"Can't you find him?" asked Sir Francis. Larssen shook his head. "Gad,
that's curious. Why doesn't he write? Bad form, you know. But when a
man's lived all his life in the backwoods of Canada, I suppose one can't
expect him to know what's what."

Olive studied the shipowner keenly as they drove to their hotel. His
massive strength of body and masterful purpose of mind, showing in every
line of his face, attracted her strongly. Olive worshipped power, money,
and all that breathed of them. Here was the living embodiment of money
and power.

After dinner that evening all three went to the Casino. The order had
been given to Sir Francis Letchmere's valet that he was to bring over to
the Salle de Jeux any telegram or 'phone message that might arrive.

Larssen was keenly interested in the throng of smart men and women
clustered around the tables. Here was the raw material of his
craft--human nature. Moths around a candle--well, he himself had lit
many candles. The process of singeing their wings intrigued him vastly.

Olive explained the game to him with a flush of excitement on her
cheeks. He noted that flush and made a mental note to use it for his own
ends. She took a seat at a roulette table and asked him to advise her
where to stake her money. Sir Francis preferred _trente-et-quarante_,
and went off to another table.

"I can see you've been born lucky," she whispered to Larssen.

"I'll try to share it with you," he answered, and suggested some numbers
with firm, decisive confidence. Though he had keen pride in his