He was of a more stolid type, and it
seemed incredible that such an adventure as that sketched by Madame
d'Ambre could approach such a man. Yet for once, gossip and truth were
one. The thing had happened. Hannaford had lately retired from the army,
after being stationed for two years in Egypt. For months he had lingered
aimlessly in Monte Carlo. Life seemed over for him. But time remained,
and must be killed, unless he preferred to kill himself. He had met Dick
Carleton in Egypt last year, where the youngest American aeronaut was
making experiments with a new monoplane in a convenient tract of desert.
At that time Captain Hannaford had not worn the little black silk pads.
He was grateful to the American for not seeming to look at them now.
"I'm here for the flying, with a hydro-aeroplane I'm rather proud of,"
Carleton went on, "but I'm not staying at Monte. I'm visiting Jim
Schuyler, at his place between here and Cabbe-Roquebrune. Lovely place
it is. No wonder he never bothers with the Casino, except for concerts
and opera. Have you met him?"
"No. But I know him by name, of course. The names of these American
millionaires are all-pervading, like microbes. Why does he pitch his
tent on the threshold of Monte, if not for the Casino?"
"He says lots of people live about here who never play: and there are
other attractions. He has all the gambling he wants in Wall Street:
comes here for beauty and music. He gets plenty of both; doesn't go in
for society any more than for roulette, but seems to enjoy himself, the
two or three months he does the hermit act in his gorgeous garden.
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