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Updated: June 21, 2025
Then very slowly from the inside pocket of his coat he drew a newspaper parcel. It was long and narrow, and in places there was a stain upon the paper. Selingman stared at it and stared back at Jean Coulois. "What the mischief have you got there?" he demanded. Coulois touched the parcel with his yellow forefinger. Selingman saw then that the stains were of blood.
"Coulois found him in his rooms, seated at the writing-table. It was all over, he declares, in ten seconds. He came to me with the knife. He was on his way to the mountains to hide it." They found a seat under a drooping lime tree. They could still see the hotel and the level stretch of road that led past the post-office and the Club to Monaco.
"Who the devil are you?" he enquired. The visitor took off his disfiguring spectacles. "Jean Coulois behold!" was the soft reply. Selingman raised himself and slid off the bed. It had seemed rather like a dream. He was wide-awake now, however. "What do you want?" he asked. "What are you here for?" Jean Coulois said nothing.
"You know now. I enter upon the final stage. I had only one fear. Jean Coulois has settled that for me. I wonder whether they know. It seems peaceful enough. No! Look over there," he added, gripping his companion's arm. "Peter, the concierge, is whispering with the others. That is one of the managers there, out on the pavement, talking to them." Selingman pointed down the road towards Monaco.
"But for him, much of this would have been unnecessary." The dance was over. Both men joined enthusiastically in the applause. Coulois, with an insolent nod to his admirers, returned to his seat. He threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs and held out his empty glass. Though he had been dancing furiously, there was not a single bead of perspiration upon his forehead.
We shall spend some time here." Draconmeyer arrested the much impressed maître d'hôtel as he was hurrying away. "Is there dancing here to-night?" he enquired. "But certainly, monsieur," the man replied. "A Spanish lady, altogether ravishing, the equal of Otéro at her best Signorina Melita." "She dances alone?" "By no means. There is the young Frenchman, Jean Coulois, who is engaged for the season.
Every morning he goes to the English Bank for his letters, deals with them in his room, calls at the post-office and takes a walk, often up into the hills." "Come, come, this is not so bad!" Coulois exclaimed. "They laugh at us in the cafés and down in the wine shops of Monaco, those who know," he went on, frowning. "They say that the Wolves have become sheep. We shall see!
"There is no more to be said." Some visitors had taken the next table. Coulois drew his chair a little closer to Draconmeyer. "I accept the engagement," he continued. "We will talk no more. Monsieur desires my address? It is here," scribbling on a piece of paper.
A wonderful pair, indeed! When May comes, they go to the music-halls in Paris and London." Draconmeyer nodded approval. "Coulois was the name," he whispered to Selingman, as the man moved away. The place filled up slowly. Presently the supper was served. Selingman ate with appetite, Draconmeyer only sparingly. The latter, however, drank more freely than usual.
"You are in good condition, my friend," Selingman observed admiringly. "I need to be for my work," Coulois replied. "Let us get to business. There is no need to mince words. What do you want with me? Who is the quarry?" "The man who ruined your little affair at La Turbie and captured your comrade Martin," Selingman whispered. "You see, you have every provocation to start with."
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