budden-Reynolds’ cheque, signed a receipt, and from that moment his recovery from his illness was extremely rapid.

Early next morning he handed in the cheque to a local bank for telegraphic clearance—which would occupy two days—and then set about packing.

On the second day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, he drew the money, paid his hotel bill with a condescending air, and prepared to depart for Constantinople, for, as he had explained to his victim, there were several minor points in the concession which were not clear, and which could only be settled by discussion on the spot.

Therefore he would go to Paris, and take the Orient Express direct to the Bosphorus.

He had been smoking with Budden-Reynolds from four till five, and then went out to the American bar for an apÉritif.

When, however, he returned and ascended to his room to dress for dinner, he was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the door, and his friend Budden-Reynolds bustled in.

Facing “The American” suddenly, he said, purple with rage:

“Well, you’re about the coolest and most clever thief I’ve ever met! Do you know that your confounded Turkish concession isn’t worth the paper it’s written upon?”

“What do you mean?” asked Ansell, with an air of injured innocence.

“I mean, sir,” cried the speculator, “I mean that you are a thief and a swindler, and I now intend to call in the police and have you arrested for palming off upon me a bogus concession. As it happens, my son is in the British Consulate in Constantinople, and, having wired to him to investigate the facts, he has just sent me a reply to say that the Grand Vizier has no knowledge of any such concession, and that it has not been given by him. Indeed, the concession for wireless telegraphy in Turkey was given to the Marconi Company a year ago, and, further, they have already erected two coast-stations on the Black Sea.”

Mr. Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal., unscrupulous as he was, stood before his irate visitor absolutely nonplussed.