"I tell you it's all gone; more than five thousand pounds, and my watch
and chain; I have not half a franc in my possession."

"That is unfortunate indeed," said the _maitre d'hotel_, looking graver
than ever, "because there is my bill to settle."

"Oh, hang your bill!" cried Richard. "_That_ will be all right. I must
telegraph to my father at once."

"But how is monsieur to telegraph if he has no money?"

It was probably the first time in his life that the young fellow had
ever understood how inconvenient a thing is poverty. What also amazed
him beyond measure was the man's manner; yesterday, and all other
days, it had been polite to obsequiousness; now it was dry almost to
insolence. It seemed, indeed, to imply some doubt of the bona fides of
his guest--that he might not, in short, be much better than honest John
himself, of whom he was possibly the confederate; that the whole story
was a trumped-up one to account for the inability to meet his bill. As
to his having won largely at the tables, that might be true enough; but
he also might have lost it all, and more with it; money changes hands at
Monte Carlo very rapidly.

In the end, however, and not without much objection, the landlord
advanced a sufficient sum to enable Richard to telegraph home. He also
permitted him to stay on at the hotel, stipulating, however, that
he should call for no wine, nor indulge in anything expensive--a
humiliating arrangement enough, but not so much so as the terms of
another proviso, that he was never to enter the gambling saloon or go
beyond the public gardens. Even there he was under surveillance, and it