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"You'll have to invent some other scheme." "There's Monte Carlo; you might pull down a tidy sum," said the tempter. "That's the way, you beggar; hit me on the soft side." But Merrihew was still obdurate. To go to Europe was out of the question. "Now listen to reason, Dan. If you wait for the opportunity to go to Europe, you'll wait in vain. You must make the opportunity.
"Well, if nothing happens in Venice, we'll go to Verona, buy a pair of good saddle-horses, and take the road to Florence. That will be something worth while. And it will clear this romantic fog out of our heads." "That's the most sensible thing you've said in a long time," said Merrihew, brightening considerably. "A leg up and a couple of hundred miles of these great roads!
Gardens, towering Alps, the green Lecco on one side and the green Como on the other; and Swiss champagne at a dollar-forty the quart! Eh?" Merrihew produced his black cigar. This matter needed some deep reflection, and could not be determined offhand. The ash turned white on the end of the cigar before he replied. "If you weren't Irish, you'd just naturally be Dago," he said with a laugh.
Merrihew, to divert the trend of conversation, counted out five hundred francs. "Here's your money, Giovanni." "Thank you!" Giovanni put the bills away. In the best of times he was not voluble. "I shall now leave Venice at once. I have friends in Fiesole, near Florence." "Good-by, then, Giovanni. Take good care of yourself," said Hillard.
"I'll drink to her; but I'm hanged if I don't believe you're codding me," said Merrihew disappointedly. "This is New York." "I know it; and yet sometimes I doubt it. Here's to the lady." They drank. Hillard set down his glass; Merrihew refilled his. "The whole story, Jack, details and all; no half-portions." Hillard told the yarn simply, omitting nothing essential.
"Now, what the deuce has all this powwow been about?" demanded Merrihew; for he had understood nothing, despite his How to Speak Italian in One Day. "It's that rascal Giovanni." "Did he find his man and cut him up?" "No. It seems that these carabinieri have remark-able memories; the old affair. Poor devil! I can't imagine how they traced him here.
"Forty thousand francs, eight thousand dollars!" murmured Merrihew sadly. Why couldn't he have luck like this? Hillard was a true prophet. There came a change in the smile of fortune. The game jumped from color to color, seldom repeating, with zero making itself conspicuous.
The canal, lined with a dozen lime barges, became so narrow that Achille could scarce paddle, and Pompeo's oar was useless, being partly under the opposing gondola. The race was over. "Signorina," said Pompeo, boiling with rage, "shall I call the police?" "No, Pompeo," said his solitary passenger. When Merrihew saw that she was alone, his heart became heavy, and the joy of the chase was gone.
"For Heaven's sake!" cried Hillard, "be patient and open the cases at once." Merrihew handled his keys clumsily. The first key on the ring should have been the last, and the last first. It is ever thus when one is in a hurry.
It was early moonlight, and as they glided silently past the ancient marble church in the Campo San Polo the fairy-like beauty of it caught Merrihew by the throat. "This is the happy hunting grounds," he said. "This beats all the cab-riding I ever heard of. And this is Venice!" He patted Hillard on the shoulder. "I am grateful to you, Jack.
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