"The idea seems to strike him, sir," said Mr. Crump.

"It ought to, if he isn't a clam," replied Mr. Scobell. He started to
relight his cigar, but after scorching the tip of his nose, bowed to
the inevitable and threw the relic away.

"See here," he said, having bitten the end off the next in order; "I've
thought this thing out from soup to nuts. There's heaps of room for
another Monte Carlo. Monte's a dandy place, but it's not perfect by a
long way. To start with, it's hilly. You have to take the elevator to
get to the Casino, and when you've gotten to the end of your roll and
want to soak your pearl pin, where's the hock-shop? Half a mile away up
the side of a mountain. It ain't right. In my Casino there's going to
be a resident pawnbroker inside the building, just off the main
entrance. That's only one of a heap of improvements. Another is that my
Casino's scheduled to be a home from home, a place you can be real cosy
in. You'll look around you, and the only thing you'll miss will be
mother's face. Yes, sir, there's no need for a gambling Casino to look
and feel and smell like the reading-room at the British Museum.
Comfort, coziness and convenience. That's the ticket I'm running on.
Slip that to the old gink, Crump."

A further outburst of the French language from Mr. Crump, supplemented
on the part of the "old gink" by gesticulations, interrupted the
proceedings.

"What's he saying now?" asked Mr. Scobell.

"He wants to know--"