bite, we
wound, we rob. But death--ugh! There are ugly things to be thought of."

"And pleasant ones," Draconmeyer reminded him. "Five hundred louis is
not enough. It shall be six hundred. A man may do much with six hundred
golden louis."

Selingman sat forward once more in his place.

"Look here," he intervened, "you go too far, my friend. You never spoke
to me of this. What have you against Hunterleys?"

"His nationality," Draconmeyer answered coolly. "I hate all Englishmen!"

The gaiety had left Selingman's face. He gazed at his companion with a
curious expression.

"My friend," he murmured, "I fear that you are vindictive."

"Perhaps," Draconmeyer replied quietly. "In these matters I like to be
on the safe side."

Jean Coulois struck the table lightly with his small, feminine hand. He
showed all his teeth as though he had been listening to an excellent
joke.

"It is to be done," he decided. "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. "But
monsieur may be warned," he added, with a lightning-like flash in his
eyes as he became conscious of the observation of some passers-by. "I
will not dance in England. I will not leave Monte Carlo before May. Half
that sum--three hundred louis, mind--must come to me on trust; the other
three hundred afterwards. Never fear but that I will give satisfaction.
Keep your part of the bargain," he added, under his breath, "and the
Wolves' fangs are already in this man's throat."

He danced again. The two men watched him. Draconmeyer's face was as
still and colourless as ever. In Selingman's there was a shade of
something almost like repulsion. He poured himself out a glass of
champagne.

"Draconmeyer," he exclaimed, "you are a cold-blooded fish, indeed! You
can sit there without blinking and think of this thing which we have
done. Now as for me, I have a heart. I can never see the passing out of
the game of even a bitter opponent, without a shiver. Talk philosophy to
me, Draconmeyer. My nerves are shaken."

Draconmeyer turned his head. He, too, raised his wine to his lips and
drank deliberately.

"My friend," he said, "there is no philosophy save one. A child cries
for the star he may not have; the weak man comforts himself in privation
by repeating